Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

I felt like an art critic in a gallery when I looked around his room.

Dark wooden floors, windows cut low enough to almost reach it. Scattered on the windowsill were a few books, a single plant. Eyes wandering into the left corner, they fell on the most noticeable feature of the room—apart from the king-sized bed positioned with its headrest, against the center of the wall: the black grand piano in front of the second window of the room, carefully maintained with not a speck of dust on the dark surface. The leather bench in front of it was placed thoughtfully, making sure you had a spectacular view of the backyard when you weren’t looking at the ivory keys.

“What?” he asked behind me, amused by my critic-act.

I hummed, and accompanying the sound with a thoughtful nod, I stepped into the center of the room with my hands crossed behind my back.

“What?” It came again, voice much closer than it was before.

I knew if I turned, I’d be staring right at him—his chest—with only a few inches separating us. It was tempting, which was why I continued staring at the few books on the shelf against the wall. “Are you not pleased with your chambers, princess?” he asked mockingly. The amused breath he exhaled tickled my neck.

“ My chambers?” I finally turned to find him just as close as I’d expected. My nose would brush his, if he weren’t so much taller. Looking up, my eyes narrowed as the question hung in the air between us.

“Well.” His head cocked sideways as he shrugged. “Yours for the time being.”

My gaze fell on the king-sized bed, contemplating for a fraction of a second that, theoretically, we’d both fit.

“No—” I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I can sleep in the guest room, or the couch—the floor is fine, too. Really.”

“Suddenly so humble. What happened, Pressley?” His lips broke into a smirk, a casual hand brushing a strand of brown behind my ear, before his finger hooked underneath my chin to connect our eyes.

Although I rolled mine at the statement, I answered honestly. “I don’t want to take more from you. You’re already doing all this—” I gestured around his room to emphasize. “And sacrificing time with your family. I really don’t want to intrude any more than I already am.” I wish I could turn away from his burning gaze; humility had never been my strong suit, admitting it even less. But his hand on my cheek wouldn’t let me, even if I’d tried.

“ Athalia. ” He dragged my name out playfully, sounding whiny. “I’m not sacrificing anything. You’re not intruding.” He snickered. “You’re not taking from me— I’m giving you the things I want to give you. Willingly.” He cracked a smile when he emphasized, “Willingly. Because I want to.”

Fuck. I’m in so much trouble. “And where will you sleep?”

“This is a big house,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”

“ I can sleep in the guest room.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His head fell back in light amusement before his eyes found mine again, still only inches away. “It’s a shame I’m, like, ten inches taller, seventy pounds heavier.” I was about to disagree strongly with the ten inches, because it was more like six or seven, when he went on. “Which means you don’t stand a chance—”

A surprised squeal ripped out of me. Dylan McCarthy Williams had thrown me across his shoulder. “McCarthy!” I gasped before a loud laugh followed. His hands held me steadily by my waist and thigh, fingers digging into the skin at the sound.

Before I really knew what hit me, he maneuvered me onto his bed, laughing and squealing and playfully hitting him on my way down. My fingers clung to the neckline of his pine-green sweater, dragging him with me.

McCarthy laughed, surprised, bracing his hands to either side of my head to keep from crushing me underneath him.

His chest rose unsteadily above mine as my laughter slowed. The corners of my lips lowered as our situation dawned on me—his body on mine, the wide smile I’d caused, and his twinkling eyes, that hadn’t wavered from mine once.

And I just kissed him. Because I didn’t know what else to do, and this—laughing and enjoying each other’s company, my fluttering stomach—was more intimate than any physical touch could be. I wasn’t used to it, wasn’t sure if I wanted to be. However, kissing him, his lips on mine, bodies flush, had become familiar.

Somewhere between fake kisses and statistic books, he had become familiar.

I enjoyed the way his breath hitched, and the low groan that immediately flew against my lips as they connected. I liked the way my body fit his, how we moved against each other so effortlessly. I loved what my touch did to him. And I loved what his did to me.

“I’m going to hate myself for this,” he groaned against me, putting an inch of distance between us. The sound that escaped me was pathetic. “But I need to go—”

“Where?” My lips trailed along his neck, placing gentle, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, feeling his pulse beating against me.

“The guest room,” he reminded me, sounding strangled. I emerged from the crook of his neck to look at him, amusement glinting in my eyes.

“You can stay here.” The suggestion felt natural. “With me.”

McCarthy snorted as he shook his head. “No,” he huffed. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“ Why? ” His head fell back, repeating the word, as if the answer was obvious. “Because you’re here.”

“And?”

“And.” He sighed, wet his lips as his eyes found their way back to mine. “And.” The word lingered as he shrugged, looked at me with pleading eyes like it was obvious.

“And?”

“And you’re you, Athalia,” he finally said. “You’re you, and I’m me.” His lips moved to my ear, my eyes closing at the proximity of him before he spoke gently. “And I don’t have the amount of willpower it would take to keep me away from you. Because I really, really, really want you, too.”

It wasn’t lost on me that he’d added another really to my earlier statement.

His voice had dropped to a whisper, his warm breath tickling my ear with every low word he murmured. I couldn’t take any of it. The sweet, masculine scent of him engulfing me whole, the way I could feel the outline of his body hovering directly above mine, some parts touching, while the most important ones were not. The overwhelming urge to kiss him, needing him to touch me— needing to touch him.

“So have me.” My heartbeat felt louder than the words themselves. For a moment I wondered if I had said them at all. But then he groaned and tried his best to suppress the low sound. His head fell into the crook of my neck, defeated, done—muttering a “ Fuck ,” as he went down.

“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” he said, beginning to place kiss after kiss on my bare skin, working his way up my neck, until his eyes hovered directly above mine. “I’m trying to be a good person here, and you’re making it so fucking difficult.” His lips connected with mine again; hungry, ready. And I wished the sensation would’ve lasted longer than a few seconds. “But not tonight. I’m not sleeping with you when you’re grieving. Vulnerable.” And with that, he lifted himself up, effortlessly rolling off of his king-sized bed.

I felt my perfectly distracted state slipping further away with every step he took. By the time he reached the door, reality almost had me in its clutches again. And I wanted to scream for him to come back, wanted to shout it from every rooftop in town. Really, I did. Instead, I sat there in silence, watching him consider me carefully for another second before turning to leave.

My breath hitched, not quite sure whether his objectively sweet rejection stung more than the fact I was supposed to be grieving in the first place. Or maybe, that it was only his considerateness that had reminded me.

“Dylan?” My whisper was so quiet, I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me. I honestly wasn’t quite sure if I’d said anything at all.

My eyes stung, my throat closed up, and I couldn’t keep that sharp intake of breath to myself, either. No air made it past my lips regardless—that’s how shallow my breathing had become.

Dying , I thought. I was dying.

Another sharp intake of breath, still shallow and superficial and not delivering enough air into my lungs. And somehow, he was right there. Back at my side.

“Athalia,” I thought he said; the thrumming of my heartbeat, the sound of my strangled breathing was louder than his voice.

“I’m—” I began, though could hardly say the word without another sob, another short breath cutting me off. “I’m having—” a panic attack . I’m having a panic attack , I wanted to say. I ’m having a panic attack, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be here for this. I’ll be fine ; all things I wanted to say. I couldn’t even open my mouth. Just sob after sob after sob, blurry vision, and lack of air.

“I know. Panic attack—I know.” His words reeled me back to the present moment, even if only a little. I wasn’t quite sure when his hands had found themselves on my shoulders, when knowing and realization had etched into his features. Compassion. “Your brother used to get them all the time,” he murmured, gently moving his fingers against me. I think he only continued talking so that I’d have something to focus on. “Before tryouts. Before our first games. It’s probably why he can’t stand me—Hey, focus on my voice, Athalia. You can hear me, you can see me. Right?”

I nodded again, the gesture followed by another sob, that was cut off by yet another strangled attempt for air. I couldn’t focus on what he’d said—that Henry apparently struggled with the same thing, and that McCarthy must’ve been there to get him through them, like he was there for me now. Henry hated him because he’d seen him vulnerable, not because of whatever mundane reasons he’d given me.

I couldn’t focus on that when I couldn’t even focus on my breathing. “I—”

But he shook his head quickly, worry making its presence obvious. Brows knitting together, lips in a tight frown.

“No need to explain,” he said quickly. “Deep breath,” he instructed. “Just one.” He did it first, exhaling loudly and slowly in a way I wish I could. But I tried my best—a wavering, shaky attempt he seemed to appreciate nonetheless.

“Another one.” He nodded, did it again. “Focus on me—although I know you hate doing that.” The teasing undertone in his words, the familiarity of it, made something in me loosen. I tried to take another breath—less shaky. And another one—less strangling. Until the floodgates opened, and air filled my lungs. My breathing became quicker––a little too fast to be steady.

“Better?” he asked, and when I nodded, although just faintly, he wrapped himself around me like my favorite blanket. Like he’d never let go.

My chest still rose and fell unevenly, breathing still rapid, cheeks still wet. But my face was buried in his neck, my arms slung around his torso, and somehow, I felt okay. Not good, but okay. Bearable.

“I’m sorry,” I finally managed, lifting my head, and loosening my grip to look at him. He pulled me back, held me tighter. He did not allow even a slither of distance between us.

“Don’t say that.” And the intensity in his voice, the way he pleaded, took me by surprise “Please don’t say that.”

I blinked at him when he finally let me look at him, not quite sure what to say, now that my rambled I’m-sorry-you-had-to-see-that monologue was out of the question. His hand lifted slowly, gently wiping a fresh tear from my cheek as if it would make a difference—as if my entire face wasn’t red and puffy.

“I forgot,” I said, as if the realization had just occurred again. “I forgot they died. I forgot —and when you left, when you said all that, I remembered, and it—God.” I huffed, lowering my head as I shook it. “How could I forget my parents like that? Now, of all times?” When Thanksgiving was just around the corner.

McCarthy considered me for a second before he shook his head, and his hand found mine to squeeze it. “You’re allowed not to be miserable, Athalia. Even today. That doesn’t mean you forget about them—that doesn’t mean you ever will.”

My breath shuddered in my chest.

“But please allow yourself to feel joy. You deserve that. And they wouldn’t fault you for it.”