35. Lola

Lola

I'm wearing a little black dress, and Devon is in a dark gray suit from Cherie. It may not be the pop of color I was hoping for, but the cut of the suit does fit him nicely. A candle flickers on the table between us.

"Good evening, folks," the server greets, coming to the side of the table. He has a mop of floppy blond hair, short on the sides, and a nose ring. He's a special kind of handsome that immediately tells you he's good in bed.

"Good evening," I reply, smiling up at him. I feel Devon tense, his knee pressing against mine, and I give him a quizzical look. Does he know our server? We place our drink orders, and the server leaves us with the menus.

"Oh," I say, my eyes scanning the menu in front of me. "You know it's fancy when they don't even include prices on the menu."

"Right," Devon says, his chuckle a bit forced. When the server returns, Devon orders the duck.

"I'll take the Colorado Lamb," I say, wincing a bit as I do. I love the taste of lamb, but I hate thinking about where it comes from. If I linger on it for too long, I'll back out and just order a salad.

"Great choice," the server says, winking and taking the menus from us. "Please let me know if you need anything."

"Will do," I say, folding my hands under my chin before turning back to Devon, whose jaw is clenched tightly.

"What's wrong?" I ask, glancing around to see if maybe some of the Avalanche players are here or something. I don't imagine the hockey players will take their beef off the ice, but you can never be sure how men will act when it comes to roughing each other up.

"Nothing," Devon grunts, his jaw working. He clears his throat and grabs the drink menu, flipping through it briefly before setting it back down. An awkward silence settles at the table, and for the first time since we started this fake dating scheme, I realize we're struggling to make conversation.

So, I do what I always do when I'm sitting silently at a table. I pull out my phone and google a list of questions. There's a list called 21 Facts You Should Know About Your Boyfriend, and I pull it up, clearing my throat and wiggling in my chair while it loads.

"Okay," I say when it finally pops up. This grabs Devon's attention away from the drink menu, which he's picked up again. "What is your love language?"

Devon blinks, then glances down at my phone.

"What is this?"

"Facts I should know about my boyfriend," I answer, grinning. "Thought we could study up a bit just in case someone asks us about this stuff. So—what's your love language?"

"Love language?"

"Yeah," I laugh, rolling my eyes. "You know, like physical touch, gifts, acts of service, that kind of thing?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

I set my phone down, clear my throat, and lace my fingers together.

"Love languages are like…how you want someone to show they love you. Like for example, some people have physical touch as their love language, which means they really value physical intimacy, like holding hands, cuddling, sex, that kind of thing."

My face flushes when I say sex, and I feel like a fifteen-year-old kid.

"But there are other love languages, too. Like words of affirmation, I think. That means you want to hear that your partner loves you and cares about you. And acts of service are like, when you take out the trash and such, it makes me feel loved."

"You feel loved when someone takes out the trash?"

"Not me," I laugh, rolling my lips into my mouth and glancing away. "But, anyway, what do you think your love language is?"

"What do you think it is? You're the expert on this stuff."

I stare at him, thinking back through our relationship so far. Our fake relationship.

"Probably touch," I say, blushing again and thinking about that kiss up against the wall that night with him before this arrangement started. "Or maybe words of affirmation."

"And yours is gifts, isn't it?"

"There's a fifth one," I say, blushing again when I think about our dates. "Quality time."

"Wait—I want quality time, too," he says, and I laugh, covering my mouth with my hand.

"Okay," I say, nodding. "Sure, you can have quality time, too."

"What's the next one?"

"There are only five, touch, words of aff—"

"No, the next question."

"Oh," I say, blinking, realizing I've completely forgotten the list of questions. I pick up my phone from the table and scroll to the next question. "What are your favorite hobbies?"

"Those are obvious." He laughs. "Fishing, hockey."

"Does hockey count as a hobby if it's what you do for work?"

"I don't know. I didn't write the list. Do you think of writing as a hobby?"

"Sometimes," I admit, taking a sip of my water. "Okay, next question. Do you have any allergies?"

"I used to be allergic to sulfur," Devon says, "but I'm not sure if I am anymore."

"I was lactose intolerant as a kid," I share, "but I also grew out of it."

"Next question."

"Favorite movie?" I ask.

"Jaws."

"That was fast," I point out. "Why is that your favorite movie?"

"I don't know," he says, chuckling and reaching for his soda. "I watched it as a kid and really liked it. It was—well, it was one of the DVDs in the family room. It was one of the movies I was allowed to watch whenever I wanted. I didn't really get to go to the theater a lot."

I swallow, nodding and looking down at my phone. I don't want to make a big deal out of him sharing this with me.

"What's yours?" he asks.

"What?"

"Your favorite movie."

"Oh," I say with a laugh, shaking my head. "The Proposal."

He quirks a brow. "The what?"

"Oh, we are definitely watching that. There's no way you can be friends with me and not have seen The Proposal. It has Betty White! It's hilarious."

"I didn't know you were a big Betty White fan," he says, but there's a slight edge to his voice again. I glance around once more, wondering what is making him uncomfortable. "Next question."

I glance at my phone and then feel my face go red.

"Oh," I mumble, clearing my throat and setting it down on the table. "We don't have to finish answering them. They're kind of boring anyway, aren't they?"

"What's the question, Burke?" Devon asks, his voice low.

"It's nothing."

"You'd better ask me," he warns, reaching over and snatching my phone from the table before I can react. "Or I'm going to read it loud enough for the table next to us to hear."

"Oh my god," I gasp, covering my face. "No, Devon, seriously—"

Somehow, I accidentally left my phone screen on when I set it down. Now it's illuminating his face, the question in the center of the screen surely shining up at him. I watch him glance between me and my phone before clearing his throat and setting it down again.

"Well," he says a moment later, his dark eyes meeting mine through the light of the candle. "If you're attracted to your partner and committed to her, why the fuck would you need porn?"

It feels like my entire body bursts into flames. I've never been a fan of porn, but every guy I've been with acts like it's not a big deal. To have Devon looking at me like this, with his eyes blown out in the low light, his expression serious and hungry like it was when he kissed me against his car—

"Alrighty," the server suddenly says, reappearing with our food. I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears, but I watch as he sets my food down in front of me. I'm not even hungry anymore. All I want is to be alone with Devon again.

The server says something else, and I smile up at him. I can feel my pulse in my entire body, but when I look back at Devon, that surly frown is back on his face, and he is looking pointedly at his food.

We eat quietly, and I wonder what turned his mood foul so quickly. When we're about to leave, the server brings the bill, and at the bottom, I see he has scribbled his number haphazardly. Devon throws down a couple of bills and stands smoothly, calmly pushing his chair in and thanking the host on our way out.

"Devon," I call out, jogging to try and keep up with him as he stalks down the street. "Hey!"

"Don't shout at me," he says, turning around, his jaw ticking again.

"Sorry, I wasn't—why are you walking away?"

"This is done, isn't it? Our obligation fulfilled?" His voice is sharp.

"What do you—" I voice, confused.

"I wouldn't want to get in the way of whatever you have going on with the server."

"Oh, Devon," I say, letting out a breath of air so hard that it ruffles my bangs. "You can't be serious right now."

"Why not?" he demands, turning and throwing a hand up. "Everything we do is just for the cameras, isn't it?"

"Devon," I say, breathless. What is he talking about? Does he wish it wasn't for the cameras?

"I just—I can't be around you like this," he says, letting out an exasperated laugh and gesturing to me. "It's fucking killing me, Burke."

"What are you—"

In a split moment, he spins me and has me up against the wall, his body shielding us from the street. Instantly, my body turns to liquid for him, my back arching, my breasts pressing into his chest.

"This is what I'm talking about," he breathes, his eyes darting back and forth between mine. "I can't stop thinking about you, then you go and do shit like saying it's just for the cameras, flirting with that server—"

"I was not flirting with him, Devon—"

"Yeah, I wanted to make it clear to him that you weren't interested, but I couldn't do that, could I? Not when that's not the truth."

A car honks in the street, and a policeman a block down whistles while the light from a pedestrian light blinks, indicating it's time for pedestrians to cross the road.

"That is the truth," I say firmly after a few moments when it feels like the tension between us is going to suffocate me. Devon wedges a leg between mine, his body moving even closer, the planes of his chest and abdomen deliciously hard against my stomach and breasts.

"It is?" he breathes, his eyebrows shooting up.

"Yeah," I say like it's obvious. "But we can't. What about your camp? If we—"

"Oh, fuck the camp, Lola," Devon growls before leaning down and slanting his lips over mine.