The VIP Room(157)

"You like me all cleaned up?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter what I like."

"But do you like it?"

"Yes."

There's this weight in my chest. It shouldn't matter, but I still feel heavy all over.

"I liked you before, too." He reaches across the table, offering his hand. "Look at me, Kat."

"I'm looking at you."

"Like you're infatuated with me."

I draw a circle on his palms with my fingertips. Make my eyes are big as they'll get. Part my lips like I'm desperate to kiss him. "Like that?"

"We'll have to practice."

I slide back into my chair, pulling my arms to my sides. Gaga couples can't be gaga all the time. They get into fights. Isn't the passion the whole appeal of a passionate love affair? Passion isn't just long, desperate kisses and bodies thrashing together in ecstasy. It's screaming and fighting and slapping too.

"Kat."

"What?" I snap. I blame hunger.

"Have you ever loved anyone?"

"No. And no one has ever loved me. If that was your next question." I dig my nails into my now totally smooth thighs. "If you're so good at pretending, look at me like you're in love with me."

He nods. He slides out of his seat and kneels next to me. Several heads turn. He is in the perfect position to propose. He lifts himself up, so he's a few inches from me. His eyes get wide, soft. His lips curl into the smallest of smiles.

Warmth spreads through my body. It's not like before. It's not a coursing, desperate heat. It's in my chest, not between my legs. Blake takes my hand and rubs the pad of his thumb against the skin between my thumb and forefinger. I look away, and he reaches for me. His fingertips graze my cheek, light as a feather. It's warm there, too.

Dizzy. I'm dizzy. It's bright in here. Loud. But, somehow, I can't hear or see anything except him. I can't help but stare into his eyes. That look is pure affection. It's love. Hell, I almost believe it. No, not almost.

I do believe it. That warmth swims to my stomach and cheeks. Breath escapes my body. It's all pretend. An example. But I can't stop the feeling. No one has ever looked at me like this. I want so badly for it to be real. I never wanted anything like this before, but now it's the only thing that matters.

He leans closer. Closer. His lips are an inch from mine. It's not like before. That was passionate, yes, but it was carnal. Nothing but sex. This is sweet, innocent even. His hands slide through my hair, and for a second, I forget my whole appearance is different. My eyes flutter closed and I do forget. I forget everything except the feeling of Blake's lips. Soft. Sweet. Hint of lemon from the water.

He pulls back and brings his mouth to my ear. "It's pretend, Kat. It's all pretend."

I nod like I believe him. "I know."

"Can you do that?"

I nod like I believe in my ability to lie.

He shifts back to his seat. His eyes stay glued to mine. "Good."

"What?"

"The way you're looking at me. I believe you."

"Oh, yeah, of course." I press my palms against the chiffon, but the fabric does nothing to absorb the sweat. We nearly had sex in a dressing room. I shouldn't be nervous over a kiss and a few sweet glances.

The server arrives with a good evening. Just as I predicted, Blake orders for us. I let my attention shift away, off to some place where it won't hurt me. My only job is to look at Blake like I'm in love. I can absolutely do that without falling in love. Absolutely.





Chapter 5





The limo ride is slow and not at all fun. Blake quizzes me on the biographical details of his life and forces me to quiz him on mine. He's utterly unblinking about it. Everything is a fact, plain and simple. His father died when Blake was fourteen, he went to Columbia at sixteen on a scholarship he didn't need, graduated at nineteen. His company was up and running by the time he could drink legally in New York State.

It's like reading a Wikipedia entry. No tone, no opinions, nothing. Even when he tells me about his hobbies, it's like they're a list on a dating website. He plays chess, loves seafood and Sci-Fi, spends all his time working at the office or at the gym. Stress relief, he claims, but I'm harboring a serious suspicion that he likes the attention his perfect body gets him.

Finally, we arrive at his apartment building. No help from Jordan this time. Or the doorman of the building for that matter. No, Blake is the perfect gentleman on the outside.

He lives across the street from Central Park. Right across the street. Penthouse apartment, at least four or five times larger than the place I share with Lizzy. It's amazing. Sleek and modern, just like his office.

Hardwood floors. Black leather couch, stainless steel appliances, thick oak table, floor-to-ceiling windows.

There's a balcony. An enormous balcony overlooking the park. I move towards it without thinking.

"Careful," he says. "It's cold out."

Somehow, Blake beats me to the sliding door. He pulls it open and, sure enough, cold air rushes inside. The wind is strong. My dress blows up my legs. Exactly what chiffon is built to do.

Blake hits a switch and a heating lamp turns on. It flares bright orange. I press my palms into the concrete railing and peer over the edge.