Pretending He's Mine

by Mia Sosa

  The teams huddle up, and after the coin toss—and a few minutes of trash talk, mostly between Carter and Tori—we position ourselves at the line of scrimmage. Anthony bends over, preparing to pass the ball backward through his legs while Ashley and Eva jostle each other to work out who will receive his pass.

  “Go, Eva, he’s waiting for you,” Ash says with a wicked grin.

  “Don’t make me do it,” Eva says through gritted teeth. “There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate with his butt in my face.”

  Anthony overhears this, of course, because everyone on the field can hear her. “Ah, baby, let my tush be your guide.”

  Eva grumbles her assent and readies herself for the pass. After the snap, she tosses the ball back to Anthony, and our team converges on him. He’s freakishly nimble and gets the team’s first down easily. Next down, he snaps the ball to Ashley. Kimberly, the former track star, chases after her like . . . well, a track star, but before she can swipe a flag off Ash’s belt, Tori calls a time-out.

  “You can’t do that,” Carter says with a laugh. “The ball isn’t dead yet.”

  “It should have been first down,” Tori counters. “Ashley ran more than ten yards with the ball”—she points to Lydia—“but our ref is on the phone.”

  Sure enough, Lydia’s pacing and talking on her cell phone, a finger pressed against her other ear to drown out the noise from our game. “Sorry, there’s an emergency at work,” she explains to everyone within earshot. “They need me to run through a work-around.”

  Bianca rolls her eyes. “You mean I did all that running for nothing? Mierda.” She arches her back and circles the group with a pained expression on her face. Pedro and Randall, both out of breath, sneak away during the break.

  “I think that’s all for us,” Randall says over his shoulder.

  I sidle up to Ash and pat her on the back. “That was a mighty run there, Champ. Proud of you.”

  Winded and bent at the waist, she huffs out, “Thanks, Care Bear. Too bad it doesn’t count.” Then she looks up at me and smiles, squinting because there’s no shade to be found. She’s damp from her sprint across the backyard, her skin glowing and her eyes bright, and before I know it, I’m pulling her up into my arms, so I can nestle my head against her neck and breathe in all her goodness. My desire for her isn’t pretend. This feeling is as real as it’s ever been for me. And I’ll be damned if I fight it anymore.

  She melts into me, as though she’s trying to meld our bodies, and her hands, strong and possessive, grip the back of my neck. We stay in that position for several seconds more, until Susan shouts, “Okay, you two, we get it. You’re smitten with each other, but it’s called flag football, not hug football.”

  With our chins dipped like children who’ve just been scolded, Ashley and I leap away from each other, and I busy myself tying my sneaker. Kimberly strides near us and slows. “I get that you’re faking, but you’re doing a helluva great job. Makes me wonder why it’s been so easy to pull this off.” Then she winks at us and saunters away. I rise, meeting Ashley’s gaze and noting the color in her cheeks. We share a smile. I’m not averse to keeping secrets with her, but is her secret anything like mine? Does she, too, want to be with me, regardless of the consequences? I’ll make it my goal to find out tonight.

  A commotion at our temporary sideline snags my attention. Susan sets her body in front of Lydia, halting her niece’s incessant pacing, and puts out a hand. Lydia, with her phone still at her ear, turns over the whistle to Ashley’s mom and resumes making sweeping hand gestures to accompany her very important phone conversation.

  Susan motions everyone back to the field. “Okay, whippersnappers, let’s get this game back on track.”

  The teams hustle to their spots and face each other, and Susan blows the whistle. This time, I receive Izzy’s snap and scurry around a pile of people, aiming to advance at least ten yards. Ashley, with fire in her eyes and her jaw set in determination, overtakes me and reaches for a flag at the front of my waist. I fake her out, sidestepping her with a shake and pivot worthy of an NFL highlight reel. The sound of her footsteps at my heels pushes me to run faster, and I’m so close to reaching the ten-yard marker that I slow down while holding the football in one hand and waving it triumphantly in the air. Behind me, Ashley says, “Oh no, you’re wearing shorts like the ones you wore for zip-lining. Shit, Julian, you know what that does to me.”

  An image of her bouncing breasts flashes in my brain and brings me to my knees, the impact causing the ball to fly out of my hand. Horrified, I yell “No,” and it registers as dramatic, pained, and in slo-mo. Ashley stretches out her arms and catches the ball midair. With remarkable speed, she runs toward her team’s post, cheering triumphantly as she crosses the goal line.

  Carter jogs toward me. “What the hell, J? What’s with the butterfingers?”

  I stumble to my feet and smooth my hands on my shorts. “Sweat, man. The ball was too slick to hang on to.”

  I’ve lost count of the number of lies I’ve uttered this weekend. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Maybe that’s a good thing, my inner voice whispers. Given how little I’ve thought of work and how much I’m enjoying the time off, maybe it is. But the lying—both to myself and to Ashley—must stop.

  But not quite yet.

  I take a step and wince.

  “What’s wrong, man?” Carter asks, his brows drawn together.

  I take another step, this one tentative, and then I buckle from the alleged pain, grabbing for my ankle. “Shit. I think I twisted it.”

  Carter bends his knees and pulls my arm over his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

  Ashley rushes over, her brows knitted over wide eyes. “What is it?”

  Her voice is laced with concern. I’m probably going to hell for this, too. “Not sure, exactly. My ankle feels funny.”

  “Here,” she says to Carter, draping my other arm over her shoulder. “I’ve got him. I’ll take him back to the cottage. He needs to elevate his foot and get some ice on it.”

  Carter objects. “Ash, I can help.”

  She shakes her head. “Carter, he’ll be fine. Go out there and finish the game. End it on a high note. For Tori.”

  Carter looks back at his fiancée. “Okay. But if you need anything, just send me a text.”

  Ashley nods. “Will do.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say to Carter.

  He gives me a hard pat on the back. “Take care of that ankle. I’ll check on you later.”

  We limp across the backyard, a few people shouting their wishes for me to feel better. I wince again when we pass the front of the house. “Hang on. Let me catch my breath.”

  “It really hurts, huh? Maybe we should get an x-ray.”

  I vigorously shake my head. “No, not at all. It’ll be fine. Probably just need to rest a bit.” I take a deep breath and lean on her again. She’s so soft. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  We resume our trek to the cottage.

  Beside me, Ashley worries her bottom lip. “I feel so bad about this. It was my smart-ass remark that made you drop to your knees, wasn’t it?”

  Might as well strap me to a sonic submarine going to hell. “It’s okay, Ash. I’ll be fine.”

  Finally, we reach the cottage, and I lick my lips, my body thrumming from the knowledge that we’re seconds away from being alone.

  Once inside, she whirls on me, her eyes narrowed like a judgmental cat in an internet meme. “Care to explain why you lied about your ankle?”

  Well, damn. Guess I’m busted.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ashley

  JULIAN’S NOT KNOWN for playing games, so I’m curious to hear his excuse for faking an injury. I cross my hands over my chest and lean against the cottage door. “Well?”

  The fraudster shakes out his hands and legs before he speaks. “How’d you know I was lying?”

  “Outside, when we started walking again, you switched the foot you were limping on.”

&n
bsp; He scratches his jaw. “Yeah. I’m not a good liar, which arguably is commendable.”

  Oh, jeez. Is he for real? “No, Julian,” I say with laughter in my voice, “not being a liar is commendable. Whether you’re skilled at it is beside the point.”

  He twists his hands as he paces. It’s an unusual demeanor for him, so I’m anxious to hear the reason for this latest ploy.

  “Listen,” he says, stretching out his neck. “I was planning on telling you as soon as we got inside. You just beat me to it.”

  “You’re still not answering my question. Why the fakery?”

  He stops in front of me. “I wanted to speak with you alone, without everyone around . . . and under circumstances where I could be reasonably certain we wouldn’t be interrupted.”

  Goodness. Such an ominous preamble to whatever statement he needs to make. What could it be? “Should I sit down for this?”

  He tilts his head. “Not particularly, no.”

  “Okay, then what’s going on?”

  He lifts his shoulders and blows out a slow breath. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Every fleeting touch between us, every time we share a joke, every time we talk, every time I’m around you—all of it makes me ridiculously happy, and I refuse to believe there’s something wrong with that feeling. I know we agreed it would be a bad idea to be together, but the more I’m around you, the more I’m convinced it’s the only idea that makes sense.” He pauses and rubs two fingers over his mouth before he licks his lips and continues. “Will it complicate my relationship with your brother? I suspect so. Will I need to work doubly hard to ensure it doesn’t? Of course. But dammit, Ashley, if you’re feeling anything close to what I’m feeling, I’d like to try.”

  My heart squeezes in my chest as though someone’s trying to fit it through a pinhole. Did Julian just confess to wanting me? No, more than that, wanting to be with me? I look down at my clenched hands, a few seconds away from pinching myself, and then I return his steady gaze. His brows are knitted, and he’s peering at me with such focus he doesn’t appear to be blinking.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he urges.

  I’ve spent so much time convincing myself that a relationship with Julian would never happen—and that I didn’t want one anyway—I’m unsure how to process the possibility that it could. Our reluctance stems from good and valid reasons, among them the risk that our being together would further complicate his ability to serve as Carter’s agent, and for me there was the added worry that I’d be the loser in any fallout. But as Julian pointed out earlier, I’m not in competition with anyone, not Lydia or Carter, and if we’re willing to meet the challenges openly and honestly, I’d be a fool not to give us a chance.

  I shoot out my hand, grab the front of his T-shirt, and tug him flush against me. When I rise on my toes, our mouths are centimeters apart, the soft puffs of his breath tickling my nose. From here, I can fully appreciate his impossibly long and thick eyelashes. It’s a common theme where Julian’s concerned—long and thick—and I’m discovering it’s my favorite combination. Forget peanut butter and jelly, long and thick is where it’s at. “I’m in if you’re in.”

  The heat in his dark gaze intensifies. “I’m not in yet, but it’s going to be so fucking good when I am.”

  I draw back. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

  He moves closer and cages me against the door. “I’m talking about being inside you.”

  Oh God. Julian inside me. I tense everywhere, and a frisson of electricity begins at the nape of my neck, travels over my breasts, and settles on my clit, the tingling making its way down my body like falling dominoes. Desperate for more contact, I sweep my cheek across his five-o’clock shadow. “I like where this conversation is headed.” He swallows hard. I tilt my head and press my mouth against his Adam’s apple. His sun-kissed skin smells warm and earthy, like a cinnamon stick dipped in brandy, and I’m eager to lick every inch of him.

  But that’s not going to happen now. Because Julian spins me around, gathers my hair to the side, and runs his strong hands down my back and over my butt. “Your ass looks amazing in these shorts but—”

  The sound of crushed gravel warns us that someone’s approaching. I spin around and face Julian, who’s doing a terrific impression of a deer caught in headlights.

  “Hey, Julian, you feelin’ better in there?” Tori yells.

  Outside the door, Carter asks, “Babe, why are you yelling?”

  “Oh, was I yelling?” Tori replies. “I’m a loud woman, what can I say? And you love me, don’t you?”

  Carter doesn’t respond verbally, so I’m guessing he’s responding in other ways.

  “She’s covering for us,” I whisper to Julian.

  “Yeah, she’s probably right that we shouldn’t spring this on him now. He should be focused on them.”

  I nod, grateful—and relieved—that we agree on this. “Quick, get on the couch and put your leg up.”

  Channeling his inner long jumper, Julian hops three times and leaps on the couch. He places a throw pillow on the coffee table and rests his foot on it while I scurry to the fridge, grab some ice, and throw it in a plastic sandwich bag. Because I’m as devious as Julian, I put a small amount of water in the bag, too, so it appears that some of the ice has melted.

  Nice touch, Julian mouths.

  Tori enters the cottage with my brother following closely behind her, his hands on her shoulders as he steers her inside. Carter’s gaze bounces around the room, taking in the scene, and then he focuses on Julian.

  “Hey, man, how you feelin’?”

  “Much better,” Julian says. “Your sister’s an excellent nurse. How’d the rest of the game go?”

  “We won,” Tori says with a triumphant smile. “Despite Donovan’s complaint that he was, and I quote, ‘perspiring’ too much.”

  I grin, picturing Donovan wiping his sweaty forehead, a look of disgust on his face.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Carter collapses onto the armchair across from Julian. “Listen, I’m supposed to collect you and bring you to the house. Poker night with my dad and father-in-law. We’re supposed to make ourselves scarce because the women are hanging out here for the evening.” He hangs his head. “Tori’s not even sleeping with me. They’re having a slumber party out here.”

  Dammit. That’s not what I’d hoped to be doing this evening. “We are?”

  Tori nods. “Yep, that’s on the schedule. I know it might sound silly, but I don’t want to share a bed with Carter the night before we marry. It’s not about”—a tinge of rosiness appears on her cheeks—“sex. It’s just . . . I think it’d be nice for each of us to have an evening alone to reflect on the momentous step we’re taking.”

  It’s a lovely sentiment. It truly is. But I can’t pretend I wasn’t envisioning a different end to the day, one in which I’d be reflecting on Julian’s body parts.

  Julian and I glance at each other. I’m sure his plans ran along the same lines.

  “The ladies are gathering snacks from the fridge,” Tori continues. “They’ll be here soon.”

  Julian jumps up from the couch. “All right, let me make a pit stop before we head out.” He strides through the living area with no apparent limp.

  “Damn, you really are feeling better,” Carter says from his chair.

  Julian pauses, his back to us, and then he resumes walking, this time more slowly. “Yeah, it must have been a cramp or something.”

  “I’m . . . uh . . . going to grab some stuff for the slumber party. Should be getting dark soon.” I rush out of the room and close our bedroom door.

  Julian pops his head out of the bathroom. “It’s for the best.”

  My stomach drops at the shuttered expression on his face, and I drop onto the bed. Is he having second thoughts about us? So soon? “What’s for the best?”

  He comes out with a small towel in his hands and dries off his face as he sits on the bed. “Think about it. Do we reall
y want our first time together to be this quiet affair, us both holding back because other people might hear us? I don’t want you to be distracted or reserved.” He places a single finger under my chin and slowly turns my head toward him so that I’m forced to meet his gaze. “I want us to be able to shout and cuss and wail if we need to, and I think we will . . . need to, I mean. Plus, being in the same bed without doing what we both want to do? That’d be torture.”

  I exhale. He isn’t changing his mind. Quite the opposite. But all this talk about having sex is a poor substitute for actual sex, and I’m strung so tight that even sitting here now I can feel the ache between my legs. Woman, get a hold of yourself. “Okay, when you put it that way, I’m forced to agree.” I flop back and stare at the ceiling. “I’m still grumpy about it, though.”

  He falls back next to me. “So am I.”

  “Good. So tomorrow we’ll have loud, grumpy sex.”

  He turns on his side, and I do the same. Then he nudges his face forward, and our lips meet. It’s a soft kiss, just a brush of our mouths, but there’s so much promise in it that I’m vibrating with the need to have him inside me.

  “It’s a date,” he says.

  Screw the date. I want loud, grumpy sex, and that’s final.

  “WOULD YOU RATHER date a guy with chronic bad breath—that can’t be corrected—or a guy whose penis is too large for your vagina?”

  After reading the card, Kimberly slaps her hand on the couch and snorts. “Eva, where the hell did you get this game from?”

  Eva, who’s draped over Tori like a lap blanket, waves her glass of champagne. “An online sex store, if memory serves. Aren’t they great?”

  Clad in pajamas, the women are lounging in the living room, consuming bubbly and inhaling leftovers from this afternoon’s picnic. We’ll be spending the night here as Tori requested, and I’m already devising a plan to get a spot on the pull-out couch; that king-sized inflatable mattress in the corner looks as comfortable as the floor.

  After licking the barbecue sauce off my fingers, I say, “That’s an easy one. I’d go with the extra-large dick. Halitosis is a deal breaker. Plus, a guy with a large penis can still make use of his tongue, and there’s no rule that says his dick needs to go all the way in. Besides, only twenty-five percent of women regularly orgasm from penetrative sex.”