Marla’s POV
I had to act, and pretend. Even though my brain was short-circuiting and my heartbeat hadn’t figured out how to slow down. The kiss, that kiss, kept looping in my head like a broken record. His lips on mine, the heat, the shock, the way time had gone syrupy and slow.
But I smiled, laughed when I was supposed to. I played my part like nothing had happened, like I wasn’t unraveling under my skin. Because we were still on stage, still selling the fantasy. I held his arm, nodded through the conversations, posed for the photos, and pretended like I wasn’t internally screaming. All I had to do was make it to the car.
The second we slid inside and the door clicked shut, the performance collapsed. I turned away from him and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, quick and sharp, like I’d just kissed a gas station doorknob. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t look at him. We sat there in that heavy, awful silence. And all I could think was: If this is pretend, why does it feel so real?
Ives didn’t even look at me. “Dramatic,” he said flatly.
I turned to him. “That was disgusting.”
“Funny. You didn’t look disgusted when your hand was on my chest.”
My eyes narrowed. “You kissed me without warning in front of many people.”
He shrugged. “It was convincing. No sweat.”
“You stuck your tongue in my mouth like you were claiming territory!”
He glanced over, then paused. “Wait. Was that your first?” I froze.
He stared. “It was, wasn’t it? Of course, I forgot that you were a virgin.” A slight smirk appeared on his lips. I hated that heat crawled up my neck.
“I said what I said,” I muttered.
He leaned back in the seat, a slow grin stretching across his stupid, smug face. “Damn. I ruined your first kiss.”
“Congrats. Want a trophy?” I snorted.
“You sure looked into it.”
I snapped my head toward him. “I was in shock!”
“You moaned.”
“I did not-”
“You did.” He tilted his head, absolutely basking in this. “It was kind of sweet, honestly. Little breathy thing. Like you’d never been touched before.”
I curled my fist in my lap. “Because I hadn’t.”
He chuckled. “Even better.”
I clenched my jaw. “You think this is funny?”
“I think it’s fascinating,” he said. “All that mouth and no experience? Makes sense.” That was it. I leaned forward. Grabbed his jacket. Pulled him close enough that he stopped breathing for a second. His eyes dropped to my mouth.
I tilted my head, whispering, “You want a second shot? Let’s see if you’re actually that good.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. So I leaned in, then shoved him back against the seat. Hard. I sat back, arms crossed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
And this fucking cold man? He laughed! “That was adorable,” he said. “You bluff like a virgin too.”
“I hate you.”
“Sure,” he said, stretching like this was fun. “But you kissed me back.”
I turned away, seething, because he was right, and he knew it. I barely slept. Every time I shut my eyes, it came rushing back: his mouth on mine, the weight of his hand at my hip, the way he didn’t hesitate like it was some joke. Like he meant it. And the worst part? I wanted to do it again.
By the time the sun rose, I'd accepted that I was either having a crisis or a mental breakdown, probably both. I went downstairs wearing one of his button-downs because screw it. I was tired and he owed me laundry access. He was already in the kitchen with his coffee. Hair still perfect, like nothing had happened.
“You’re up early,” he said, glancing at me once.
“Didn’t sleep.”
“Overthinking?” I ignored him.
“Dreaming about your first kiss?” he added, sipping his coffee. I froze mid-step. He didn’t even smile. Just stared me down over the rim of his mug like he had receipts.
“I could give you a better one,” he said casually. “For balance.”
I stared. “You’re actually the worst human being I’ve ever met.”
“Not according to your mouth last night.” I stormed out before I could throw his overpriced coffee in his face. Once I went outside my room, I slapped my face, giving myself a reality check.
Remember this Marla. That kiss was for an act, don’t add meaning to it!