Was it being in close proximity to Max again?
Or was it the deception itself?
Both.
It had been five days since our little agreement, and tonight was our first official night out as a couple. Of course it had to be at a place where I wouldn’t know anyone—a football party.
I stood in front of the door—the one I was supposed to be knocking on—and sucked in a sharp breath.
I could turn around and call the Uber to come back and get me.
I could go home, bake some chocolate pie, and draw up some T-shirt designs.
Or . . .
I could go in there like a boss and show these people I was worthy of an Oscar.
Think of the money, Sunny. You need it.
He hadn’t written a check yet, though. I could always back out right now.
No.
I shook my arms and stretched my neck, psyching myself up, prepping for a long night of being Max Kent’s arm candy. Batting my eyelashes and summoning my inner groupie, I stared at the wooden door and practiced. “Hey, baby. I’ve missed you.” I did a delicate finger wave. “I love you, Maxie-Pooh.”
“In the great scheme of things, Maxie-Pooh isn’t that bad. I’ve been called worse,” a deep voice murmured from behind me.
Caught.
Mortification swept over me. I spun around on the sidewalk to see Max and Tate, both clad in jeans and blue Leland shirts that clung to their sculpted chests. They towered over me, one dark with glossy hair that swung around his shoulders and the other slightly smaller with a headful of sandy blond hair.
“Yeah,” Tate said, grinning. “Jock-ass is my favorite, though. I think you’re going to make me laugh a lot, new girlfriend.”
“You can call me Sunny.” I felt the blush rising up my cheeks. “Just so you know, I don’t always talk to myself.”
“Glad to know I’m not dating a loon,” Max replied.
“Nope. Those only pick the lock to your room,” I said smugly.
“You can pick it anytime,” was his quick comeback.
I blushed. Again. “Speaking of crazy, have you found Sierra?”
The grin slipped off his face. “No. I didn’t have a number for her—because I don’t encourage her—but I managed to get it from one of the other players. I texted her but got no reply. She’s not a student here, so I haven’t been able to track down her home address yet.” He rubbed at his temple. “I’m sorry about her. You know, you could have ridden with me tonight instead of insisting on taking an Uber.”
He had texted me earlier in the day to see if I wanted to catch a ride with him, but keeping it professional meant the less time we spent together alone, the better. “I’m fine.”
“At least let me pay for it,” he said.
“No.” He’d already done enough with offering to fix my car if Sierra didn’t pull through. In fact, yesterday he’d called a garage to come pick it up and give him an estimate.
“Is this our first disagreement?” he asked, an amused look on his face.
“First of many, I bet,” Tate murmured just as a cute redhead opened the door and called for Tate to come inside. By the eagerness on her pretty face, I imagined she’d been standing by the window waiting for him to show.
“I’ll catch you two later. My lady awaits.” He gave us a little grin as he brushed past us to the girl waiting on him.
“Is that his girlfriend?”
“For the moment. He flits from girl to girl. Not exactly a paragon for committed relationships.”
I thought about Bart. “Typical.”
He ignored that, his eyes coasting over me and lingering appreciatively. I’d worn a soft pink fuzzy sweater. Ultra feminine and cropped so that it showed a sliver of my stomach, it was something I imagined a girlfriend of his might wear. When I’d worn it around Bart, he’d barely kept his hands to himself in public. It was also itchy as heck.
I tugged at the hem, pulling it closer to my gray skinny jeans. I should have worn one of the shirts I’d made. At least I wouldn’t have felt so self-conscious. It was rather tight across my chest, probably because I’d tossed it in the dryer when I should have let it hang dry.
“You look nice,” he said softly.
“Thank you.” I stared at his mouth. I still wanted to touch his lips.
“You’re welcome.” He let out a little laugh. “We sound like we’re on a first date.”
“We are!”
A considering look came over his face. “That’s a problem. Everyone in that room needs to think we’ve been dating since this summer.”
I lifted my hands, feeling exasperated. “Well, I’m not kissing you on the lips again, so don’t get any ideas. Once was enough.” I sounded a bit like the virgin who protested too much, and I snapped my mouth closed from saying anything else. It wasn’t that I was a prude. I’m not.
Kissing him was a dangerous game. His lips tasted like forever—and they weren’t.
He tossed an arm around me. “Just follow my lead.”
We walked in the door and took in the crowded party. People milled around the house chatting and talking while music blared in the background. A few couples were headed upstairs to the bedrooms, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.
Everyone seemed to look at us, especially girls who sent me envious glares. Yeah. I understood that. I’d gotten those looks with Bart too. I stiffened, and I guess Max picked up on it. He focused on me, and I caught the barest hint of vulnerability on his face. “Yeah, everyone’s watching. They always are. Truth is, I only have a couple of real friends—the rest are just sharks waiting for me to fuck up. Just smile and wave and walk on.”
“Like this?” I did an exaggerated version of the Miss America wave.
“Exactly like that.” He tapped my nose, a lot like he had that first day we met. “Thank you for coming, Sunny.” His voice was low and husky and my body softened, drawn toward the warmth of his as we walked to a makeshift bar in the kitchen.
I liked this side of him. Protective. Real.
I glanced up at him. “So, every single thing you do with me tonight will be fake?”
He grabbed two cups of beer from a guy manning the bar and handed me mine. He took a long sip and stared at me over the rim. His lashes lowered. “Isn’t that the point?”
“Right. Of course.” I swallowed down a gulp, needing liquid courage.
“Come on,” he said. “Most of the players are out back where the fire pit is. I need to introduce you to everyone.” He laced our fingers together. “You ready for the dog and pony show?”
I smiled. “Only if I can be a big dog—no toy poodles for me.”
His lips curled in a half-grin. “Whatever. Just don’t called me Maxie-Pooh in front of anyone.”
“Doesn’t fit with the tough-guy image you got going on?” I asked tartly.
“Call me Maxie-Pooh, and I’ll call you Blondie.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll just smile and wave.”
He opened the back door for me and escorted me down the few steps to the center of the crowd that huddled around a roaring fire on the stone patio.
“Yo! It’s my man,” Ryn said, coming over to us and slapping Max on the back. “And you brought a plus one. Good to see you, Sunny. Welcome to my house.” He grinned down at me, and I felt myself relaxing. He’d been sweet to me during our class together.
“I’ve got something to say, everyone,” Max called out a bit later, his gaze encompassing the group. Murmurs came from the crowd of bulky football players and girls. They stopped what they were doing and leaned in to hear him. Someone even turned down the music. It was obvious he was their leader.
He indicated me with a nudge of his head. “Some of you have met her, but most of you haven’t. So, I’d like to formally introduce you to my girlfriend, Sunny Blaine. She’s beautiful, sweet, and I’ve never been happier.” His aqua eyes gleamed down at me, heartfelt emotion on his face. Like he loved me.
I swallowe
d. He was good.
He waggled his eyebrows at the crowd. “Be nice to her, and don’t forget to tell her how awesome I am. Tell her anything different, and I’ll kick your ass.” He lifted his beer to everyone. “Cheers!”
A few chuckles came from the crowd.
“ . . . hi . . .”
“ . . . nice to meet you . . .”
“ . . . glad it’s not Bianca . . .”
The murmurs came and went, and I smiled and waved at everyone—as promised.
“Alright. Let’s get this party started,” Max said, twirling me around in his arms as the music kicked back up with “She Will Be Loved” from Maroon 5. My stomach fluttered as he wrapped his arms around my waist and held me close. We swayed to the beat, our hips brushing against each other.
“They love you already,” he whispered in my ear, his breath caressing my neck. Goosebumps rose over my body.
I lifted my face up at him in what I hoped was fake adoration. He pushed a strand of hair out of my eyes and kissed me on the forehead. I sighed, admitting what had bothered me the most about showing up tonight. It wasn’t about the pretending. I could be a fake girlfriend. It was my body that was the problem. I wanted Max Kent.
Max
THE NEXT WEEKEND I WAS trying to hunt down my fake girlfriend. Without luck.
I parked my black 750 Harley in the detached garage next to my house. An over-the-top gift from my dad, the bike had been a reward for the prep school football state championship I’d won my senior year. Of course, we’d been to state three years in a row, but that last year had been mine. I’m not being cocky when I say that sportscasters and colleges had been talking about me being great since I was fourteen and how I had an arm like a bullet. I inherited it from the jerk who’d provided sperm for me, but I’d also honed my skill with drills and training. And the Heisman, that gnawing need that drove me? I wanted it because it was the one thing my father hadn’t been able to get when he was a college quarterback. Yeah, take that, dickhead.
My dislike for my father started the day my mom delivered me during the ice storm of ’95. A bleak day in December, Atlanta had woken to thousands of branches and power lines covered with ice. The city came to a virtual standstill, and my mom’s water broke right in the middle of it. Somehow she got herself in her car to drive to the hospital, but then skidded on a patch of ice and hit a tree.
Where was my dad? Screwing a groupie.
A stranger helped my mom give birth in the front seat of her Mercedes. From that day on, she said I was a fighter.
When she finally got ahold of my dad, a woman answered his phone. She told me that had been the beginning of the end for her, yet she never could bring herself to divorce the bastard.
When I was a kid, he’d show up periodically at our house, get back with my mom, then a month later she’d read about him having an affair with some country singer or model. He was a narcissistic bastard who only cared about himself, and I hated him most days.
I pushed the past out of my mind as I planted my ass on the stoop. I’d been cruising the streets looking for Sunny for an hour but hadn’t found her. And her house was still dark. She said she had to work at the library this evening, but it closed at nine. It was after ten.
How was she getting home?
Fuck. I should have taken care of this already. She was my responsibility.
I’d given her rides to class on the days we had class together, and she was catching a ride with a friend on the other days—with whom, I had no idea. Which reminded me that we really needed to sit down and go over each other’s history just in case we got asked any hard questions.
I’d sent her a text a couple of hours ago to see if she needed a ride, but she hadn’t responded. Calls had gone straight to voicemail.
Why was I worried? She was an adult. She could take care of herself.
But . . .
But today was weird. I’d wanted her to be home when the bus had rolled in from our away victory against number fifteen Florida. It had been a Saturday night ESPN game, and dammit, I’d wanted to tell her about it. I’d thrown for three hundred and ten and rushed for one twenty, shredding their over-ranked defense. Stellar game. When I woke up in the hotel this morning, the sportscasters were talking about me and the H word.
I’d barely seen her this past week. School and practice had both been intense, and my bed had been my best friend. Our little agreement was working well for me. Bianca was ignoring me, and groupies hadn’t shown up at the house to hound me. I was golden.
Yet a chill went down my spine—something was about to change. Somehow.
Tate popped his head out the door. “Dude. You want a beer?”
I nodded.
He came out a few minutes later, sat next to me on the stoop, and handed me a Newcastle. “Waiting on your girlfriend?”
I flipped him off.
One of the only people I trusted in this world, he knew the low-down on the agreement between me and Sunny. He’d laughed his ass off when I told him.
See. He didn’t get it. My determination. My grit. My willingness to do whatever it took.
I took the beer, twisted off the top, and took a swig. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”
Tate’s eyes squinted like they did when he was thinking. “I hope this plan doesn’t blow up in your face, mate. There’s a lot of shite that can go wrong. If the media finds out you’re just doing it for the hype . . .”
I ignored that. No one was going to find out.
Sunny was good at keeping her distance from me, even though I’d catch her in class sending me these weird little glances, an expression on her face as if I was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out. But those walls . . . man, she had built them high and tight. She’d been dead serious about not getting involved with me. Which was fine. That’s what I wanted too.
My cock didn’t agree. I was in a dry spell. It had been several weeks since I’d hooked up with anyone. I hoped I’d be able to last . . .
Tate turned his beer up and took a drink. “You don’t really know her, though. She could be a nutcase or after your money—”
“I do know her.”
“You just met. How can you be so sure?”
I couldn’t explain how achingly familiar she was. Sometimes, you just knew when someone was good, and my gut sensed we had affinity. I liked her. She didn’t care who I was and she sure as hell didn’t want to jump in my bed and get pregnant for a paycheck.
Just then the glare of a car’s headlights swung into her driveway—a Jeep. The vehicle came to a halt and Sunny exited the passenger side. Bart got out of the driver’s side to walk her to the front door. He helped her with her backpack when it slipped down her shoulder.
My teeth snapped. She was with her ex.
Tate whistled. “Cheating already? Bloody hell. That’s got to be a record.”
I sucked down my beer.
Tate shrugged. “Her car’s in the shop. Perhaps he just gave her a ride—no pun intended.”
I sent him a death-glare and he snorted.
I stared at Bart, my body wired as I set my bottle on the concrete edging of the porch. I stood and paced, weaving around the bushes, my eyes detailing every muscle twitch from the two people across the street caught in the spotlight of headlamps. I studied them, trying to get a read on how they reacted to one another.
He eased her bag back onto her shoulder, and then they stood there staring at each other.
Had something happened between them while I was out of town?
She said something to him and then went inside, shutting the door gently. GENTLY. What did that mean? In class, since our run-in, they’d never even spoken to each other again.
Ah, but what happens when you aren’t around, Max?
Why did I care?
I was way overanalyzing this.
Bart just stood there, staring at her closed door. My fists tightened.
Scrubbing my face, I got to my feet and stepped out on the grass, bein
g sure to stay in the shadow of our porch roof so he couldn’t see me. It helped that our porch light was out too.
“Before you lose your temper and go over there half-cocked, remember she’s your fake girlfriend,” Tate murmured, his tone slightly sardonic.
“My head’s on straight,” I said. “And mind your own business.”
“Bugger, you are my business. My mission is to keep you out of trouble. I’m your checker. You asked me to do that shit freshman year, and I take it seriously. I will not let you screw up.”
“I’m not in trouble, and this isn’t a football game,” I said curtly. “I’m just watching how she deals with her ex. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh.”
As I watched, Bart seemed to come to a decision. His shoulders slumped as he turned from Sunny’s door, stalked to his car, and drove off.
Good riddance.
I grunted. I should cool off and deal with her tomorrow. I should go inside and watch game tapes. I should take a hot shower . . .
Screw that.
I gave her five minutes as I paced. Giving her time to get settled . . . maybe turn on the television. It also let me chill out.
Tate made an exasperated sound as I headed her way.
I ignored him.
I stood at her door for a few minutes, debating. Again. It was late. We had class in the morning. I could talk to her then. I should wait.
Fuck it. I knocked.
“Who is it?” she asked, her voice quiet in the silence of the night.
I let out a deep exhale. “Max.”
“Hang on,” she called. I heard lots of flapping and scurrying around.
A few minutes later, she flung the door open, and whatever I’d been going to say got clogged in my throat.
I hadn’t seen her since Friday morning in class, and the effect of her took me by surprise.
She’d changed into a skimpy white tank top (no bra) and a pair of tiny flannel shorts. Her wavy hair was up in a messy bun with long strands curling around her face. And was that a nipple piercing poking through her shirt? Hell, yes.
My body hummed. I tucked my hands in my pockets—just needing something to do with them because part of me wanted to . . .
Fake Fiancée Page 6
