6. CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

“Pinky promise, I won’t let you go”

Pinky Promise – Jaedynn Latter

Nathalie

“ T his is much better.” I shove my third pork al pastor taco into my mouth, pieces of cilantro and onion dropping onto the picnic table in front of my favorite food truck. “This, Deon,” I gesture at the platter of tacos, rice, and beans, “is a meal, and all for less than the cost of my glass of wine at that other place.”

Deon’s eyes narrow as he takes a bite of his taco.

“What was wrong with my date?”

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and my body hums. Half an hour ago, those lips were on mine, and holy shit, it was a religious experience.

The heat of his hands lingers on my skin, and how his palm fully encompassed my jaw is forever seared into my memory. It’s taken all my self-restraint to still my racing heart and force away the small tremor in my hands.

That morsel of physical attraction I’ve locked away is banging on her cage, begging to be released. She got a taste of him, learned how he kisses—demanding and consuming—and now she thinks that she deserves freedom.

It’s much harder to keep her caged now that I know he kisses like it’s the last thing he will ever do.

“That glass of wine cost fifty dollars.” He gives me a blank stare, so I continue. “The cheapest item was a side salad, and that cost thirty dollars. A few pieces of lettuce is not worth thirty dollars .”

“It was upscale and fancy,” Deon’s voice quiets to nothing but a whisper.

“Our dates,” his eyes dart to mine, so I amend my words, “Our fake dates don’t need to be expensive or fancy. I’m happy to eat tacos on a bench.”

“They’re the only kind I’ve been on,” he admits, and I’m confident my eyeballs pop right out of my skull. Deon surveys the parking lot, playing with his keys.

“You’ve only…what?” I stumble over my words and snatch my agua fresca, taking a moment to rearrange my thoughts. “No wonder you don’t want to date if all of them have been like that .”

Deon’s contemplative before his head tips back in laughter, the sound deep and throaty and so full of life. His green eyes sparkle with humor.

“That’s one of the reasons.”

“What are the others?” Deon begins to stack hot sauce packets, one on top of another.

“My other what?”

“Your other reasons for why you don’t date.” I spent an hour memorizing his answers to my questionnaire, and he pointedly avoided answering any questions about previous relationships. “You left all the answers blank. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

“Honestly, yeah,” he mumbles, and the defeat in his voice pulls a giggle from my chest. He’s wildly charming when his walls slip, and he shows a bit of who hides behind the cool facade. His subtle cockiness in my office. The dramatic entrance into my room earlier demanding to know about Creepy Terry. I swear I must have imagined the undertone of jealousy in his voice when he asked about Declan, but I teased him for it, nonetheless.

“So..?”

Deon’s head swings around the empty parking lot. The only other person within earshot is the elderly woman who runs the van. She’s far too occupied with her phone to listen to our conversation.

“This stays between us?” Deon asks, and his uncertainty and hesitation send a dull pain between my breasts.

I grab his hand and squeeze.

“Of course. Fake girlfriend confidentiality.” I hold out my pinky. He looks down at it, brows furrowed. “Pinky promise. The most sacred of oaths.”

Deon huffs a laugh but intertwines his pinky with mine. My core clenches, and I quickly snatch my hand away.

May-Day!

“My last relationship, well, it was…” he trails off.

“Complicated?” I offer.

“That’s one way to describe it.” The light in his eyes dims. “S-She liked that kind of thing, the fancy restaurants and expensive gifts. We did what she liked.”

I recognize the flicker of discomfort that flashes across his gaze, so I re-direct.

“Well, our dates are going to be fun for the both of us . Real or not…” I trail off, digging through my purse. I know I put it in here somewhere. Aha ! I grab the matching bracelets I made during craft time at work. “This is for you.”

I slide the navy and gray braided friendship bracelet across the table. Deon picks it up with two fingers, twirling it around.

“What is it?”

“It’s a friendship bracelet.” His nose scrunches. “It’s to remind you we’re a team.”

I wrap the bracelet around his wrist, tying it off with a knot, then offering my wrist. He picks up the matching bracelet like it’s a bomb and not a popular craft at summer camps and gingerly ties it around my wrist.

I beam at my hard work. Bracelet making has been a popular activity in the craft room at work, and since I was a Girl Scout, I’ve been showing all the kids the different patterns. I saw the gray and navy and immediately thought of Deon.

There are a few wonky knots, and one section of the navy string is thicker than the others, but I’m proud. They have character.

Deon clears his throat.

“Um…thank you.”

His smile is shy but genuine and different from the ones I’ve seen. This smile is rusty, his dimples making a small appearance as his lip quirks upward. I ignore how my heartbeat flutters .

“We should take a photo.”

As I slide next to him, Deon jerks.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting close enough for us to take a photo.” I laugh, grabbing his bicep. His muscles go taut, and I rip my hand away. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t ask if it was okay to touch you. We didn’t discuss that.”

We didn’t discuss the fact I laid a big, fat kiss on his lips without his permission, either.

Oops.

I love physical touch. There’s nothing as comforting as a hug from someone you love. As a child, my father used to call me his peque?a barnacla : his little barnacle. I would crawl into their bed to cuddle, and once Santiago was born, I forced him to be my cuddle buddy, then Gracie.

Since meeting Maren, I’ve learned to ask before I go in for the hug, although she has become much more generous with her hugs since she met Jack, meaning I got two in six months, which is a new record.

My hand hovers over Deon’s bicep awkwardly.

“I-I like being touched." His gaze is downcast, like he’s uncomfortable admitting that he enjoys physical affection. “But maybe warn me next time you want to kiss me.”

“Next time?”

I hadn’t planned on there being a ‘first time,’ let alone a ‘next time.’ It kind of just…happened. I raise a brow, and Deon blinks rapidly.

“Well—That’s not what I— If there is a next time, I would prefer a bit of warning so I can prepare myself.”

Prepare himself? What the hell does that mean?

I ignore his odd comment for my peace of mind.

“That kiss was epic ,” I declare, “The media is going to Eat. It. Up. I can read the headlines now. Quarterback Deon Adams mauls girlfriend outside of an upscale restaurant .”

“I did not maul you,” Deon hisses. “ You kissed me .” Deon’s eyes dart to my lips, and I smirk. “Your lips did the smashing against my lips. Not the other way around.”

“Oh, don’t pretend that wasn't the greatest kiss of your life,” I tease.

Deon features turn contemplative before a cocky grin overtakes his features. “I mean…I would rate it a six.”

“A six ? Please,” I scoff. “That was a world-altering, mind-boggling, life-changing smashing of lips,” I joke. “Admit it. You enjoyed it.”

Deon shakes his head, and annoyance flutters in my chest. Why can’t the stubborn man admit that it was a pretty decent kiss? I’m not going to fall in love with him because he admits it was a fun kiss. I know I’m a good kisser, thanks to feedback I didn’t ask for from men I’ve hooked up with.

They weren’t thrilled they couldn’t make me come, but they were fans of my other capabilities, kissing included.

Deon shakes his head, smirking but refusing to answer.

“I’ll get that confession out of you.”

“You can try,” he goads, and I bite back any retort.

Instead, I attempt a convincing head-over-heel s in love with this man smile, and snap the photo. I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. The tension in Deon’s shoulder slowly dissipates as I snap a dozen photos at different angles.

“Do you have enough photos?” he asks impatiently, eyes flickering around the parking lot.

“I just need one more…”

I shove my phone in his face and snap a photo, cackling when it appears on my screen. I used the 0.5 magnification, and his head looks tiny on his massive frame. I spin it around to show him, my stomach cramping from laughter.

“Delete that. Delete that. Right. Now .”

Deon attempts to cut a vicious glare, but his lips wobble as a smile attempts to shine through.

“Never,” I declare, snatching my phone away when he reaches for it and sprinting to the car. It’s more of a slow hobble in my heels, but he lets me outrun him. “I’m keeping this forever .”

I’m still laughing when Deon pulls up to my apartment building. He shakes his head but softens his gaze.

“Tonight was a lot of fun.”

I narrow my gaze. “Were you expecting to have a bad time?”

He grimaces, and I giggle.

“I was a bit worried at the restaurant,” he admits.

“If we’re going on a fake date, we might as well have fun, don’t you think?”

Deon nods, gaze flickering with something I can’t identify before it disappears. With my heels in my hand and my bag thrown over my shoulder, I slink out of his car with a goofy grin on my face.

“See ya later, boyfriend ,” I yell, and Deon clicks his tongue, holding back a smile.

We’re going to be friends at the end of this.

Come on.

I’m wrangling with the bathroom faucet to stop the leaking when my phone dings. Then again. And again. Snatching my phone off the granite counter, I start to silence the notifications, assuming it's my family group chat. Last week, I had a hundred messages in minutes because they all decided to rank Will Ferrell movies.

The number one spot belongs to Blades of Glory, and I’ll die on that hill.

As I set my phone on do-not-disturb, an alert catches my eye.

Deon Adams spotted with apparent girlfriend, Nathalie Morales, at an upscale restaurant.

Look at that; my headline wasn’t that far off.

God bless Maren for setting the name alert on my phone after I shared Deon and mine’s wack-ass plan. Hastily, I click on the link where I’m re-routed to a tabloid website. The air rushes out of my lungs as I stare at a photo of Deon and me, mid-kiss, outside the restaurant.

Scrolling down, other photos of us fill the screen. Deon and I sitting at the dinner table. Deon following me out of the building and onto the street. The look on his face right before I kiss him and his reaction after I walk away.

He looks befuddled.

My laughter echoes in the bathroom as the photo of him pops into my mind. I should make it my screensaver.

I close the link when my phone chimes another time. It’s a tagged photo notification from Instagram.

Taco night with my favorite girl.

I sent Deon the best photo, one where he’s smiling, and the street lights turn his eyes into a fluorescent green. My head is resting on his shoulder, but my mass of hair conceals the view of my face, only the small smile on my lips visible to the viewer.

The photo shows a couple madly in love, capturing an intimate moment, and not the truth of the situation: It’s entirely fake.