Playing the Field ebook final draft

by Gray, Mackenzie

  I gape at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Please.” He turns, his expression pleading, and something drops in my stomach as we hold eye contact. There’s no recognition in his gaze. Unbelievable. I guess my disguise really does work.

  Granted, last month I looked like sex on a stick, and now I look, well, like a librarian or possibly a nun. A librarian nun.

  When I remain silent, he growls out, “What, is fifty too low? Seventy-five then, but I’m not going any higher.” Mitchell glances over his shoulder at the man who’s almost to our bench. I’m guessing it’s his dad, as the thin, raw-boned face and dark brown hair is the same, though the man’s hair is shot through with gray. “You don’t have to say a word. Just play along. Oh, and your father works for Apple, okay?”

  “What—”

  “Mitchell!” the man booms. It’s so loud I half-expect him to be holding a megaphone in his hand.

  Before I can protest, he shoves a wad of cash into my hand, then unfolds himself from the bench and gives the man a hug. “Hey, Dad.” They’re nearly the same height, close to six feet. Mitchell wears dark blue khaki shorts, a plain white shirt, and black Nike running shoes. I can’t help but notice his legs, which are long and lean with muscle, a stark tan line below his knee, as if he wears long socks often.

  “Is this her?” his father asks.

  Mitchell turns, and I quickly avert my attention, the financial notice crumpled in my hand. I crush it into a ball and toss it into the nearby trashcan. “Dad, this is my girlfriend—” He gives me an expectant look.

  I barely resist rolling my eyes. But hey, I’m seventy-five dollars richer, so I can play along. “Rebecca Peterson.” I stand and offer my hand.

  “Rebecca?” The man’s handshake is firm. “I thought you said her name was Brianna.”

  “Did I? You must have misheard.” There’s no inflection in his tone. An easy smile graces his mouth as he slips his hands into his pockets.

  His father shrugs, releasing my hand. “Mitchell says you’re a first-year law student. How are you enjoying the coursework so far?”

  Law school? I can’t even glare at him, otherwise his father will see.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I give him my most winning smile. The one that makes me look like I know what I’m doing. “It’s spectacular, Mr. Burns. I hope to move to New York City after graduation.”

  “New York City? Good deal.” Laying a hand on his son’s shoulder, Mr. Burns says, “Mitch here will be going into business with me eventually, but I’d like him to gain experience with other companies first. Ones that promote leadership and cutting-edge innovation. Like Apple, wouldn’t you say?” He looks at me with a knowing expression.

  “Sure,” I chirp. “Just like Apple.”

  From the tightness around Mitchell’s eyes, the idea of going into business doesn’t sit well with him.

  His father then asks, “Would you like to join us for lunch, Rebecca? My treat.”

  “Oh.” I look to Mitchell for direction.

  “Becky has a test, unfortunately. Maybe some other time.”

  Becky? I shudder. I hate the name Becky.

  “I need to speak with Rebecca for a minute,” Mitchell says.

  “That’s fine. I need to make a phone call anyway.” Mr. Burns wanders to the other side of the courtyard, cell phone to his ear, his back to us.

  A deep sigh expels from Mitchell’s lips. “Thanks for that. And sorry about the ambush.” We’re close enough that I can see a ring of gold circling the warmer amber color of his irises. Still no recognition from him.

  “It’s fine. Glad I could help.” And glad I could make some money. This will go toward my groceries for the week.

  But now Mitchell is studying me intensely, as if waiting for something to come into focus. A flush rises to my cheeks from the attention, and I shift a few inches back. “What?” I can almost see the wheels of his minds rotating, reaching for some conclusion.

  “I have a favor to ask you, and it might be a little crazy.”

  “Okay.” I draw out the word.

  Another glance over his shoulder to make sure his father’s still occupied. Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me into a small alcove in between two of the brick buildings. The deep green ivy clambers up the wall faces and creeps across the ground, partially shielding us from passersby. My back touches the wall, and he stands in front of me, cutting off my line of sight.

  “So here’s the deal.” He takes a breath, then grimaces. “Okay, first, I should probably introduce myself. I’m—”

  “Mitchell Burns.”

  His eyebrows shoot upward, disappearing behind the hair covering his forehead. “Do we know each other?” he asks, but before I can answer—not that I’d be able to, since of course he wouldn’t recognize me as the girl he met at Ray’s three weeks ago—the clouds in his eyes clear, and he smiles. “You recognize me from the soccer team.”

  Maybe that’s why he seems familiar to me. Katie watches the soccer matches at home, and every so often I join her. The tan lines on his legs must be from his socks.

  I smile and nod. Sure. That works. “Definitely!”

  “Here’s the thing. I lied to my dad about having a girlfriend.” His smile is a bit self-deprecating, though still extremely handsome. I can’t stop staring at his mouth. “Now that he’s met you, he’ll expect to see you as part of my life. If he knows I’m spending time with my law-school girlfriend, it’ll help get him off my back so I can focus on soccer.”

  “Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Are you asking me to pretend to be your girlfriend?” I don’t know whether to laugh or swoon.

  “I’ll pay you for your time. You’d only need to commit to a few events, maybe a game or two. It would be until the season ends in December. Basically, you’d make me look like the good future businessman he thinks I am. Make your influence rub off onto me.” His lips quirk, as if he just offered me the world and I would be an idiot not to take it. “What do you say?”

  Honestly, I stopped listening after he said, “I’ll pay you.”

  “How much?” I ask.

  He mulls it over, scrubbing the line of his jaw with one palm, bristles scraping against his skin. “Four hundred?”

  My heart flutters, because that’s more than I was expecting, but it’s still not enough to cover my debt. I’m six hundred short. Maybe his desperation will work in my favor.

  Sliding him a deadpan look, I lay it on thick. “Seriously? Three months of pretending to be someone I’m not, probably dealing with your smelly teammates, your nosy father, having to rearrange my schedule to accommodate you, having to—”

  “All right!” He holds up his hands, palms out. “What do you think is fair then?”

  “One thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand—” He chokes on the word. “Woman! Do I look like I have that sort of money?”

  With a pointed look, I scan his name-brand clothing and what appear to be brand new Nikes. Then I look to his father. The well-cut suit and tie, the large silver watch glinting in the sun. It’s probably a Rolex. “I think the price is fair. If I’m posing as your girlfriend, I’ll have to take time away from work to meet the commitment. I’ll have to lie and be someone else.” I tick off various other reasons, my analytical mind doing wonders to support my case. Now that the money is within reach, I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure it’s mine.

  Then a thought occurs to me. What if I can use this set-up to not only pay off my debt, but for thesis purposes as well? It’ll be interesting to see how Mitchell interacts toward me as his girlfriend when I dress so conservatively.

  “Well?” I await his answer.

  Mitchell runs a hand through his wavy brown hair. He’s actually considering it.

  “A thousand dollars for three months,” he says. “Just until the end of the season.”

  “Three months,” I repeat. And then I’ll be home free.

  We shake hands, his larger, warmer palm engulfing mine. I brush
aside the tingle of heat alighting in my belly and pull out my phone, asking, “What’s your number?” even though I already know it.

  “Oh, no, give me yours.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and glances at the screen. A look of disappointment crosses his face. I wonder what it’s from.

  It’s odd that he won’t give me his number, considering how eager he was to hand it over at Ray’s, but I think nothing of it as I rattle off my information. Either way, we’ll be able to keep in contact.

  “Awesome.” He slides his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll be in touch to go over details and whatnot sometime next week. Does that work?”

  “Sounds great.” I start to turn away, then stop. “Oh, and one more thing.” Turning back around, I face him, my smile sharp. “Don’t call me Becky.”

  Chapter 5

  mitchell

  The following Tuesday, I’m sitting in a downtown coffee shop, my right leg stretched out to ease the ache around my knee, waiting for Rebecca to show. I texted her yesterday asking to meet so we could discuss logistics and scheduling and whatnot. If I’m shelling out this much cash for this elaborate of a scheme, then we better damn well be on the same page.

  The coffee shop smells rich and slightly sweet, compliments of the freshly baked pastries and roasted coffee beans. Classical music drifts through the small space, heard by all of six people sitting at the small square tables arranged along the glass storefront.

  This seems like a nice place to study—if I were the type of person to study in my spare time. Don’t get me wrong, I do my work, and I do it well, but I’ve never spent my entire Saturday with my nose stuck in a textbook, and I doubt I ever will. It’s just not the sort of life I want to live. I’d much rather spend that time practicing shots.

  The bell rings as the door opens and Rebecca steps in, the door quickly shutting out the humidity. Blinking owlishly behind her glasses, she scans the seating area. I wave to catch her attention. She walks over, head held high, an oddly confident gesture for someone who dresses to hide themselves.

  Since I was about two seconds away from shitting my pants in panic the other day, I wasn’t able to get a good look at my new fake girlfriend, but now I study her with a more careful eye.

  She’s ... frumpy.

  That makes me sound like an asshole, but it’s true. Did she raid her grandmother’s closet? I mean, Jesus. It’s 2018, not 1947.

  Her lavender sweater—sack?—is about two sizes too large and has obnoxious white flowers stitched across the front. It looks like a garden barfed all over her chest. An excruciatingly ugly gray skirt hangs to her ankles, shapeless and drab. Black, scuffed clogs peek from beneath the hem. Her eyes are the only striking quality, an electric blue that catches me unaware, and something nudges in the back of my mind before it passes, no more than a fleeting thought. Her long dark hair is pulled back and stuffed into a bun, not a hair out of place. Large wire-frame glasses perch on the end of her nose.

  Like I said. Frumpy.

  She smiles without teeth, taking the seat across from me. Her fingers grip the handle of what I think is a purse, but what looks more like a black box. “Hello, Mitchell.”

  Her voice is nice, I’ll give her that. Soft, musical, soothing.

  “Hey, Becky.” I wink.

  The smile slips. “It’s Rebecca.”

  For some reason, her narrowed gaze makes my smile widen. This girl is uptight as fuck, but whatever. “Glad you could make it.” I sip my coffee before gesturing to the pad and pen in front of me, a few lines of notes jotted down. “Do you want anything before we get started? Coffee? A bagel?”

  “I brought water, thanks.”

  She’s not one to waste time with small talk. Works for me.

  “Here’s a list of events I need you to attend this semester.” I pass her the paper, which she looks over. “There are other events that aren’t required, but that would help with the charade, if you know what I mean.” I glance around. Luckily everyone’s too engrossed in their books or laptops to bother eavesdropping.

  Rebecca removes a planner from her purse and flips to the calendar month as I pass her another sheet of paper. “Here’s my soccer schedule. It’s pretty consistent. Practice every evening from five to eight. Fridays we have games, but for the away ones you won’t be required to attend. On Saturdays I ref the junior leagues.”

  I pass her the final sheet. “That’s my class schedule. Any time I’m not in class or doing anything soccer related are times that I’m free.”

  Rebecca skims both schedules, then jots down her own schedule before tearing it out. “I have classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On the weekends I work, as well as Tuesday and Thursday evenings.” Her handwriting is neat and easy to read, which doesn’t surprise me. I place her schedule in my back pocket with a reminder to remove it before throwing these pants in the wash.

  We move on to scheduling events.

  “The date that I absolutely need you to be available for is December fourth. It’s the annual soccer gala.” She scribbles as I speak. “It takes place at the president’s mansion.”

  Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she flips to December and marks the date. My eyes drift to her mouth momentarily before returning to the way her hand clenches the pen. At least she’s taking this seriously.

  Once she finishes writing, I say, “The next date I need you free on is Saturday, November eighteenth. It’s a fundraiser, and my father will most likely be there. Evening event. Pretty fancy.”

  “I work on Saturdays.” She looks me straight in the eye, which is odd, as she seems like the type of girl who would avoid eye contact.

  It’s almost as if she reads my mind, because Rebecca blinks, then abruptly drops her gaze and fiddles with her pen.

  I shrug. “So ask for the day off. Get your shift covered.”

  “I can’t. I need the money.”

  “Look.” Elbows resting on the tiny table, I lean forward, invading her space as I lower my voice. “Despite what you think of me, a thousand dollars is a lot of money for me to be forking over. I want your guarantee that you’ll be present at the events I need you to be present at. Otherwise, this isn’t going to work.” I catch a whiff of her sweet-smelling shampoo. Vanilla, I think. “So are you going to be there, or not?”

  Rebecca stiffens in her seat, jaw working. The barista calls out an order. The front door opens and shuts, the bell ringing merrily.

  “Fine,” she mutters.

  My grin spreads. Things are going my way. “Great.”

  Once we hammer out the rest of the mandatory events, we discuss optional activities she can participate in over the next hour. Despite her slightly standoffish personality, she’s pretty easy to converse with and seems to go with the flow. We agree to hang out, at minimum, twice a week for PDA’s sake. We even get off topic for a short period to discuss what, exactly, represents the perfect cup of coffee, before returning to business. I scan over my notes, realizing I forgot to mention one event that’s coming up this week.

  “Are you free Thursday evening, by any chance?”

  Her mouth twists in thought. Then she nods, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “I believe so. Why?”

  “There’s a party at my teammate’s house. I think it’d be a good idea to introduce you, just so the guys know who you are.”

  She lifts her head from bending over her planner, her expression contemplative. “Do your teammates know about this charade?” She doesn’t sound judgmental, merely curious. There’s a light in her gaze that was previously absent.

  My fingers tap the table in a steady beat. “No, and I’d like to keep it that way. The less people who know about this, the less chance it’ll have of making its way back to my father.” And the less likely he’ll pull the rug out from under me without my awareness. Without his help, I can’t afford rent, and I can’t waste my time working a job when my soccer career depends on my performance this semester. My final semester. “Can you make it?”

  H
er lips press together. Shaking her head, she refocuses her attention on her planner. “When and where should I meet you?”

  Twenty minutes later, we pack up our stuff and wander out the door. Stepping behind her, I can’t help but notice how tight her bun is. I’m surprised her hair hasn’t been pulled out by the roots yet. This girl would benefit from letting down her hair—literally.

  “See you Thursday,” she tells me, giving a little wave as she walks down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. I watch her until she disappears from view. Then, slipping my hands into my pockets, I walk to my car, fighting a smile the whole way.

  Mitchell Burns, you’re a genius.

  Chapter 6

  rebecca

  “Where are you off to tonight?”

  With a jolt, I whirl around from my bedroom mirror, a sheepish expression crossing my face. Katie stands in the hallway, a cup of steaming tea in one hand, eyeing my outfit with amusement.

  I use the pretext of pulling my hair into a bun to buy myself time, as I haven’t told her about this absurd business deal I struck with Mitchell. While I love my best friend, there are certain things we never discuss, one of them being money. Since her parents pay for her education, rent, and car, she’s able to dedicate more time to her studies and internships rather than a job. I know it’s not her fault that she comes from a wealthier upbringing, but sometimes the resentment pricks at me. She’s never had to stress about finances. It’s a toxic feeling, so I try not to think about it too much.

  Knowing Katie, if she did learn of my financial woes, she would immediately offer to loan me the money. But I want to make my own way.

  Once my bun is secure, I reply, “Out. It’s research night.”

  “Do you want company?”

  My heart pounds, and I hate myself for skirting the truth, but she absolutely cannot find out about Mitchell. Because then I’d have to explain the why of the charade, and I don’t want her charity. “I’d actually rather go alone.” My smile is too stiff. “It’s going to be boring anyway. I know you’re not a fan of people-watching.”