Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

McCarthy definitely didn’t make honoring anything easier when he realized showing up at my place unannounced was a thing he apparently liked doing now.

“You’re back.” I blinked at him. But I couldn’t be mad when I knew his presence would keep me from diving headfirst into finals’ revision. With the end of November fast approaching, so were they. “What are you doing here?”

He gasped in faked offense, shaking his head as he squeezed past me without waiting to be asked in. I couldn’t explain it, but I kind of liked how familiar it felt. I didn’t even make a face; just closed the door behind him, like it was the most normal of things.

“I’m offended. Truly.” His brow rose in amusement at his own words, twirling around to look at me. “Can’t a fake boyfriend just visit his fake girlfriend, without any ulterior motive?”

I snorted in amusement. “No.” Brushing past him, I thought it best to relocate this conversation to my room. I knew Wren was home, and we still hadn’t spoken a word since our fight. I didn’t want to risk making it worse.

And McCarthy’s presence would.

“Not when you’re supposed to be oh so busy on Friday nights.” My brow rose challengingly. If he thought I’d forgotten about the mysterious plans he had every Friday— which had kept us from scheduling our weekly date on said day—he was dead wrong. “You don’t usually have time for me today. Remember?” I teased, hoping my tone revealed as much.

McCarthy shrugged. “I made time.”

And the words came so casual, so nonchalantly, that I almost took them as such. As if it was no big deal, making time for me . Though, it felt like it was. Kind of.

“So,” I drawled, pausing by my bedroom door to let him step past me. He did so without hesitation. “There must be an ulterior motive for that, then.” I concluded my theory after I closed the door, throwing myself into my chair, and spinning it once.

I watched his eyes fly across the desk right by my door, cluttered with flashcards and notebooks. Against the opposite wall stood my bed, matching sheets courtesy of McCarthy—after he’d changed them when I’d been sick. A pale pink throw hung over its foot. He’d been in here before though, so his gaze didn’t linger.

“You got me.” His hands raised in mock guilt when he looked back at me. “My ulterior motive is to be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“Seeing as you’re my first and only—”

“That’s not a valid reason. But do tell me more about being your first and only, Pressley. I’m all ears.” He smiled. I caught a flash of dimple when I turned to roll my eyes at him.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Our gazes crossed, held, and the way he wouldn’t look away made me feel dizzy. I waited for him to say something—anything—but he didn’t. Just kept looking at me.

The next time he spoke, he’d moved on from whatever blip that had been.

“The kid I’d usually teach piano to on Fridays is sick.” He dropped that piece of information too casually for my liking. And he moved on before I could question, admire, swoon at the thought; before I could react to the image of him with children, at all. “And I thought you might need some distraction…” He trailed off as his eyes searched my room for nothing in particular, lingering on the mess on my desk. “And by the state of that.” He nodded toward it, before his eyes found mine again. “And you—”

I deadpanned a “ Thanks ” before he could finish that sentence, head tilting in amused annoyance. If I looked like I hadn’t showered in three days—hadn’t left my apartment for anything other than lectures for just as long—it was because I hadn’t.

“My intervention is very much needed. That’s not an insult, Athalia. As always, you look perfect. Just exhausted,” he added. His eyes shifted as if he hadn’t just said what he’d said.

“I wouldn’t call unshowered and messy perfect , but to each their own, I guess.”

“I’m not having this debate with you.” And apparently that was that, because a second later he asked, “Have you eaten?”

“Haven’t had time.” I hadn’t even had time to think about food. I made a face in his direction, lips splitting into a grin as he met it with his own grimace. “Feel like ordering something?” My tone was hopeful. Unfortunately he thoroughly disappointed me when he shook his head, conviction behind those brown eyes of his.

“No,” he said flatly, pushing himself off the door. “Let’s cook.”

Before I could let him know that we couldn’t possibly cook anything with air and water—which were probably the only two things Wren and I had in our home—he slipped out of my room and made his way to the kitchen.

I didn’t rush to follow him. He’d catch on to the missing ingredients soon enough. Leisurely, I sighed as I got out of my chair, stretching before even taking a step in the direction he had disappeared in. It was only when a joyful, dragged out “ Perfect ,” echoed through the apartment—one that didn’t sound at all sarcastic—that I became interested in what he was doing. I poked my head out of my room, to find him neck deep in one of our cabinets.

He must’ve sensed my presence. “I’m not going to lie—” His voice was muffled from inside the cabinet. “I expected a little more.” Emerging from its depth, he held a package of pasta in my direction victoriously. “But I can work with this.” He made sure to hold steady eye contact before throwing the cardboard my way, lucky that I stepped closer just in time to catch it.

I couldn’t help but comment on the fact he’d already disappeared wrist-deep into our fridge. “I’m glad you’re so comfortable here, McCarthy,” I muttered in an amused tone, overcoming the last few steps to the kitchen before placing the leftover pasta on the island. When he turned around, he presented his infamous dimpled grin.

“Me too.”

I tried not to swoon over it, instead sighed with an eye roll—the only way to divert my gaze without looking suspicious. Mumbling a few more words into the depth of the fridge, he turned around with a finality that made me kiss the idea of takeout goodbye. “How does vodka sauce sound?” And that sealed the deal.

“Great. If it’s half vodka, half sauce.” I blinked up at him innocently, my smile just the same. And I took pride in the way the corners of his lips quirked at my words, finding myself enjoying the picture of it too much for my own good.

“Interesting.” McCarthy turned back to the fridge, fished whatever ingredients we magically had at hand out of it and placed them on the island behind him. Then, he did the same thing with our pantry and alcohol cabinet.

In the end, the island filled with few fresh ingredients: various spices; leftover heavy cream from Wren’s baking adventures; an unopened tube of tomato paste (where did that come from?); olive oil; some kind of grated cheese, and a bottle of vodka.

“You don’t have fresh garlic or onions, so we’ve got to improvise,” he said, nodding to the garlic and onion powder among the spices I didn’t even know we owned.

I wandered around the island, coming to a stop on his side of it, curiously eyeing his findings. “I’ve never even touched a tube of tomato paste, so God knows how that got in there.” My lack of cooking knowledge clearly humored the man. Though he seemed rather confident around a kitchen, didn’t he? “You cook often?”

He snorted, then shrugged. “As much as necessary.” He dove into the cabinets under the stove headfirst, happy when he found the pots and pans. “Some people want to be able to care for themselves, princess.” A smug tone played in his words. “Not rely on a delivery guy— what? ” He interrupted himself with a gasp, rubbing the back of his head.

Throwing the kitchen towel I’d just whipped across his head onto the counter, his eyes snapped up to me with a smile on his lips. “It’s true,” he insisted, still sporting a teasing grin.

Defeated, I sighed. “I know.” My eyes shifted back to the ingredients, going through them once more, in the hope it would keep the oncoming wave of guilt away for as long as possible. Though, I felt it coming. Three, two, one—

“ Athalia .” His voice was suddenly all serious, something comforting in the low notes, something soothing in the way he said my name as he rose from a crouch to his full height before me. His thumb hooked underneath my chin to tilt it his way, touch feather-light, and the kind smile on his lips was the last thing I’d expected.

It seemed he was going to say something important, something comforting, something that would keep that oncoming wave away for a while longer—perhaps until the next comment that made me intensely aware of my privilege to the point of… discomfort? He cleared his throat. “You have boiled water before, right?” He tried hard to keep his lips in a tight line.

I groaned. “Yes, McCarthy.” My tone still carried some humor. “I have boiled water before.”

“And cooked pasta?” That statement was a little more hesitant than the water observation—probably more of a question.

“Yes,” I confirmed again. “I have cooked pasta.”

“See!” He pointed out as if he struck gold. “You’re better than my sister, then.”

“Which one?”

Filling one of the pots with water, he looked over his shoulder with an amused gleam in his eyes. “All of them.”

Somehow, knowing that despite all his sisters, he seemed to be the one to help his mother cook; that he’d been the one to whip up a quick meal for them when she’d get home late, and that he knew his way around the kitchen, was… nice. It was just so nice.

“How come?” I wondered.

McCarthy shrugged, figuring out our stove without a single questioning glance my way. “You didn’t think my sisters took full advantage of having a brother?” he asked in amusement. “A couple of years ago they didn’t want to move out because it meant doing their own chores.”

Baby Dylan being coerced by his sisters to do their laundry, the dishes and cook for them whenever his mother wasn’t there—maybe even when she was. I couldn’t help the single laugh slipping from my lips at the image. McCarthy nudged my shoulder in faked offense.

“That’s not funny,” he proclaimed, oblivious to the wide smile on his own face when he dumped a teaspoon of salt into the water.

“No.” I shook my head so quickly my vision blurred and my smile was so deep, my cheeks began hurting. “No, it’s not funny at all.”

“That’s a lot of vodka.” I sat on the counter beside the stove, my legs happily swinging in anticipation of what already smelled heavenly.

McCarthy’s eyes narrowed into mine at the comment, snapping the bottle in his hand upright. “You said half —”

“In that case,” I interrupted quickly—glad my only job in this, was giving useless commentary and driving McCarthy up the wall with it.“It’s not enough.”

His shoulders slumped, lips parting to let go of a frustrated sigh. Though the amusement in his features lingered when he looked back at me.

“Is this payback for all the times I’ve been annoying?” He placed the bottle back beside the stove, moving a few inches to his right to casually position himself between my legs. Despite my elevated state on the counter, his head still hovered above mine. My lips curled into a smirk as I blinked up at him innocently. “If so, I think you’re overdoing it a little.”

A laugh slipped past my lips. “Oh, am I?”

“I think you are.”

“ I think I’m doing just enough—could probably bump it up a notch.” I adopted a thoughtful expression, caught off-guard by the carefree laugh of his that followed my words.

“ You ,” he began, face inching closer to mine ever so slightly, “are a pain in the ass if I’ve ever met one, Athalia Pressley.”

“Funny.” A teasing tone played in my words, not backing down even when there was barely an inch still between us. “I was just thinking the same of you.”

He grinned at that. He grinned so widely I wanted to squeeze his cheeks grandma-style and admire that dimple for the rest of my life. He squinted, the joy in his features and the way his nose crinkled… new.

I swallowed hard, the air suddenly thick. The pasta bubbled happily in the pot beside us, tomato sauce making the place smell like an Italian restaurant. A good one. One of those on the Lower East Side. But it wasn’t the steam making my hands feel sticky, and it wasn’t the warmth of the stove either.

It was him.

The way his eyes fell to my lips unapologetically, like he wanted to remember the way they’d felt on his. Like he wasn’t desperately trying to forget how well they— we fit. It’s what I was currently busy with.

But forgetting the way he’d felt below me, forgetting those little sounds he’d make if I were to just bury my hands in his hair now, trail kiss after kiss up his neck, until I found that spot just below his ear… it seemed impossible. Instead I remembered that when I’d found it last time, he’d moaned my name before almost taking me on my living room floor.

My vision blurred when my eyes snapped up to his again, the possibilities swimming between us palpable. If I just moved—

A loud hiss interrupted what would’ve turned inappropriate in a matter of seconds. Startled, we jumped apart.

My head flew toward the noise, a loud laugh escaping my lips when my eyes fell on the pasta water boiling over the pot, hissing as it dripped onto the hot stove. McCarthy jumped into action, lowering the heat and taking the pot off. He glanced in my direction, a mildly bewildered look on his face until he noticed my unwarranted amusement.

“Fuck,” I muttered between two laughs.

Something about it made him laugh, too. Because a second later we bent over in synchronized laughter, McCarthy struggling to hold the pot upright in his hands. The focused look on his face as he balanced only made me laugh harder. Which, in return, made him laugh again.

It was a vicious cycle. One I participated in gladly.

Despite the hiccup, dinner tasted as good as it had smelled. And while I was washing my hands in the bathroom, a realization ran through me.

This was a date. Wasn’t it?

We’d had plenty of them. One a week for the past month, at least. Sometimes more, if there were special events my brother was attending. Though none of them were real, and I wasn’t sure if this one was, either.

When you pretended to date someone for as long as we had—when you saw them every day, spent time with them every other, held hands, looked at them lovingly, laughed at their bad jokes—lines began to blur. In this case, even with my contacts in, I couldn’t see that line anymore. I couldn’t figure out when it had disappeared either.

Was it before or after he’d rewarded me for the right answers with a kiss?

I sighed in frustration, my cheeks burning from the memory alone. I gave myself one last look in the mirror, shook my head at the added color in my face, and trotted out of the bathroom, back to the kitchen.

Perhaps the line had gone shaky the second he’d started to appear in my apartment. Where no one was around to sell whatever relationship there was supposed to be between us. He still showed up. I still let him come in.

Again, I reminded myself that this wasn’t just any real relationship. In fact, it wasn’t real, and it wasn’t a relationship: nothing was what it was. Nothing that sometimes ended in locked lips and a palpable need for more.

Before I could banish those thoughts, the sound of an animated conversation did it for me. I was just about to turn the corner into the open kitchen when Wren’s voice, followed by McCarthy’s, brought me to an abrupt stop.

When I said animated conversation, I must’ve mistaken it for passionate argument. Right? I expected the worst when I stepped into their field of vision, though neither of them even noticed my entrance. Good. Gave me more time to observe.

Facing each other from opposite corners of the kitchen island, Wren held a bowl of pasta he must’ve offered her. More importantly, her usual McCarthy scowl was missing. Only an apprehensive look lingered underneath what seemed like genuine interest in what he had to say.

We talked. No coercion needed. No harm done.

Maybe he hadn’t lied after all.

“I haven’t seen it live yet,” McCarthy admitted. Wren immediately interrupted with that giddiness in her tone she only sported when it came to one thing. The Lin Manuel Miranda mug I noticed on the counter had probably started this conversation about her favorite musical. I groaned. Internally. After all, I still wanted to eavesdrop.

“Honestly—” She cut herself off with a spoonful of pasta. “It’s on a whole other level live! You’re really missing out.”

“I know.” His head fell back in frustration, and the movement was what made him notice me from the corner of his eye. “Athalia,” he acknowledged, turning toward me with a smile. “Hey.”

Wren stiffened. So did I.

“Anyway…” She scrambled, balancing her cup and bowl in one hand, phone in the other. “Thanks for… this.” She raised the pasta in McCarthy’s direction clumsily, almost losing a single rigatoni. Our eyes met, and I almost fooled myself into seeing the hint of an apologetic smile on her lips before she passed me, then disappeared in her room.

Dumbfounded, I blinked at McCarthy. “Did I just—” My eyes trailed after Wren again, then back to him. “Did you—” I shook my head. “She talked to you. Voluntarily,” I added.

“I don’t know how voluntary it is when I’m standing in her kitchen, but yes, I guess.” He shrugged, passed me my bowl from the island when I was close enough. “You tried getting along with my best friend. The least I can do is—” He nodded toward her closed door.

Only that it wasn’t just McCarthy she was supposed to have a problem with—I had been added to that list. This had been the longest we’d been in the same room since our fight. And it was only because she hadn’t noticed me earlier.

My head fell against his chest with a sigh. “I’m ready for that glass of wine now.”