The Fake Mate(25)

“So,” Paul says as I settle back into the booth. “Mated, huh?”

I reach to rub at the back of my neck. “Yeah, it’s . . . been interesting.”

“Funny how you never mentioned it to me,” he says with a hint of amusement in his voice, creases forming in the warm brown skin around his eyes. “Considering I am probably the only person from work you keep regular contact with.”

“Sorry,” I offer. “We didn’t . . . It’s complicated.”

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with your alpha status being outed, would it?”

“That’s . . .” I struggle for anything remotely close to a good excuse, coming up short. “Is it obvious?”

“Not to the average bystander,” Paul chuckles. “But I know you.”

“It’s been a fucking mess, Paul,” I sigh.

“I imagine,” he offers. “So what is Dr. Carter’s role in all this?”

“She’s . . .” I turn my head, my lips pressing together as I watch her head tilt back with mirth at something Priya has just said. “She’s helping me out.”

“From what Priya tells me,” Paul notes, “Dr. Carter is something of a saint.”

“She is,” I mutter back, still looking at my pretend mate as she laughs.

Paul reaches for the glass in front of him, and when I finally tear my attention away from Mackenzie, I notice he’s smiling into it as he takes a drink, his dark eyes glittering. “You two are very convincing. Watching you two together, no one would suspect that you aren’t an item.”

“Oh, we’re just . . .” I frown down at the table. “Honestly, I’m surprised she even agreed. It makes no sense from anyone’s point of view why she would.”

That part is definitely true, and something that is constantly on my mind. Even with her reasoning that I’m keeping her from another string of bad dates—it’s a lot to take on, this thing we’re doing, and it feels as if I have much more to benefit from it.

“Well, you did say she’s a saint,” Paul says.

I nod. “I did.”

I notice he’s smiling again, almost like he has a secret, and with a subtle shake of his head, he gives his attention back to his glass. “I look forward to seeing how this plays out.”

“Hopefully in something other than disaster,” I huff.

“Just be careful,” Paul warns again. “You’re too bright to let this ruin you. It would be a waste all around.”

“I will,” I tell him. “If nothing else . . . I wouldn’t want to jeopardize Mackenzie’s career. I couldn’t live with myself if I dragged her down with me.” I catch Paul looking at me with that strange smile again, and raise an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he laughs. “Like I said, I look forward to seeing how this plays out.”

I’m not really sure what he means by that, and decide that asking will most likely just get me more sly glances.

“Noah!”

My head whips to the side at the sound of Mackenzie’s voice, catching her pushing through the crowd again. I notice her cheeks are slightly more flushed than they were when she left. She offers a quiet apology to Paul before she leans in to whisper in my ear, and there is an imperceptible (or at least, I hope it is) shiver that passes over me when I feel her breath wash against the shell.

“Dennis is here,” she whispers. “He was asking somebody at the bar if they’d seen us.” I can smell the fruity drink she must have downed before she came back. “Just follow my lead.” Before I even have time to be confused, she reaches for my hand, tugging me from where I’m sitting. “Come dance with me!” I must make a face, because Mackenzie barks out a laugh. “Oh, come on. Dance with me, sourpuss.”

I’m momentarily distracted by the warmth of her palm, even more so by the inviting quality of her smile. Like she really wants to dance with me. It makes it hard to say anything other than “Okay.” I slide the rest of the way out of the booth, casting Paul an apologetic glance. “Sorry.”

“Go, go,” he urges. “Dance with your mate.”

His smile is as sly as it’s been for the last five minutes, but I don’t have time to be uneasy about it with Mackenzie pulling me across the floor like she is. She pulls me closer when we’re encased in the swarm of people there, taking my hands and placing them on her hips before she hooks hers behind my head.

“I figured he wouldn’t bother you if you were dancing with me,” she explains.

“Oh.” I nod, turning to scan the crowd to see if I can catch sight of him. “Good call.”

“Two birds,” she hums.

I arch an eyebrow. “What is the other bird?”

“When will I ever get to say again that I danced with Noah fucking Taylor?”

“That’s an interesting takeaway,” I chortle.

“My friend Parker calls you that,” she admits. “Noah fucking Taylor. You really are a weird kind of celebrity at work.”

“I never meant to be,” I tell her.

Strangely, her smile widens. “I’m starting to get that. Just part of your charm.”

There it is again. I still can’t get used to anything in relation to me being referred to as charm.