Page 81 of Blacklist

“We need to sell this. It has to look real. I thought you wanted your brother to believe that we’re in a relationship.”

“I did,” she says, quickly adding, “I mean, I do. You just could’ve warned me that you would be here.”

“This was more natural.” I lean closer. “A romantic gesture.”

She stares up at me, her lips waiting to be kissed. Then she blinks and moves quickly to the other side of the compartment. “You’re lucky I didn’t slap you.”

“Now why would you do that?” I ask.

“Because you kissed me,” she reminds me.

“I knew you wouldn’t slap me for that.”

“I have no idea why you seem to be so sure of that,” she says.

“You know why,” I say, advancing on her until she’s pressed against the elevator’s steel paneling. Her hands grip the bronze safety railing. “You’ve wanted me to kiss you since you saw me at the funeral.”

“You think I wanted you to kiss me?” she scoffs in a breathy voice. I’m close enough to feel the betrayal of her rapidly beating heart.

“Yes, you did want to kiss me. Just like you want to kiss me now. Just like you wanted to kiss me every day for the last five years.” I angle my head until my lips are hovering a breath away from her earlobe. “Isn’t that true?”

“I don’t want to kiss you,” she whispers. “Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

“Do you know how to tell when someone’s lying?” I murmur in her ear. “Their pupils dilate, they breathe faster, but most importantly, their heart speeds up.”

“Maybe I’m just scared of you,” she says, even as she moves almost instinctively closer.

“You should be,” I agree, “but you still want to kiss me.” My mouth moves across her jaw gliding toward her lips. As it reaches them, the elevator dings, jolting us apart when it comes to a stop. Adair turns her head, saved by the interruption, and darts out of the doors as they open.

I’m right behind her, catching her hand before she reaches the building’s entrance.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“We have a date,” I remind her.

“No one’s around. We don’t need to pretend,” she says, stopping to jerk her arm free.

“There’s a whole city that needs to believe this,” I say flatly. “Besides there’s somewhere I want to show you.” The Adair I’ve been around since I returned to Tennessee has been stuck in high heels and dresses, forced to play the part of the grieving daughter and doting family member. The Adair standing before me now, in blue jeans and sneakers, reminds me of the girl I met at Valmont years ago.

“Do I need to change?” she says as if reading my mind.

“You’re perfect,” I say without thinking. “But I might need to.”

She crosses her arms, rolling her eyes as she scans my three-piece navy suit. “Do you think?”

“What? Embarrassed to be seen with me looking like this?” I tease.

“I think that’s a trick question.” Her eyes don’t meet mine, but pink circles bloom on the apples of her cheeks. She’s learning — adapting to this new version of who we are. We’re not 18 anymore. I’m not the poor boy, riding on her credit card. I’ve changed. I’m a man with money and means now. She knows it. What she wants to know is how much of that boy is left.

Adair follows me out to the valet, careful to keep a safe distance. She doesn’t hide her surprise when my car is brought to the entrance.

“Nice ride,” she says.

“I knew you would prove.” I help her inside, playing the part of the Southern gentleman. It’s not something I was born to and I’m unlikely to make the effort often. Tonight though? Two can play this game. I’m Satan himself, offering her the forbidden fruit she can’t stop drooling over.

Circling the car, I slide into the driver’s seat. Adair’s fingers skim over the wood appreciatively. We came from different worlds. Hers one of diamonds, debutante balls, and silver spoons. Mine? All I’d known was the street, how to survive the foster care system, how to leave the ones who hurt you behind and live with the scars of them. Now I’ve learned the language of her world. I’m fluent in her tongue: luxury. But we both know I’m not a native speaker. I wasn’t born to her world. She wouldn’t lower herself to mine. Maybe she thinks I’ve come back to show her that I belong now.

She’s wrong.