Chapter 15

Ikept telling myself my skin didn't tingle with awareness of his close proximity, but the voice in the back of my head was cackling and calling me a dirty liar. At some point, he'd cuffed the sleeves of his shirt, putting his forearms on display, and it was proving very difficult to keep from drooling at the sight of the thick, corded muscles that ran from his wrists to his elbows. What was worse was how his bicep strained every time he bent his arm to take a drink, testing the tensile strength of the seams, or how his throat worked on a swallow. When the hell did a man's throat become a turn-on? Had I really been out of the game that long?

"Its temperament is probably due to the fact you named it Smoosh. What in the world possessed you to do that?" he asked, snapping me out of my ogling.

I let out a laugh, unable to find it in myself to be insulted. I knew it was a ridiculous name for a cat, but it worked, so I went with it. "First of all, it is actually a she. And what possessed me was her face," I answered as I grabbed a slice of garlic bread and passed the basket to Vaughn. "She has the cutest little smoosh face."

"Hmm. Must have missed that when she was trying to claw me to death and smother me at the same time."

"She was having a particularly bad day," I defended. "Anyway, I kept calling her smoosh face, so I just decided to make it her name."

"Poor cat," he muttered drily before forking off a corner of his lasagna and popping it into his mouth.

I waited, trying not to hold my breath as he chewed slowly and swallowed. Finally, when he remained silent and blank-faced for too long, I couldn't take it any longer. "Well? What do you think?"

He sipped his water with that damn arched brow. "Think of what?"

I groaned with exasperation. "You're the worst. You know that?"

"It's good," he finally said, putting me out of my misery with that barely-there curl of his mouth that was there and gone so fast I wasn't sure it could even be classified as a smirk. I wasn't sure I'd ever get used to how close to the vest Vaughn played his cards. It was intriguing and frustrating all at the same time. "If I haven't said it already, thank you for cooking."

"You haven't, and you're welcome. It really wasn't any trouble." That was a lie, of course. I'd spent the few hours before he arrived running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but he didn't need to know that. "I've always enjoyed cooking for other people. It's one of my love languages."

He lifted his brows. "Love languages?"

I chewed the bite I'd just taken, looking at him curiously as I forced it down. "Yeah. You know, love languages?" He shook his head like he still didn't understand. My chin jerked back in bewilderment. "You've seriously never heard of love languages?"

"Continuing to say it won't suddenly make me understand," he said with a bland look.

I rolled my eyes. "They're basically how you express your love to people. I like showing them they're important by feeding them, taking care of them."

He sipped at his wine. "Ah."

A beat of silence passed between us as I waited for more.

"What about you? What's your love language?"

He crunched into the garlic bread and lifted his wide, rounded shoulder in a shrug. "I don't think I have any. I don't like people enough to have a language that conveys caring."

I choked on the sip of wine I'd just taken. "You don't like people?"

"Not particularly, no." He said that with the same level of detachment a person might announce the weather. Like it was nothing at all. "Huh. Would you look at that? It's raining outside." The end.

"That's—" I shook my head, trying to wrap my brain around that. "Vaughn, you can't claim you don't like people like that, like some blanket statement that encompasses everyone. I mean, there has to be at least a few people you like, right?"

He wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin I'd set out earlier—yes, I went so far as to pull out the fancy cloth napkins I never used because they were a pain in the ass to wash. "There are people I tolerate, but I'm a very busy man. Every day of my life is on a rigid schedule. Without it, things would fall into chaos. I've found most people tend to mess with that schedule or create chaos on their own for the hell of it, so I've chosen not to bother wasting my time."

"But—what about your parents? Or your sister? I mean, they're your blood. Wasn't it basically engrained in you from birth to love them?"

He arched a brow and pointed the tines of his fork in my direction. "Ah, but you see, I never said anything about love. Love and like are two very different things. Of course I love my family. But Leighton is the perfect example of loving someone without liking them. I think she's a self-centered, dramatic brat who cares too much for herself and not nearly enough for those around her. Those are qualities I don't like one bit."

"So what you're basically saying is you're only tolerating me?" I clarified, raising my brows in a silent challenge. I was silently daring him to say he didn't like me while sitting in my home and eating the food I'd taken the time to buy and cook for him.

He paused mid-chew, as though the question actually threw him off. "I think... you may be the exception," he said, wonder coating his words, like he only then realized he liked me. And why in the hell did I find that flattering? I should have been insulted, not experiencing a swarm of butterflies taking flight in my belly.

"Wow. Uh . . . thanks?"

"Believe me, I'm as surprised by that as you are," he said grudgingly, and for some reason, the tone of his voice made my head fall back on a deep, muscle-clenching belly laugh.

I wiped at my cheeks with the backs of my hands once I finally managed to get ahold of myself, noticing that Vaughn was watching me with an intensity that made my heart flip-flop in my chest.

"You have a very nice laugh," he stated plainly.

I poked at the inside of my cheek with my tongue to temper my smile. "Thank you. I guess it's a good thing you like me since everyone in Pembrooke thinks we're in a romantic relationship, huh?"

His eyes drilled into me like they were seeing deeper than anyone had ever bothered to look before. "I guess you're right."

I cleared my throat, looking down at my plate and using my fork to move things around as I tried to calm my rapidly fluttering pulse. There was something about this man I couldn't put my finger on. He claimed not to like most people. He didn't have the usual sense of humor. He seemed stiff and unflinchingly rigid. But my gut was telling me there was more to him. He claimed to be an asshole, and for all intents and purposes, he appeared to try and live up to that self-imposed reputation. However, I was beginning to think it was a mask he wore to keep people at a distance.

The truth was, I didn't think he was nearly as rude and unfeeling as he led people to believe. "Speaking of which, if we're going to make this work, we probably need to know about each other, don't you think?"

He finished chewing his bite, sitting back in his chair and wiping his mouth before placing his napkin on the table beside his empty plate. After a sip of wine, he sat back in that man-spread that was even more potent thanks to the cuffed sleeves and exposed throat.

God, I really needed to get a grip.

"Sounds reasonable. What do you want to know?"

I turned my chair to face him, crossing one leg over the other as I sipped my wine, keeping it in hand for easy access. "Well, I guess for starters, how old are you?"

"Thirty-eight." I choked on the sip I'd just taken. "That surprises you?" he asked, curiosity and humor in those words.

I wiped at my mouth with the back of my wrist like a freaking lady. "Um, yeah! You look like you're thirty-three, maybe thirty-four, tops." I flopped back with a pout. "It really isn't fair how easy you guys have it. You age gracefully, you can pee standing up, and you lose weight faster than we do."

His eyes widened, his brows inching toward his hairline. "I'm... sorry?"

"As you should be," I grumped.

He shook his head and his lips curled a teensy bit higher than they had before. It was enough of a smirk for me to realize I wasn't sure I'd survive it if this man let out a full-blown smile. "What about you? How old are you?"

"I turn twenty-nine at the beginning of next month."

He nodded. "Good to know. If we're still putting on this charade then, you'll need to provide me with a list of things you'd like for your birthday."

I was about to take another sip of wine when my stomach cramped at his comment. Placing the glass on the table. I tried not to question how it was possible I'd somehow managed to forget this was fake in the past thirty seconds, and why the reminder made me feel a little nauseated all of a sudden.

I did my best to shake the sludge-y, unwelcomed discomfort off. I barely knew this man. It was ridiculous to be upset.

"Oh, that's—Vaughn, that's really not necessary. But thank you."

"We'll cross that bridge if or when we get to it." I was sure we'd never reach that bridge. He reached for the wine bottle, re-filling his glass and topping mine off—again, without having to be asked. It was when he did those kinds of things I struggled to see him as the callous asshole he claimed to be.

"You said your mom taught you to cook. Are you two close?"

The tension in my shoulders loosened up at the shift in subject matter, and I visibly brightened at the thought of my mother. "Very," I answered. "I'm actually close to both my parents. And my older brother, even though he doesn't live here anymore, which bums me out more often than not."

He tucked his chin into his hand as he regarded me, his index finger absently stroking across his bottom lip. I tried to ignore the tingle that started beneath my skin, but it was impossible.

"Where does he live now?" I got the feeling he wasn't asking because he was digging for information for our ruse, but because he was really interested in knowing, and I was suddenly hit with a disconcerting thought.

Fake dating Vaughn Cavanagh might not be as easy as I originally thought. Because I was kind of starting to like the guy.