The Fake Mate(26)

“How much did you have to drink?”

She wrinkles her nose. I have definitely decided it’s endearing. “Just a cosmo.” She notices my hesitance to believe her, rolling her eyes. “And a couple of shots.”

“We should make sure you pace yourself for the rest of the night,” I laugh. “Don’t want you to get sick.”

She winks at me. “It’s fine. I have my alpha here, right?”

That same shiver slides along my spine. It’s just a sentence, a simple one at that . . . So why do I feel so tense all of a sudden? It doesn’t help at all that her scent is a little thicker now; I’m assuming we can blame the alcohol for that.

“Right,” I murmur back, trying to keep my expression even.

We continue to sway to the slow song that’s playing over the speakers, and at some point, her head lolls a bit so that her cheek presses against my chest. “You smell good,” she sighs. “Did you know?”

Dangerous, I think. I should probably end this dance.

“I can’t say that I did,” I manage.

She presses her nose to my shirt again, breathing in. “Well, you do.”

“Thank you,” I answer, my voice tighter than it was a moment ago. “Um . . . So do you.”

She tilts up her chin to give me a dreamy sort of smile. “I do?”

I swallow thickly. This feels very dangerous. Especially given the fact that I am suddenly getting strong and outrageous ideas about what her mouth might feel like. I can’t even pinpoint where the thoughts are coming from. Then again, I can’t really process much outside of her smile right now. It feels impossible, how much she increasingly affects me. More than anyone ever has. That’s for sure. Is it really just because I haven’t ever gone off my suppressants for so long?

“Yes,” I grind out, forcing my gaze up and over her head just so I can clear my thoughts. “Where did you see Dennis?”

“Oh.” She turns her head, craning her neck. “He was over there with Betty.”

“I still don’t know who Betty is.”

Mackenzie giggles. “It’s so funny how everyone knows you, but you don’t know anyone.”

“I . . . don’t make it a habit to make friends.”

“Clearly,” she teases. “But . . . we’re friends. Right?”

“I . . .” I can’t help it. I peek back down at her, and from this angle I have a clear view of the plunging vee of her sweater where the soft swells of her breasts rise and fall with every breath. I have to will myself not to look, feeling like some sort of teenage animal. “Yes. We’re friends.”

That same smile that makes my chest feel tight. “What an honor.”

The song fades away then, and its absence seems to knock some sense into me. I clear my throat as I let go of her waist (even as my fingers feel like they might scream with protest), making a show of peering out over the crowd as a more upbeat tune starts to play. “Do you want another drink? I’ll definitely need one or five to dance to this kind of music.”

“I’ll wait a bit,” she says. “That last shot got to me, I think.”

“Probably a good idea,” I muse. “I’ll meet you back at the table.”

She looks at me curiously then, studying my expression with a discerning one of her own—but for the life of me, I have no clue what she’s thinking. She gives her head a little shake as if to clear her own thoughts away, pasting on a smile that feels more practiced than the one she’d given me during our dance. “Sure. If Dennis bothers you, just holler. I’ll be sure to beat him up.”

“Perfect,” I laugh. “I feel much safer now.”

She tosses me a wave over her shoulder as she meanders back in the direction of our table, and I take a deep breath of air that is less clouded with her scent after her retreat. It makes it a little easier to think.

I really do need a drink.



* * *





?A lot of things happen over the next hour.

I do get that drink, and polishing it off does wonders for my nerves and the tension that comes from being in such a crowded place. At some point, Priya loudly announces that she has decided I am good enough for Mackenzie—something that makes the entire table burst into laughter. I meet Betty, and she does tell me that she delivered Tim Allen. She also tells me I’d better not break Mackenzie’s heart, and for a seventy-something-year-old woman, she comes off as pretty intimidating. Paul says good night and heads home after giving me another sly smile and knowing look, and I can’t pretend I’m not a little jealous of his departure. Although, I have to admit—I’ve had a relatively good time tonight. Mackenzie has made sure of that.

My faux mate in question has been considerably less touchy-feely than she’d been on the dance floor, and I can only assume this is due to her sobering up a little bit more after her round of shots. She’s still touching me familiarly, her arm still looped with mine whenever she isn’t using it to sip her drink or expressively tell a story—but I haven’t seen that sweet smile or that dreamy look since that song ended. She definitely hasn’t sunk into my embrace again. Which I suppose a more rational me would be relieved over. Drink or no, it’s not a good idea for us to be too familiar with each other outside of what’s expected of us.