MACKENZIE GRAY
SUMMER HOUSE
A fake relationship.
A secret identity.
What could go wrong?
I have a problem—a thousand dollar problem. As a sociology student working on my senior thesis, I’m on track to graduate with highest honors. But unless I pay the tuition owed to the university, it’s bye bye summa cum laude, hello crushing debt.
Enter star soccer player Mitchell Burns. The first time we met, I was Hot Rebecca. The second time, I was Not Rebecca. Aka, the persona I don to collect research for my thesis. Kitten sweaters. Wool skirts. The whole shebang. Needless to say, he didn’t recognize me.
It turns out Mitchell’s looking for a fake girlfriend, and he’s willing to pay. Fake relationship for a cool grand? It’s a win-win for both. The only problem is, the person he’s dating—Not Rebecca—isn’t real.
He has no idea he’s a subject in my research project.
He doesn’t know the girl he’s falling for is a lie.
I need to decide what’s more important: my degree, or my heart. Otherwise, I might lose both.
Summer House
Copyright © 2018 Mackenzie Gray
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be sold, reproduced, or distributed in any form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
For you. And for me.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
About the Author
Chapter 1
MITCHELL
Ray’s may be the grimiest, grungiest hole-in-the-wall that ever existed, but it does have its merits. Namely, cheap booze and women. Lots and lots of women.
And that’s about it.
Located less than ten blocks from Duke University, it’s practically a town monument. This was the first place I ever partook in underage drinking. The first place I picked up a woman—an extremely beautiful, much older woman—which had been nothing short of a miracle, considering at age seventeen I looked like a fetus with shoes. The first place someone asked me for an autograph.
So yeah. Ray’s is a place very close to my heart.
Thankfully, I grew out of my awkward, pre-pubescent phase and have learned a thing or two about picking up women. I’d like to think my skills have improved over the past five years, but I also know that being one of the starting players for Duke’s Blue Devils doesn’t hurt. Our school kills at soccer, for both men and women. That autograph I mentioned? There’s a reason for it. Within the past three years, the Blue Devils have secured three consecutive National Championships. The program’s not only the best in the state, but one of the nation’s top five. My senior year of high school, Duke recruited me to play striker for their team. I haven’t regretted it since.
Summer draws to a close, which means classes start in a few short weeks. Four years ago, I was a lowly freshman who struggled to shoot a proper corner kick. Come December, I’ll walk down that stage, diploma in hand, a new graduate.
Sweat prickles my nape at the thought. My right knee briefly flares in pain, and I try to rub the twinge away. A lot of decisions hinge on my performance this season.
I share a booth with my roommates—who also happen to be my teammates—in the back corner of the room near the jukebox. It’s a few minutes past midnight, and Ray’s is packed. Perhaps sixty or seventy people grind together on the dance floor. The place reeks of sweat and perfume and stale beer, but I inhale a deep lungful of air and lean my head back against the ripped cushion, limbs loose, eyes hooded from the buzz. It’s Friday night, and I’m happy to be alive.
“This one’s coming in hot,” Casey says to my left, gesturing toward a guy making a beeline for the bar. He reaches his target: a young woman sipping a martini, long legs crossed beneath a short black dress. Somehow, he manages to bull his way through the first line of defense—a clump of frat bros trying to coax her into conversation. An elbow rams into his head in the process.
Casey snorts and shakes his head. Straight black hair brushes his shoulders. “Pathetic.” Beneath the glow of the dim lighting, his skin warms to gold, compliments of his Chinese-American heritage.
To my right, Austin downs a large swallow of his beer. “Five bucks says he blows his chance in under five minutes.”
Of course, Casey takes the bait. “Four minutes. And make that ten bucks.”
I allow myself a small smile as I lower my glass to the scarred wooden table, condensation dripping down the sides. “Three. He spills his drink on her dress. Twenty bucks and control of the remote for a week.”
“Fuck that!” Casey’s dark eyes bulge. “The Grey’s Anatomy season finale is on this week.”
Austin’s mouth twitches, green eyes crinkling. We met at practice my sophomore year, Austin entering as a freshman, same as Casey. He’s a goalie. One of the best I’ve ever seen. He was quiet then, and he’s quiet now. When you have someone like Casey as your roommate, who never knows when to shut up, it strikes a good balance.
“Exactly,” I tell Casey, watching as the guy slips closer to the girl’s side. She’s engrossed in her phone, clearly ignoring his attempts at conversation. “I don’t want to watch that dumb shit. Last season you cried like a pansy-ass.”
“That’s because George died. He was the best character!”
“Thanks for spoiling it, asshole.”
“What? It’s not like you were going to watch it.”
I don’t even bother making fun of him for it. Casey doesn’t care who knows about his obsession. Hell, the whole team knows, and he somehow convinced a few teammates it was worth watching, because on Tuesdays after practice, they spend hours discussing the episode that aired the night before. Meredith and Mc-what-have-you. Mind boggling.
A glance at my watch tells me two minutes have passed, and the girl’s still focused on her phone. The guy inches so close he’s practically on top of her. And she still ignores him. He seriously doesn’t know how to take a hint.
I’m not worried though. I’ll have my twenty bucks and complete control of the remote in less than sixty seconds. On the soccer field, it’s a necessary skill to be able to read people’s body language. If the player performs some complicated footwork, gearing up to shake me, I need to be on my toes, need to figure out where the opponent will send the ball and when.
“What the fuck?”
As one, the crowd turns toward the source of the furious screech. The girl stands with beer dripping down the front of her dress. The poor sap just stares at her, blinking like an idiot.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean—”
Shoving him aside, she barges toward the bathroom in the back. Thirty seconds later, she emerges with a dark scowl, jostles through the crowd, and is out the front door.
�
�And with only ten seconds to spare,” I say with a grin. “Pay up, gentlemen.”
Casey scowls but digs out his wallet and passes me a crisp ten. Austin passes me the other ten. He then finishes off his beer and glances around, his gaze zeroing in on a young twenty-something guy on the dance floor with a partially shaved head. As the DJ switches songs, deep bass shudders through the floor. Without a word, Austin slips from his stool and merges with the crowd.
“At least one of us is getting laid tonight,” Casey mutters, glowering.
“Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that girl. What was her name? Stephanie?”
“Samantha,” Casey replies. “And no, I’m not hung up on her. She’s nice, but not for me.”
I study my friend for a long moment. Instead of meeting my gaze, he stares into his drink. “Since when did you get so picky?”
He shrugs. Looks into the crowd. “Guess I’m just tired of hookups. I mean, sex is great, sure, but after a while it just feels empty.”
My eyebrows lift in surprise. I wonder what’s caused this recent change of heart. “So, what, you’re looking for a relationship?” I almost laugh at the ridiculousness, but manage to contain it from the serious expression on his face. In my three years of knowing him, Casey has never wanted a relationship. Something about spreading his seed or some shit.
He cuts me a glare. And even though I’m curious, I back off. You don’t bait a cornered animal.
We settle into companionable silence, watching the soccer game on television. Delaware versus Stanford. One of Delaware’s forwards skirts around a Stanford defenseman and takes the shot, but it hits the goal post and bounces back. Stanford takes possession, moving quickly upfield. Unconsciously, I lean forward, muttering under my breath, “Go.”
Stanford shoots, and it hits the back of the net with a satisfying thwack.
That’s what I’m talking about.
The longer I watch the game though, the more disappointment threads through me. The urge to feel the soccer ball knocking against my cleats surges, as it’s done more frequently over the past six months, and I remember the reason why I’m sitting here, brooding in the first place.
This is my last season playing for the Blue Devils. Since I was seven years old, my dream has been to play for Manchester United. There’s no cutting corners, no room for error. To play for the best, you have to be the best.
Except I wonder if that’s me.
Last season, I tore my ACL. Any professional athlete knows it’s basically suicide. My career ended before it ever really began.
For the last six months, I’ve been in recovery. Since I was forced to drop a few classes in the spring due to injury, I decided to stay an extra semester so that I would graduate in the fall. It’s been a slow healing, but last month my physical therapist finally gave me the green light to begin training again. Lightly, he scolded.
I’m not an idiot. Pushing your body too hard following a major injury is like taking five steps backward. Right now, I’m focused on rebuilding my endurance and strengthening the muscles around my knee. Slow and steady. I’ve been spending most of my time in the weight room, as well as swimming a few times a week.
I have one semester left—one last shot to be picked up by recruiters. Soccer is all I’ve ever wanted to do. If I’m not chosen for a team, there’s a one hundred percent chance I’ll be stuck working for my dad, slipping into the shoes of an up and coming businessman. That would absolutely suck.
As I lift my beer for another swallow, shoving thoughts of the family business from my mind, I find the glass empty. Damn.
“I’ll be back,” I tell Casey, who’s engrossed with swiping through some dating app profile. He mutters a reply but doesn’t look up.
Feeling a bit light-headed, I push my way through the press of bodies when a warm breeze hits my face as the front door opens. A brief glance over my shoulder, and I freeze at the young woman who enters and glides toward the bar.
She’s stunning.
And not alone.
Potential suitors descend like vultures on a piece of roadkill. I can’t blame them, because wow, but Jesus, there’s no fucking way I’m putting myself into that mess.
So I return to my table, sans refill, and observe her from afar.
Since I’m at Ray’s on any given day, I’m pretty familiar with the regulars. But I’ve never seen this girl before. She sits at the bar with a friend, her back to me, and after a moment, turns and speaks to one of her pursuers. The vibrant blue of her blouse matches the blue of her eyes, a stunning contrast to her long dark hair, which appears so deep a brown it’s almost black under the dimly lit interior lights. Dark jeans, black heels. When she smiles, my heart trips.
I can’t see her body very well from the way she’s sitting, but I’d guess her to be of average height, slender. She looks kind. It’s not a word I’d use very often to describe a beautiful woman, but that’s the word that comes to me.
Since Casey’s still preoccupied with his phone, I can observe without his harassment. She’s definitely not a sports groupie. Doesn’t seem like she’s in a sorority either, since those girls usually move in droves. A student, then? A young professional? I assume her major is something other than business, as we would have shared classes in the past. Hers is a face I wouldn’t forget.
“You’re drooling.”
I jerk at Casey’s droll voice. He watches me, one black eyebrow raised.
“Blue or red?” he asks.
The girl’s friend, equally pretty but not my type, is wearing a red dress.
“Blue,” I say.
Mouth pursed, he studies the girl with a look of deep concentration, then says, “Gotta piss.”
Nice.
After he leaves, I return my attention to Blue Girl. She says something that makes the three guys surrounding her laugh, and then they amble away.
Before I lose my chance, I head over with the pretense of asking for a refill—which is true, mostly. Though there’s space further down the bar, I squeeze in beside her and wave down the bartender. In the background, the music slows, drifts into something sultry.
“I told you this would happen,” Blue Girl says to her friend. She’s drinking red wine, her fingers resting against the stem of the glass. Her gold earrings wink at me as if they know of my eavesdropping.
“The douche canoes are everywhere. Just ignore them,” Red Girl answers, a dimple popping in one brown cheek. She looks like someone who knows how to have a good time. “You’ve been working hard on your thesis. Everyone deserves a break now and then. Even you.”
“I guess,” Blue Girl murmurs.
“At the very least, watching frat bros make fools of themselves is the basest form of entertainment.”
She rolls her eyes, but from this angle, I see the quirk of her mouth. It’s painted a deep red. “I guess you’re right.” She sips from her drink, then adds, “Can you believe what that one guy said?” She juts out her chin, deepens her voice. “‘I lost my number. Can I have yours?’ Puh-lease.”
Unintentionally, a low laugh escapes me, which I quickly mask with a cough. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—Blue Girl overhears and angles toward me in her seat. As soon as our eyes meet, my mind blanks.
Charcoal lines sweep her upper eyelids, the darkness of her makeup making her blue eyes pop. As if from a distance, I hear the bartender ask me my order, but I don’t pay him any attention. There is nothing more interesting at this moment than this girl’s heart-stopping face.
Almost imperceptibly, her grip tightens on the stem of her wineglass. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know.”
Busted.
Red Girl eyes me in appreciation, her gaze taking one long sweep of my body. Blue Girl eyes me with ... something less than appreciation.
Aaaand I’m still staring.
My most charming grin slides into place. It’s never failed me. “Dance with me?” I ask. And then I reach out and offer my hand.
Chapter 2
&
nbsp; REBECCA
This guy is gorgeous. And when I say gorgeous, I mean I look at him and feel my panties burst into flames under his warm gaze. Lines crinkle the corners of his amber eyes. His skin is tan from hours spent beneath the sun, streaks of lighter blond highlighted in his rumpled head of brown hair. He stands near enough for me to catch his scent. Soap, man, and a hint of laundry detergent. Tide, maybe?
I have a hard time tearing my eyes away, even though my plan tonight was not to meet a man. It wasn’t even my idea to come to Ray’s. Personally, I have no idea why Katie likes this bar so much. It’s practically falling apart. The wooden floor boards are scuffed and buckling from years’ worth of water damage, and the walls are a hideous yellow-brown color that I think might once have been olive green. Even the battered jukebox skips every few songs.
I send the guy an apologetic smile. “I’m going to pass, thanks.” I have zero interest in doing anything beyond staring at the way his lovely broad shoulders fill out his pale green button-down. I want to drink wine with my best friend and complain about period cramps. That’s all.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s just a dance.”
“I’m here with a friend.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “Sorry.”
Except Katie chooses at that moment to shove me off the stool, chirping, “Don’t worry about me! I’ll be fine. Go, have fun dancing!” Her grin stretches from ear to ear, and before I can refuse, someone swoops in and snags my open stool, leaving me without a place to sit.
My glare could cut glass. She forgets sometimes that my bullshit threshold is far, far lower than hers. I blame it on stress.
The guy is still looking at me. Still holding out his hand—an offer.
It’s more than I would expect from a college-aged guy, because let’s face it, young twenty-something men have basically one thing on their minds: sex. Or at least that’s what I’ve concluded following the slew of sociology courses I’ve taken over the years. There’s nothing I enjoy more than observing how people interact with their environment. The fact that he hasn’t done anything but wait for my answer says much about his character. Namely, he’s a little nicer than those other guys attempting to hit on me and Katie earlier.
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