Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Three days until Thanksgiving.

Students and professors alike were getting ready to leave campus for the long weekend. Lectures had become a burden for every party involved. We could all feel it.

And I’d come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t be spending the holiday with Wren, this time around. I knew if I asked, she’d take me. No matter the circumstances, she’d be there for me if I needed her. I think.

But Wren was petty, and I was stubborn. So she didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask.

Maybe some space would be good for us, even. A few days where we wouldn’t awkwardly run into each other in the kitchen or tiptoe through the apartment, until we got to our rooms to avoid the other.

Look who’s acting like she’s my girlfriend now .

Space. Friendships didn’t need space, did they? They were supposed to be effortless, come natural.

The prospect of a lonely Thanksgiving was scary, though.

Two days until Thanksgiving.

Technically, the anniversary of my parents’ death had passed already. The twenty-second was like any other day in November, filled with classes and homework and finals prep. Seven years ago, though, Thanksgiving had fallen on the twenty-second. And it’s the holiday I associated with them. Still, the influx of articles about them at this time of year didn’t help. Neither did the Twitter hashtag, supposed to commemorate my dad or the condolence letter Mom’s company sent every year.

It felt worse this time.

Maybe—probably—because November was usually the month where Henry still felt most like my twin. We’d never speak about them, but he seemed to hover closer in November. He’d reach out, ask if I’d been okay. We were both still hurting, just coping with the pain differently, so it was easy to forget. November made us remember.

It didn’t seem to do that for him this year.

But the fact he’d been more invested in my life since McCarthy was worth it. Right?

One day until Thanksgiving.

I assumed most students had left campus by now. Wren’s open door, lights off as if to rub her absence in, suggested that she had, at least. I tried not to let that bother me. She could’ve offered and hadn’t. Then again, I could’ve asked—and I didn’t do that either.

I hadn’t touched my phone since the last article sprung me out of nowhere, yesterday. Who’d be prepared to see a picture of their dead parents smiling? Mom waved into the camera; Dad looked at her, as they stood on the steps of a private jet together, over ten years ago.

Just thinking about it still made my stomach turn, made my hatred for the press grow. Hey, let’s use the picture of a couple that died in a jet crash in which they’re standing right in front of one way before their accident.

Vile. But it brought clicks and attention and money. That’s what the world revolved around, right?

A harsh knock startled me out of my thoughts, and I emerged from under my blanket with a furrowed brow. I had no intention of answering whoever was currently abusing the apartment door, though I was curious, nonetheless. The knocks became more forceful the longer they went unanswered; speed picking up and intensity growing steadily. Whoever it was, they really wanted to get in here.

For a moment I wondered about the likelihood of a reporter or paparazzi trying their shot at an exclusive with a grieving billionaire’s daughter. I almost laughed at the thought of the public seeing me like this: red, puffy eyes, untamed hair, wearing an oversized hoodie and underwear from the day before (hey, no judgment—I’m grieving).

But what I heard then was so unexpected, and so far from my vivid imagination, I froze, and felt my entire body heat up at the prospect. His voice was so familiar by now, I recognized it through the walls and doors still separating us.

I scrambled out of bed faster than I would on a normal day. The fact I was out of bed at all, not hiding under my covers and crying, was huge. Just in case, I patted my cheeks lightly, drying whatever wetness might’ve stained them otherwise, and opened the door.

Yup, it was McCarthy all right. Wearing casual black suit pants and an oversized, olive sweatshirt, under a black coat.

Eyes darting to his, something in his expression shifted as his gaze flew across my features––probably noticing the redness around my nose; probably noticing how puffy my eyes were.

“Are you still sick?” he wondered, his voice… quiet, somehow hopeful. When I shook my head slowly, he didn’t hesitate.

The six foot something giant, who was supposed to hate me and hadn’t said more than a few friendly words to me in the heat of the moment—he threw his arms around my body as if he’d been born to do it. His scent engulfed me, his embrace tight, warm, protecting. Most of all it was… needed. The realization made me tremble as I slung myself around him.

“Thank you,” I muttered into his chest. I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me, but I assumed the way his hand came up to play with my hair was a response. I took it as such.

McCarthy took a deep breath, placing his head on top of mine. “I’m so stupid,” he breathed out. “I should’ve been here yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that . I should’ve—” He cut himself off, bringing the tiniest bit of distance between us. His hands cupped my face lightly. I hated that my eyes glistened when I looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, the gesture halfhearted. He should be the last person to feel sorry for anything. We didn’t even like each other, for God’s sake. Still, here he was. Bothering to check up on me before he…

I cleared my throat. “So you’re heading home now?” I couldn’t explain the small smile that crept onto his lips, and my eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?” I doubled down.

“Come on.” His hand slipped into mine so casually, I didn’t really notice. He dragged me into my room, and if he was judging the state of it, I couldn’t tell. “When was the last time you looked at your phone, Pressley?” That teasing undertone in his voice was back, and I never thought I’d be so glad to hear it. It brought a sense of normalcy: a reminder that there were days before and after the grief. It was a distraction from the fact they had died in the first place. And it’s exactly what I needed.

“I turned it off when—” Well, the high of distraction slipped out from under me, just like that. I swallowed thickly, my head shaking. “Just turned it off,” I corrected with a shrug, nodding toward the dark screen on my bedside table.

Although I’m sure he could tell there was something off about the statement, he let it be. “That explains why you’re neither packed nor dressed. And why you’re wearing your glasses.” He seemed to think about his statement. “So get changed, pack.” He was silent for a beat, considering. “But leave the glasses on.”

Leaving them on was a given anyway, with the number of tears spilled this time of year. My contact lenses would be flushed out too quickly to be worth the effort of putting them in, in the first place.

“What?” he teased during my silence. Rolling his eyes, he tried his best to act as if nothing was going on––as if my eyes weren’t glistening and my cheeks stained. I didn’t think he understood how grateful I was. “You thought you’d get to fake date me without the awkward meet-the-family Thanksgiving dinner? Where’s the fun in that?”

Oh.

Oh no.

“I don’t—” I cut myself off. “We shouldn’t—”

“I’ve gotten clear instructions, Pressley,” he said firmly, heading for my closet and finding a duffel bag on the top shelf. “And even I hadn’t: I’m not leaving you. You owe me, remember?”

Clear instructions?

He turned around, holding the bag out to me. “I’m calling in your debt. You’re coming with me.”

I was officially lost. Maybe that’s why I took it from him.

Thirty minutes later—during which I’d packed (threw a random array of clothes into my bag), showered, and got dressed—we were sitting in McCarthy’s black Jeep, four-hundred miles between us and Washington D.?C. A good mix of road trip appropriate songs played through the car’s speakers, and I was, surprisingly, just glad to be somewhere that wasn’t my deserted apartment.

I’d noticed the Polaroid picture on his dashboard the second I’d gotten into my seat. He wasn’t even in the car when I recognized my wide smile and his wet hair, his eyes on me. Despite my dumb grin, I didn’t mention it.

“Hey, uh—” I cut myself off with a huff, head cocking in McCarthy’s direction to find his eyes steadily on the road, only glancing my way to show he’d heard me. “Thank you,” I breathed out. Again.

Why is this man giving me so many damn reasons to be genuinely grateful?

“For all this.” As I gestured around the car halfheartedly, my eyes didn’t waver from his frame in the driver’s seat.

He shrugged, unable to hide the smile that was beginning to tease the corners of his mouth. “Now, if someone would’ve told me a month ago that this—” He gave me an incredulous look. “Was really happening, I would’ve convinced them it could only be part of my elaborate plan to dump you in the middle of nowhere to see how you’d cope.” The laugh that rang through his car overshadowed the low music coming from the speakers, and an involuntarily smile spread across my face.

“Well.” An amused snort accompanied the word. “I would’ve told them the only way I’d be in here is unconscious. Now look at me, fully awake and in control of all my actions.” Almost all of them. If I could just get my lips back into a straight line.

McCarthy snickered in amusement, eyes flickering toward me again. He was quiet only for a beat, then: “Hungry?”

Usually, I was too preoccupied crying, sleeping, or moping to make eating a priority this time of the year. And McCarthy had ambushed me before I’d even made it out of bed today. The reminder made my stomach rumble, and it was answer enough. He pulled off the interstate, into the first fast food place he spotted. “You still owe me, remember?” The car slowed as he pulled into a parking spot.

I did remember. His first text pretending to be a spam number, then inviting himself to be taken out by me. Once again, I wondered why those trivial details had stuck with me.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I pretended, though already searched for my wallet in The Tote Bag by my feet.

He stopped me in my endeavor quickly. His hand curled around mine, slowly guiding it out of the bag, snatching my wallet from it and throwing it onto the backseat.

“Seems you’ve forgotten your wallet at home,” he gasped in surprise, like he hadn’t just taken it from me. “Shame.” A grin grew on his lips. “My treat. What do you want?”

I shook my head in amusement. “Surprise me.”

When he came back through the swing doors, he held two bags in one hand and drinks in the other, gesturing wildly for me to open the driver’s door. With a huff, McCarthy fell into the vehicle. “Never let me make food choices for you again.” He complained, dropping the larger of the two bags in my lap. “I feel like I bought the entire menu.”

“I can see that.” I grinned, already rummaging through the bag. When my eyes flew to him, half humorous, half disbelieving, he popped a single fry into his mouth with a satisfied smile on his face.

“I got you a hot chocolate.” He nodded toward one of the cups in the holder. “And thought we could share the strawberry smoothie. Do you like strawberries?” The furrow in his brow as his face contorted into one of light concern (in case I didn’t like strawberries) and interest (hoping that I did like them), finally made my smile burst.

“Yes.” My cheeks hurt and my nose crinkled. “I do like strawberries.”

A puff of air escaped his mouth, the smile on his lips returning in grateful relief. “Good.” He nodded, eyes shifting. “Very good.”

Falling back into the seat with a handful of fries in my mouth, I sighed contently. Despite it, I was getting sick and tired of thanking him over, and over, and over again for doing unexpectedly nice things for me over, and over, and over again .

“Thank you” slipped past my lips anyway.

Putting the car in reverse, he placed his arm on the back of his seat to get a glance over his shoulder. His gaze passed over me to the rear window before bouncing back onto me as if he couldn’t help himself. Then, he winked, and I knew I was in trouble the second I didn’t cringe at the gesture. My stomach gave a nervous flutter instead.

I was moving into fairly dangerous territory, and nothing could stop it.

His eyes lifted back onto the road when I cleared my throat. “And stop being so nice to me,” I added as an afterthought. He glanced at me with a self-satisfied grin, and it only grew when I took another sip of the smoothie.

“Why?” he asked, mouth full.

“Because my gratitude is getting to your head, McCarthy.”

He snickered in amusement, the sound paired with another side glance as he shook his head. “And I know where my being nice is getting you.” His gaze raked up and down my seated frame. The three seconds he took the longest he’d allow his eyes to be off the road.

“Where?” I laughed lowly, pointedly ignoring I knew exactly which part of me it was getting to. “Your childhood bedroom?”

His head fell back into the seat with a low laugh, happy and carefree. Music was playing in the background, and he tapped his finger on the steering wheel to the beat.

“Yeah,” he laughed, amusement still lingering in the sound. “Exactly.”