by Pippa Grant
Wow. I have never seen a guy whose entire face can twitch like that. An eyelid, yes. A tick in a jaw? Yep. Even a tick in a nostril or two. But never the entire face like that.
He starts talking again, which is impressive, because he looks like maybe he’s come down with a sudden case of lockjaw. “We’re dating unexpectedly because I’m weirdly attracted to you and you need someone to watch over you, and I’m nervous that I’m your rebound guy, but you’re too sweet and funny to resist, so even though I know I’m probably going to get my heart broken, I’m fully committed to this.”
“Oh my gosh, Luca, really?”
“No, Henrietta, that’s the story I told my teammates. Jesus. Fuck on a lasagna. This is never going to work. Not for tonight, and not until the end of the season.”
I pat his arm. “Oh, Luca. Honey. I’ve been training for this my entire career. We’ll pull it off so well no one will know what hit them. And bonus? I’m already feeling like relationships are awful. You’re a peach.” I lean over, peck his cheek, ignore the tingle in my lips and the way my nose practically orgasms at the scent of his aftershave or shampoo or whatever that is, and reach for the door handle. “So. Where’s the party? I’m gonna charm the pants off all your friends, and when we’re done with them, they’ll be asking you for relationship advice.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he climbs out of the car too.
Still muttering.
All the way to the elevator.
“Smile, honey,” I murmur. “The cameras are watching.”
He smiles.
Like, actually smiles.
Be still my panties. I think I’m in trouble.
No.
Not trouble.
What if he’s right? What if in order to figure out how to not fall in love, I do need to sleep with someone I don’t plan on living with forever?
And what if he can give me a real, honest-to-god orgasm in the process?
Huh.
In that case…party on, panties.
Party on.
11
Luca
This is a disaster. We’re not even to Elliott’s apartment, and already, this is a disaster.
Henri keeps shooting looks at my crotch.
So does her cat.
They look like escaped clown prison convicts. Between the bright pink and green striped beach towel piled four feet high on her head, the black shorts with vicious pink vampire unicorns, and the fact that she’s wearing another man on her shirt, without a bra, and dear god, the slippers.
She’s wearing fluffy panda slippers.
This is the worst idea in the history of ideas. I should’ve taken all the hints and drove us straight back to my place, skipped this meeting-the-team thing, and then called one of her family members. She’s a danger to herself, and I’m quickly making her my problem.
I’m becoming a problem myself.
I should’ve thought to ask if she wanted to go back and change, but when she didn’t suggest it herself, and she took off not knowing her left from her right, what she was wearing became the last thing on my mind.
What does it say about us that I already believe she’d actually dress like this to go to a party?
“How the hell do you drive in those things?”
She jerks her attention away from my crotch and looks down at her feet, lifting her toes, which makes the panda heads on top of her feet dance. “Practice. Pooks and Elbow go everywhere with me.”
“You…named your slippers.”
“In my third book, before I started writing Confucius books, my heroine slips through a time portal into another dimension when she puts these slippers on. When she lands on the other side, it’s full of were-pandas, and Pooks and Elbow are the first two she meets.”
No words.
None. They went poof.
“Since it’s an alternate dimension, the pandas don’t shift into humans when they’re not in were-panda form. They shift into sentient sticks of butter. But she doesn’t fall in love with a stick of butter. She falls in love with a centaur who was accidentally summoned to the alternate universe by the head were-panda during a ritual gone wrong. It sounds weird, but it works in the book. Trust me.”
“Can you pretend you’re mute for the next hour?”
She laughs, and fuck me, she’s a snorter.
She snorts when she laughs.
And it’s too late to bail on this entire thing, take my chances with having an anvil drop on my head next time I’m walking around downtown thanks to The Eye, and kick Nonna out of my house, because the elevator doors are opening, and Francisco and Max are standing in the hallway in the middle of a heated discussion that stops the minute they lay eyes on Henri.
For once, I don’t know the first question either will ask. I told them Henri’s name earlier, mentioned that I played it low-key like I didn’t know her when she came through on the tour with the romance novelists yesterday because we weren’t ready to talk about our relationship yet, and that I wasn’t sure how much she liked crowds.
It was almost the truth.
But the way Max is gaping at Henri suggests he’s starting to suspect my entire story is a load of bullshit. “What the—”
Lopez silences the pitcher with a shot to the arm and recovers first. He, too, has a terrifying grandmother, which probably explains the bright smile and the way he reaches for her hand, pauses, and then strokes the cat right over its vampire pajamas.
You can practically hear him thinking thank god my abuela has never met this woman and cursed me with her, though her cat is adorable. “Honor to meet you, Henri. Luca talks of nothing but your beauty.”
While Henri preens, Max shoves him out of the way. “Quit stealing Rossi’s girlfriend. We need him to live through the playoffs.”
“We need to make the playoffs.”
“You say potato, I say Lamborghini. Hi. I’m Max. You need a room so you two can do the nasty? I’ll kick Elliott and his lady out. Or I’ll borrow another apartment for you.”
I grab Henri’s free hand and growl at the pitcher.
“Meatballs or echidnas?” Francisco asks.
Henri’s brown eyebrows furrow. “For eating?”
All three of us stare dumbly at her, and she cracks up. “Wow, the looks on your faces. Guys. I know about the mascot contest. And I—”
Brooks’s door swings open, and Mackenzie pokes her head out. She’s holding Coco Puff, their rapidly-growing cavapoo puppy that Brooks got during spring training, and while Coco Puff barks and his collar shouts out an enthusiastic You’re a winner to me!, Brooks’s blonde fiancée eyeballs the hot mess that’s pretending to be my girlfriend.
And her cat.
She squints.
Henri beams. “Hi! You must be Mackenzie. Can I have a Fiery Forever button? The echidna looks super cool, and I can’t stop laughing at Glow’s campaign around his big fire butt, but let’s be real here. A team like the Fireballs deserves a dragon mascot.”
“I hate that firefly’s ass,” I mutter, but no one pays attention to me, because Henri is clearly the center of attention.
And for good reason.
Who the hell can smile that bright like she’s not wearing weird pajamas while meeting her fake boyfriend’s real friends for the first time?
I think my nuts are sweating.
This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.
Mackenzie stays poker-faced, which is impressive. This is the same woman who’d go catatonic in the presence of Fireballs players six months ago, and look at her now, playing the tough chick with my fake girlfriend. “Are you kissing up to me?”
“I could if you want me to, but really, I do like the dragon best.” She shifts her cat and lowers her voice. “Even though I saw Luca’s poster of the duck in his closet. We’re a house divided.”
Mackenzie rounds on me with a gasp, and Henri giggles, which is better than the snorting.
“She’s lying,” I say quickly.
“Teasing,”
Henri corrects. “Sweetie, we need to work on your trust issues, but that’s okay. We’ll get there.”
And now I look like I’m completely and totally whipped by a psycho wearing a sexy male vampire on her pajamas.
Maybe this is karma for trying to dodge The Eye.
“Is that Confucius?” Mackenzie nods to Henri’s shirt.
My fake girlfriend gets so excited her towel starts to tilt. “Yes! Ohmygosh, you know Confucius?”
Brooks sticks his head out of the apartment too, followed closely by Cooper, whose grin is half you want to sleep with me until he gets a load of the leaning tower of towel. “Man who go through turnstile… Whoa.” He shakes his head. “Rossi, dude, you’ve gotta get your girlfriend the official pajamas.”
“No, no.” Mackenzie beckons us into the apartment. “She can wear Confucius anytime. He’s hot.”
Henri blushes while we all troop inside. “I can’t believe you know Confucius!”
“He’s okay for a vampire,” Brooks grumbles.
“Ohmygosh, you’ve read Bite of the Wild?”
“Brooks’s brother-in-law runs this romance book club in New York. We join in on video chat whenever we can. Do you think there’ll be a book five? I can’t believe that cliffhanger in book four, but it’s been almost two years, and—”
Henri grimaces. “Yeah. That was after Kyle. He took a while to recover from, but I think I’m about ready to tackle For Whom the Vamp Bites.”
“No, no, it’s not out yet. Knox heard Nora Dawn was having some personal issues, but she’s putting out How to Train Your Vampire soon, which is good, because it’s been a while since she had a new book, even if it is a new series. And…who’s Kyle? I don’t remember a Kyle.”
Henri elbows me, and I realize I’m supposed to say something.
Like I’m supposed to know anything about her vampire novels.
Shit.
I’m going to have to read them.
Dammit.
She elbows me again, and my brain cells finally click together. “Henri’s Nora Dawn,” I announce.
She beams, which means I got it right.
Thank fuck.
But then she elbows me a third time.
Shit. Dammit. I have to do something boyfriend-ish.
Right.
Sell it. If I can’t sell it to these bozos, how am I going to sell it to Nonna?
I wrap an arm around her, and in the process I accidentally tip the towel tower.
It tilts to the right.
Her head goes with it.
I try to grab it and accidentally punch it instead, which makes her jerk sideways into Mackenzie’s wall of bobbleheads.
They all start clacking together—the ones not squished by the towel—and it startles her practically-dead cat, which yowls and leaps.
Right into Francisco’s jewels.
Mackenzie’s gasping. Like, she gasps, then we move, and she gasps again as we assault more of her bobbleheads.
Dogzilla the cat has suddenly realized it’s in clothing, and it doesn’t like it, and it’s chasing its tail while Coco Puff barks and tries to escape Mackenzie’s arms.
Every time Coco Puff barks, his collar yells.
I love you!
You’re the best!
Believe it and you can achieve it!
“Make it stop!” Mackenzie shrieks while Coco Puff leaps out of her arms, onto the couch, and then to the ground, where he starts chasing the cat.
I’m trying to pull Henri off the bobbleheads, but every time I try, the pink-and-green striped beach towel grows arms and bats at me.
Swear it does, because why else can’t I get a grip on the damn towel?
“I got it!” Henri yells while she swats my hands away.
“Demon cat!” Lopez yells back.
“Turn more to your right!” Cooper orders. “I need your face on this video!”
Brooks dives for the animals. Dogzilla dodges him and dives under the couch. Coco Puff tries to follow, but he’s big enough that he can’t reach, and he has this weird jaw issue that makes his tongue hang out, so he’s like a deranged happy dog that would probably make a good partner to the demon cat.
I try one more time to grab the towel, and I end up poking Henri in the eye instead.
“Ow!”
“Whoa.”
“Shit!”
“Demon cat!”
Francisco has a point. The cat’s banging the underside of the couch and it sounds like there’s an unholy orgy going on down there.
I grab Henri’s face and tilt it up so I can look at her eye. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” She’s blinking funny and the eyeball I poked is red and watery, but it’s not bleeding, and she can open her eyelid all the way, so I didn’t do any irreparable damage.
I hope.
At least, not to her eyeball.
Brooks’s apartment may be another story.
The towel finally slides off, and all her short, curly hair springs to its natural form, though greasier than you’d expect, except—
“Demon girlfriend!”
Fuck me.
She has horns.
I rear back.
“Holy shit,” Cooper whispers as he drops his phone.
Francisco makes the sign of the cross.
Coco Puff yelps and runs for the bedroom.
And Henri sighs. “I told you the towel was a better look.”
She leans over, grabs it, and in three seconds, she’s whipped it back around her crazy curls, which aren’t real demon horns, but rather a haircut gone wrong. Then she carefully balances as she lowers herself to the ground, makes that clicking noise with her tongue, and coaxes Dogzilla the demon cat out from beneath the couch.
My teammates and Mackenzie are all gaping at her, which turns to them staring at me in disbelief.
Like there’s something wrong with both of us, and like Henri will drag me down to the pits of hell with her.
And that pisses me off.
So she’s having a bad night. I made her come to a party, in her pajamas and a beach towel, and she didn’t argue.
She simply went with it, diving right in to meeting a group of people who were going to naturally be suspicious of her, and she didn’t blink.
Hell, she charged in here with more enthusiasm than the damn puppy.
“You all got a problem with my girlfriend?” I growl.
My “girlfriend,” who’s currently having to pull her cat out from under the couch, because the demon has left its body and returned it to a lump of rags, though a lump of rags now missing its shower cap and with its pajama shirt shredded like it’s going to a metal rock concert next.
Max goes stone-faced silent. Francisco is still wide-eyed, but he shakes his head. Cooper’s eyes dart between me and Henri’s ass, which is enough to make me want to take a swing at him, but I still want to make the playoffs, and the fucker’s a damn good second baseman, so for tonight, I’ll let him live.
Brooks is sucking his lips in like this is funny, and Mackenzie’s gnawing on her own knuckle as she stares at the floor. Her chest keeps spasming like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Good kitty,” Henri croons.
She must do yoga or something, because she rises elegantly with the limp, lazy cat back in her arms, towel perfectly balanced on her head.
She looks around the room, and then her brown eyes settle on me. “You okay?”
Is she serious?
She’s standing there with a red eye, her cat traumatized, one of her slippers torn, with everyone knowing about her demon hair under that towel, and she’s asking if I’m okay.
She’s either a martyr of the highest degree, or she’s a psycho.
Or possibly she’s the best kind of human, the ones who’ll do anything for their friends, and are as likely to yell an enthusiastic yes! to a Saturday afternoon playing Scrabble as she would be to leap into action if someone suggested sky diving.
Mental note: Do not suggest sky d
iving to Henrietta Bacon.
“We’re going home,” I tell her.
“But I was just getting to like your friends!”
“Dogzilla needs to rest.”
Mackenzie leaps forward and hugs her. “Good to meet you, Henri. Have Luca give you my number. We’ll do lunch. The Lady Fireballs need all the help, and I need to know when we’re getting more Confucius.”
She turns and hugs me too, but instead of gushing, she whispers softly, “You’re in so much trouble, dude. This is gonna be fun.”
Know what that means?
That means I’m fucked.
12
Henri
It’s a dark, quiet ride back to Luca’s house. I want to say something like that went well, except it didn’t, and I probably need to send Mackenzie a fruit basket and her dog a biscuit basket.
I let Luca drive, since he seems to like to be in charge and also, I don’t want to wait the seventeen minutes it would take to move the driver’s seat back into the short person position.
Plus, I can’t drive with Dogzilla in my lap.
Not when there’s someone else in the car who would judge me for it.
So instead, I sit in the passenger seat, petting my cat and letting her soft purrs take me to my happy place.
Or as close as I can get to my happy place when I’ve had the most disastrous introduction to anyone’s friends ever, and I met Winston Randolph’s friends when I had a horrible, uneven sunburn and a pulled neck muscle and looked like a humpback with a skin condition, so I think I know disastrous introductions.
Plus, that was the night I figured out I’m allergic to alcohol.
Luca would probably think it was a funny story if he were someone else, but he’s not, so I sigh, keep it to myself, and then brighten as I realize it doesn’t matter what Luca thinks.
He’s my anti-boyfriend.
So this is going well.
Even if it feels like donkey poop.
There’s a lone light on in a single window on the first floor when he pulls into the driveway behind his car, which hopefully means Nonna is sleeping, but probably means she’s pretending to sleep so she can spy on us to make sure we’re doing this dating thing right.
My eyes land on Luca’s car again, lit by the streetlamp on the corner, and I spin toward him so fast that Dogzilla half-meows. “Oh! I completely forgot to tell you. I looked under your hood, and someone had disconnected your distributor cap. I put it back together, but I didn’t know where you kept your keys, and I didn’t figure it would look good if I hot-wired your car, so you’ll want to test it again in the morning.”
