Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 32: Chapter 32

LIAM
The hum of the plane fills the silence between us.
Emilia’s fingers are still laced with mine, her grip is not as tight as before but it’s still there. I don’t mention it, though.
I also don’t mention how warm her hand is, or how her thumb rests just slightly against mine, like she forgot to move it.
She’s staring out the window now, her book abandoned in her lap. She hasn’t turned a page in fifteen minutes.
“See anything interesting?” I ask, my voice low.
She turns her head, eyes flicking to mine. “Clouds.”
“Fascinating.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small, almost reluctant smile playing on her lips. “You asked.”
I lean back in my seat, shifting slightly so our arms touch again. “I did. But you could’ve lied. Told me you saw something cool. A UFO. A portal to another dimension. Something.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Right. Next time, I’ll make up a story.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Her fingers twitch slightly against mine, and I swear I feel a spark run up my arm.
She notices then. The way we’re still holding hands.
Her gaze drops, and I expect her to let go, to make a joke about it, to do something to break whatever this is.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she shifts, tucking one leg under the other, turning more toward me. “Why are you so calm?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Because I’ve been on a plane before?”
She glares. “So have I. Doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Right. So, I should be panicking with you?”
She exhales sharply. “No. But maybe you could—” She hesitates. “I don’t know. Distract me or something?”
I tilt my head, considering her words briefly. Then, before she can take it back, I reach for the book in her lap.
“Hey—”
Ignoring her protest, I flip to a random page. “Alright, let’s see what kind of stuff you read.”
“Liam—”
“Oh wow, this guy just gazed into her stormy eyes,” I say, smirking as I skim the text. “His grip tightened on her waist, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered—”
Emilia lunges for the book, her face burning. “Stop.”
I hold it out of reach, chuckling. “What? This is quality content.”
“Give it back.”
I grin. “You want me to read out loud? Might really help with the distraction.”
“Liam.”
The warning in her voice is clear, but I’m enjoying this too much.
I flip another page dramatically. “Her heart pounded in her chest as she realized—”
Emilia grabs my wrist.
I freeze.
Not because of the touch—we’ve been touching for a while now—but because she’s really close.
She’s half leaning over me, her eyes wide with exasperation, her fingers wrapped around my wrist like she’s debating whether to fight me for the book or strangle me.
And suddenly, I’m very aware of how little space there is between us.
Her gaze flickers to mine. Her lips part slightly, like she’s about to say something, but no words come out.
I swallow.
I should let go of the book. I should say something—anything—to break whatever this is.
But my fingers don’t move.
Neither do hers.
A voice interrupts us.
“Excuse me.”
Emilia jerks back like she’s been burned, releasing my wrist. I look up to find the flight attendant smiling politely at us.
“Would either of you like a drink?”
Emilia clears her throat, fixing her seatbelt like it suddenly needs adjusting. “Just water, please.”
The flight attendant nods and looks at me. “And you?”
I glance at Emilia, who still refuses to meet my gaze.
“Same,” I say, setting the book back in her lap. “Water’s good.”
×××
We get our waters and twenty minutes later, she’s asleep.
Or at least, she’s trying to be.
Her head keeps tilting to the side, only for her to jolt awake at the slightest movement. It’s almost painful to watch.
After the fourth time, I sigh and shift in my seat.
“Em.”
She makes a sleepy sound, barely cracking one eye open. “Mm?”
I hesitate for half a second.
Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my arm and tap my shoulder. “Here.”
She blinks, eyes finally opening fully. “What?”
I keep my expression neutral, like this is no big deal. Because it’s not. Anyone on this plane can be a fan or someone who knows us, it’s only natural for us to be affectionate. “If you’re gonna keep passing out, you might as well get comfortable.”
She stares at me.
For a second, I think she’s going to refuse, make a joke about how weird this is, or push me away completely.
Instead, she exhales slowly.
Then, without a word, she shifts closer, resting her head against my shoulder.
It’s not perfect. Her curls tickle my neck, and she’s tense for a solid minute before finally relaxing. But she doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
As the plane hums around us, the clouds drifting past the window, I find myself staring at the top of her head, wondering—
What kind of guy was Zane Whitmoore to win her heart?
The thought sits heavy in my chest, a feeling I don’t want to name.
Emilia’s breathing evens out after half an hour, her body relaxing into sleep. Carefully, I slide the book from her lap and flip to the first page.
It’s a romance novel.
Women read about the kind of men they want, right?
It doesn’t mean anything.
It won’t hurt if I actually like the kind of guy she’d be into. It’d make our act more convincing.
That’s all.
I flip open the book and let my eyes skim the first few lines.
She knew she shouldn’t want him. He was trouble, wrapped in a smile that made her forget her own name.
I pause.
That’s... intense.
I glance down at Emilia, still fast asleep against my shoulder. Her lips are slightly parted, her lashes resting against her cheeks.
This girl reads about men who make women forget their own names?
I shake my head, turning another page.
The next line doesn’t make things better.
His voice was smooth, a quiet promise of danger as he murmured, ‘You’re mine.’
I blink.
Jesus.
I flip forward, scanning random paragraphs. The guy in this book—Ethan, or Evan, or something like that—spends half his time staring at the heroine like she’s the last person on earth. The other half, he’s brooding about how he’s no good for her.
Is that what women actually like?
I don’t get it.
I don’t get him.
I glance at Emilia again. She shifts slightly, her nose scrunching before she relaxes again.
What did Zane Whitmoore do to make her love him? Was he the brooding type too? Did he tell her she was his in that deep, dramatic voice?
I click my tongue and shut the book.
I don’t like this train of thought.
I should sleep. After all, once we’re out of this plane it’ll be an entire month of watching Zane and pretending I feel something for Emilia.
My mouth suddenly tastes sour and I’m not in the mood to sleep anymore.
Instead, I stare out the window, watching the clouds roll by, wondering why the thought of Emilia loving someone like Zane Whitmoore sits so uncomfortably in my chest.
A soft murmur pulls me from my thoughts.
At first, I think she’s waking up, but then I realize—
She’s dreaming.
Her brows draw together, her lips parting slightly as another quiet sound escapes her.
Then she moves.
Just a tiny shift, pressing closer, her face tilting toward my neck.
I freeze.
I should move. I should nudge her awake or adjust my seat, or do something that doesn’t involve sitting completely still while my heart does something weird in my chest.
But I don’t.
Because suddenly, she sighs.
And it’s soft, barely more than a breath, but it sends warmth curling in my stomach.
I swallow hard, turning my head slightly.
She’s right there.
Her curls brush against my jaw, and her breath is warm against my collarbone.
This is... not normal.
This is the kind of moment that happens in those ridiculous romance books she reads. The kind where the guy stares at the girl for way too long, trying to figure out what she smells like.
(For the record, she smells like vanilla and something sweet, like she might have made it in the bakery.)
I shake my head at myself.
What the hell am I doing?
I exhale and close my eyes.
Sleep. That’s what I need.
I’ll wake her up in an hour. Maybe.