Page 220 of Faking the Goal

"Oh, I insist."

Well.

There goes my heart again.

Seriously, somebody needs to arrest that smile.

Or at the very least declare it a controlled substance, because there is no way it's legal for one human being to have this much effect on another.

This is bad.

Very, very bad.

Because Kentaro Azuma isn't hard to fall for.

And that's a problem.

A huge one.

Because none of this is real.

He's only my fake boyfriend.

We're just pretending.

Pretending to hold hands like the space between us is something neither of us can bear.

Pretending to kiss like we've waited forever to know what the other tastes like.

Pretending to look at each other like we've finally found the person we've been searching for all along.

No! Stop!

I point an imaginary finger at my own traitorous heart.

Don't you dare.

I seriously need to be more careful around him. Kentaro is starting to have way too much of an effect on me, and if I keep letting myself get swept up in every touch, every look, and every dangerously sweet thing he says, I'm going to forget that none of this is real.

And worse, I might start wishing it was.

CHAPTER 29

TAYLOR

Four days after the break-in, we're sitting across from Detective Matthews, the detective assigned to my stalking case, inside a small interview room at the police department. By now, he's painfully familiar with the growing collection of messages, photographs, and other fucked-up things this psycho has sent me. The building feels unusually quiet compared to the last time I was here, with only a handful of officers moving through the halls and the faint buzz of phones carrying from somewhere beyond the closed door. A paper cup of coffee steams beside the detective's open case file while another stack of reports rests neatly at his elbow.

"Thank you both for coming in today." Detective Matthews stands long enough to shake each of our hands before settling back into his chair and folding them over the open folder.

My pulse kicks up another notch.

Beside me, Kentaro quietly reaches beneath the table and slips his hand into mine. His fingers lace through mine so naturally that I don't even think about it. I simply hold on, grateful for something solid to anchor me before my thoughts spiral somewhere ugly.

Matthews flips to the first page. "Our forensic team finished processing your apartment. They collected fingerprints, DNA swabs, and trace evidence from the areas most likely to have been touched during the break-in—the damaged furniture, the flowers left inside, the point of entry, and several other surfaces."

He pauses.

"Unfortunately, none of the biological evidence gave us a usable DNA profile. As for the fingerprints, the ones we could identify belonged to you. The rest were too incomplete to make a comparison."