Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

It didn’t take long before temperatures dropped and there were hardly any leaves left on the trees. The end of November was slowly sneaking up on me. With everything going on, with my busy McCarthy schedule, I almost didn’t notice.

But it became harder to force myself out of bed every morning. Not just because the anniversary of my parents’ deaths was fast approaching, but because Wren wasn’t there to take my mind off it this time around.

She’d barely said a word to me since our argument. When I entered a room, she simply left it.

Still, she was the one overreacting. She’d been the one to blow a harmless kiss way out of proportion because she—what? Hated McCarthy? I couldn’t find it in me to initiate a conversation when she was the one acting petty.

One thing I couldn’t deny, though—when I’d woken up with a fever this morning, I would’ve liked to ask her for a cold cloth.

Reading 103 F on the thermometer, I sighed my first happy sigh in a while, knowing it meant I had every right to stay in bed and mope. I wouldn’t have to worry about Wren dragging me out of it, because Wren wasn’t speaking to me. So I didn’t waste a second, threw myself back into my covers this morning, and slept on and off for a solid seven hours. I would have felt great if I weren’t so sick.

My body ached, I felt cold when one touch to my forehead told me I wasn’t, and I could hardly muster enough energy to think about getting up, never mind actually doing it. But I should get some water, at least. Perhaps something to get the fever down? Painkillers, that wet, cold cloth I’d been thinking about?

Just making that list in my head exhausted me enough to keep me in bed for another five minutes. I pointedly ignored the voice telling me Wren would probably know what to do. And that just a few days ago, she would’ve gotten anything I needed without my having to move an inch. I heaved myself out of bed, a pained groan accompanying each movement. I wobbled when I stood, swayed when I steered for the closed door, and felt exhausted by the time I reached it. Quickly, I threw my hair into a high bun to keep from sweating underneath it, wiped my forehead as if I was about to run a marathon, and then opened the door.

I think I would’ve screamed if I could have managed it.

There, on the brown leather couch in the middle of the room, sat my tutor. My fake boyfriend. My brother’s nemesis. Even without my contacts or glasses, I recognized him. As unbothered as ever, a book from Wren’s shelf in his hands and his socked feet sprawled across the sofa.

Is this what fever dreams feel like?

McCarthy’s head whipped in my direction. If he noticed how awful I looked, he didn’t let on. “Ah,” he sighed, closing his book with a thud. “She’s awake.” His eyes raked over my silk pajama shorts and the matching top, then quickly returned to my gaze. “Long night?” Sarcasm laced his tone. I thought I might’ve imagined a flicker of concern cross his features.

“What are you…?” I trailed off, perplexed and overwhelmed and—

“It’s Wednesday,” he pointed out. He looked at the watch around his wrist, though I had a feeling he knew exactly what time it was. “Three o’clock. An hour past our… date. You’re really messing my schedule up here.” And even then, it took me a few seconds to realize he meant our tutoring session.

God , I’m really out of it.

“I don’t think I give off the vibe that I could handle an hour of your blabbering right now.” As the words slipped out drily, I leaned against the doorframe, then threw a questioning glance down my own frame to emphasize the words. “Do I?”

I tried not to think about what I looked like. I told myself it was fine. I was sick, and this was what sick people looked like. But in the back of my head, I couldn’t help how vulnerable it made me feel. Growing up in the public eye, what I wore––the kind of message I wanted to portray with what I wore—became important the day my parents had died. And the message I’d wanted to convey was I’m fine .

McCarthy snickered as he stood. “I can see that.” Another flash of concern in his features I might have imagined. But with the way his eyebrows knitted together loosely, how he swallowed thickly as he came to a halt in front of me…

The back of his hand rose to my forehead without another word, his eyes on mine. And I almost backed out. I knew how gross I felt and I didn’t want him anywhere near that, but I didn’t object. I just stood there.

If he noticed my sweating, he didn’t show it. “You’re burning up, Pressley,” he muttered, eyes narrowing with… more concern? Probably not. His hand fell from my forehead to cup my cheek. Gently, quickly. “Seriously burning up,” he said as he lowered it.

“What can I say.” My eyes shifted from his burning gaze, probably not shivering from the cold for the first time today. “I’m just that hot, I guess.”

“Literally.” A hint of a smile tried to force itself onto his lips, but failed when he shifted his eyes quickly.

“And metaphorically,” I added.

McCarthy huffed, head tilting with a nod. “And metaphorically,” he repeated, a little quieter as if he was agreeing. Noticing, he cleared his throat. “Well, you know what they say,” he quipped, full of the energy I was missing again. “Hot girls let their fake-boyfriends nurse them back to health.”

Before I could even begin to object, I was in his arms bridal-style, and before I could object to that as well, I was on the couch. McCarthy disappeared into my room, without so much as a questioning glance for permission.

Coming back out, he held all three of my throw blankets: the one from my bed, the one hanging over the back of my chair, and the spare one that I wouldn’t have found, even if I had tried.

“What are you doing here?” I asked again, distracting myself from the fact Dylan McCarthy Williams was tucking me in. My voice was barely a whisper, though he heard it effortlessly, eyes searching mine.

A hint of a smile formed on his lips, but his eyes diverted before it had the chance to grow. “You know.” I didn’t know . “Checking whether my only student is purposely skipping my carefully crafted lessons.”

I laughed halfheartedly. “So you just thought you’d break into her apartment?”

“Well.” He tried to suppress his grin. “She’s also my girlfriend, and I’m a very clingy man.” His expression turned serious, the hint of a smile disappearing. “You should really lock your doors when you’re home, Pressley. Anyone could’ve walked in here.”

Once I was tucked in safe and secure enough to wonder if I could make it out by myself, he crouched beside me with a questioning look in his eyes. “Now where do you keep your medicine?”

I shrugged, deliberately keeping my eyes on the high ceiling. I knew he’d be right there if I were to turn. If I could smell anything, I’d probably be able to detect that minty scent from his gum. Meanwhile, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth today. Gross.

“Probably the bathroom,” I guessed. It’s where I would’ve checked if he hadn’t shown up.

Not that I would’ve been able to maneuver myself around the entire apartment the way he did now. Three steps and I’d be exhausted enough to fall back into bed. It would’ve taken me hours. Literally. McCarthy, on the other hand, was back within minutes. Tylenol and a glass of water in one hand, a damp, cool cloth in the other. He almost looked like a knight in shining armor, the way he walked over to me.

He sat cross-legged on the green-and-white checkered carpet beside the couch, placing all his findings on the coffee table to his left, and only handed me the glass of water. “Drink some before you take anything,” he ordered gently. Uncharacteristically, I listened. And immediately regretted it. “Did you just do what I told you? Without arguing?” McCarthy gasped. “Unbelievable. Maybe you should be sick more often.” He hummed playfully. We both knew he didn’t mean it, but that didn’t keep him from going on. “If it makes you so much more compliant.”

“I hope this is contagious,” I grumbled back, a scowl on my face. McCarthy just plopped the pill into my empty hand with a snicker.

“I’m immune.” He winked, getting off the floor with a low groan. “My sister gets sick all the time. So, whatever germs you’re spreading—been there, done that. My immune system will persevere.” His tone was casual, almost mocking, and I’d give almost anything to see the dumb grin that was surely spreading across his face right now. But he’d disappeared into my kitchen, and I didn’t want to peek over the armrest to check.

“Sister?” I wondered, my head falling back when I took the pill, with the least amount of water I could. “I didn’t know you had one.” That never made it onto the little fact sheet we’d exchanged at the beginning of this.

Some seconds ticked by in which he probably nodded, forgetting I couldn’t see him before he replied. “Yeah,” he breathed out. The sound of drawers opening and closing accompanied his words. “Well—” He cut himself off, sounding distracted, smiling again. I could hear it. “Four of them.”

“ Four sisters?” I felt dumb just repeating every word he said, but I was sick, and I’m sure he understood. A laugh rang through the apartment.

“Diana, Denise, Dakota, Delilah,” he listed, an undertone in his voice I couldn’t place. He went on unprompted now, and my eyes, previously directed toward the ceiling, closed. I was unconcerned with what he was doing in my kitchen. All I halfheartedly focused on was his voice; how softly he spoke, how calming it was.

“Diana’s the eldest, just finished grad school. Then, Denise: gap year in Europe and never came back.” An amused huff accompanied that statement, and I nodded in understanding.

“I love Europe,” I mumbled, turning on my side without ever opening my eyes.

McCarthy went on. “After Denny, my mother was blessed with this fine specimen,” he joked, and my lips formed a grin that I was glad he couldn’t see. “I was seven when Dakota was born, and Mom said I wanted her gone immediately. I can’t blame me, she’s a pain in the ass even now.” He snorted.

Nothing but the sound of his voice hung in the air. It was either eerily silent or I’d drowned everything else out just to hear him more clearly. He was closer now; maybe steps had accompanied his words. I wouldn’t know.

“Delilah’s only twelve.” Finishing his summary, he was right by my side again.

When I opened my eyes just to check if I was right, his deep dimple, white teeth and smooth-shaven face immediately filled my entire field of vision. His lips were spread into a wide smile, one that was most definitely directed toward the sisters he’d just introduced. One filled with love, adoration, longing to be back home with them. I just couldn’t look away.

“They sound like they’re all much better than you,” I slurred, my voice barely above a whisper, with him so close.

He sighed. “They are.”

“You sure you’ll be fine? With my germs?” He was so close, there was no way I hadn’t fully breathed all of them into his face. Poor guy.

“Is that… concern?” His eyes widened, playful shock in his features as he spoke. “Now, who would’ve thought? Athalia Payton Pressley. Concerned. For me.” He was having a field day with the idea, grinning widely, brows raised as he dissected my reaction carefully.

I was only focused on the way he’d said my full name. And that I kind of wanted to hear him say it again.

“Never,” I retorted instead. “I just know men and the flu do not mix well. Always so whiny. As your girlfriend, I don’t want to have to deal with that.” Although my voice sounded weak, I knew I managed to get my point across when he snorted in amusement once more. He didn’t say anything else. Instead, McCarthy turned to the coffee table, then faced me again with a plate in hand.

“I’m not hungry.” It shot out of me, eyeing the two plain slices of toast suspiciously. The thought of eating was unbearable enough. Actually eating seemed ten times worse.

“That’s too bad.” A lazy smile found its way to McCarthy’s face. “Because you have to eat, princess.” His eyes flicked from my face down to the culinary masterpiece in his hand.

I shook my head, ignoring the teasing nickname that had more of an effect on me each time he used it. My stomach fluttered, my cheeks probably lit up. I was grateful I could blame it on the fever today.

McCarthy sighed. “It’ll just get your stomach working a little bit. No strong flavors, no smell,” he tried. I shook my head harder. “You won’t feel sick.”

Balancing the plate in one hand, he reached out slowly, hesitantly, questioningly—unsure if this was okay, even when he was already tugging that loose strand of brown hair behind my ear. His hand lingered on my cheek gently, a single stroke of his thumb across it. And there went my stomach again. If the food wouldn’t make me feel sick, he was well on his way to doing it himself with his nicknames and lingering touches. “I promise.”

A promise meant more from him now than it had a few months ago.

Then, I would’ve thought his presence—him nursing me back to health —was a fever dream. A nightmare. Now, I was quite glad he was here. Secretly.

So I listened. And I ate it, even if it was just a few bites.

He made a joke about my compliance again. I scowled at him. He grinned. I smiled back.

He grinned, I smiled back and absolutely no one was around to see it.

When I woke from my prolonged couch nap, McCarthy was gone. And my bed had new —matching—sheets, the window was open, and a sticky note hung on the vase of McCarthy’s flowers, most of them dried out by now.

I knew you liked them , it said. Doodled in the corner a small rose.