by Tessa Bailey
And she was sprawled on her ass in a clown suit.
Their sweaty hookup must have been a dream.
But she’d dreamed enough about Travis to be able to separate fantasy and reality. The reality was way more hands-on. And not her own hands, either, like usual.
It was definitely Reality Travis towering above her now, because Fantasy Travis never had tired eyes or seemed unsure. This man did, though. And he was the one she’d been missing.
She’d missed her fake boyfriend.
Was she crazy to embark on this mission?
There’d never been any fear of Fantasy Travis hurting her. She could just conjure up another dream, couldn’t she? A better one that ended in him kissing her under the shower of ticker tape during a World Series champions parade. But the more she got to know Reality Travis, the more Fantasy Travis started to fade, leaving this real, breathing, complicated man in his place. He appealed to her even more.
So much more.
Travis seemed to be angling his body to block something behind him, making Georgie purse her lips. “What’s going on? More autograph seekers?”
“There’s a photographer following me.” He raised an eyebrow at her dropped jaw. “It’s now or never, baby girl.”
God, he just had to go and call her that. Thank God she was wearing her clown suit, because the nickname sent goose bumps coursing down her arms. “A photographer? As in paparazzi? That was fast.”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, no longer looking at her. “The network announced their short list of candidates for the new voice of the Bombers last night.” His expression was kind of perplexed. “I’m . . . still on it.”
“Travis, that’s amazing!” Georgie lunged to her feet, joy making her want to open the gate and throw her arms around him. When she saw the raised camera, she squeaked and hid behind Travis’s impressive form instead. “Wow. They don’t even ask.”
“Nope, we’re fair game.” His blue eyes strayed to her mouth and seemed to darken, his right hand lifting to cradle her jaw over the gate. “But out in the open like this, we can decide what they see.”
“Oh,” she whispered, inhaling his masculine scent. “That’s nice.”
“Nice? Maybe.” His tongue dragged temptingly along his full lower lip. “We know I can be a little mean.” Georgie was positive he was about to kiss her, but his forehead knitted together. “So does everyone in town know you want a bunch of kids?”
What did that have to do with kissing her? “Not everyone,” she answered honestly, looking up into unreadable eyes. “Just everyone who sees me around them. Which happens a lot, because, hello, clown.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You kind of come alive around them, don’t you? Even more than usual.” She wanted to bask in the compliment, but something was bothering him. That much was obvious. “Associating with me could mess that up for you, Georgie. Might be hard to find a nice guy after being with me. Even if it’s just for the cameras.”
Just for the cameras. That’s right. Why was it so hard to remember that when he was standing so close, looking at her with something akin to tenderness? His visible concern made it almost impossible to swallow. “If a man held something like that against me, he wouldn’t be a nice guy. Definitely not someone I’d . . .”
“Make a family with,” he said quietly.
“Right.”
They continued to scrutinize each other over the gate, drawing closer ever so subtly. Because of the photographer? Or because she physically couldn’t stop herself from gravitating in his direction?
“Travis Ford?” The spell he’d effortlessly wrapped around her was broken when the father of the birthday boy shouldered past her with an outstretched hand, holding it out to Travis. “No one told me the local legend was invited.”
“I wasn’t,” Travis answered, shaking the man’s hand but still looking at Georgie. “My girlfriend here is the entertainment and I’ve never gotten a chance to watch her perform. Mind if I . . . ?”
“Of course.” The father swung open the gate. “Come on in. We’ll get you a beer.”
Travis sent her a wink. “Perfect. Thank you.”
Georgie watched with a mouth poised to catch flies as Travis waltzed into a children’s birthday party, parting the crowd of parents like a pop star through a packed arena. Just like when Travis walked through town, the reaction to his presence was mixed. Men either greeted him with man-crush vibes—overdoing the handshake and widening their stance, as if preparing to bro down over some baseball talk—or edged toward their wives and tried not to look insecure. A couple of the women pretended he didn’t exist, probably not wanting to give Travis the satisfaction of knowing he could sell a million copies of ESPN The Magazine’s Body Issue. And yet another contingency of women did their smiling, head-tilting best to dazzle him.
And then there was Georgie, standing in the middle of the yard with her trap wide open, watching Travis smoothly make himself at home. She was blown back to reality when a little girl tugged on her polyester sleeve. “Can we do the bubble party now?”
“Yes!”
A trio of kids behind her started cheering.
“Everyone get their best bubble-catching hands ready! I’ll just go fire up my nifty bubble factory . . .”
Five minutes later, Georgie was racing from one end of the backyard to the other, a bubble maker held high above her head and leaving a trail of translucent bubbles behind her. Ten five-year-olds laughed and followed along, although one of them dropped out to dance to the Kidz Bop song that blared from the radio. There was always one.
“Okay,” Georgie gasped, planting her hands on her knees. “Who wants to get their face painted? I can do dragons or ballet slippers—”
“My mom says it’ll leave a rash and I can’t do it!”
A little girl with curly red hair stuck out her lower lip. “I don’t want a rash.”
“Me either,” said a boy, edging away from the pack.
Well used to the domino effect, Georgie smiled and knelt, getting down on their level. “How about I test the paint on your hands, so you can see it won’t give you a rash.”
“Test it on my mom!”
“Don’t test it on my mom. My dad says she’s too sensitive!”
Georgie sent an amused look over at the observing parents, her breath catching when she noticed Travis watching her with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest. “Um. How about I paint one of the adults’ whole face? Would that make you feel less scared?”
As she’d known they would be, all the children were in unanimous agreement. “Yeah!”
Before she could think better of it, Georgie waved at Travis. “Mr. Ford would love to be our volunteer. Everyone say hello to Mr. Ford.”
A chorus of greetings filled the backyard, mingling with Travis’s low chuckle.
He set down his beer and swaggered his way over to the grass. Earlier, Georgie had set up a face-painting station, complete with card table and stool. Travis eyed the child-sized stool now with a dubious look. “You don’t expect me to sit on that, do you?”
Georgie blinked. “But you must. It’s the face-painting stool.”
“Right.” He scratched his jaw and Georgie’s belly flipped at the rasping sound, knowing exactly how that stubble felt rubbing in the crook of her neck. Travis caught her eye as he sat, lips twisting as if he could read her thoughts. “You’ve got me where you want me.” How dare he make sitting on a kiddie stool look cool? “Do I get to pick my design?”
She gestured to the riveted group of children. “We should really let the birthday boy pick.”
Travis’s mouth twitched. “Sounds dangerous.”
Never in her life had she worked a party where the parents stopped talking and paid such close attention. You could hear a pin drop in the backyard. Inviting Travis up to have his face painted was a bad idea. Terrible. She could feel her every action being scrutinized. Why did Travis have to pick now to reveal his playful side?
/> Attempting to disguise her nerves, Georgie turned to the birthday boy. “Carter? What do you think? Should we give him a butterfly? Or maybe a Minion—”
“A dog!”
Travis sighed. “I’ve been typecast.”
Georgie bit back a laugh. “A dog it is.”
Trying her best to ignore Travis’s eyes, which seemed to be hooked on her every movement, Georgie dipped the paintbrush into the black paint, intending to start with his nose. The brush hovered for long seconds, refusing to move, despite what her brain commanded it to do. Probably because of his warm breath on her wrist. And the way his knee rested against hers, those big baseball player hands at the ready. As if they were going to pull her down on his lap if given the slightest encouragement. Or was she imagining that? It was totally possible Travis was suffering through this while she had a full hormonal breakdown.
“I have a dog! Her name is Lola.”
“My cousin’s dog bit someone.”
Thank you, little ones. The voices getting her back on track, Georgie smoothed the brush along Travis’s nose in an upside-down triangle. “Mr. Ford is more of a nibbler.” She snapped her mouth shut. “I—I mean . . .”
Travis threw back his head and laughed, along with several of the parents.
“Shut up,” she whispered, face flaming. “Help me backpedal.”
His gaze dropped to her neck. “Should I tell them how you found out?”
Oh Lord. This wasn’t happening. She was an aroused clown. Her nipples had turned into these awful, painful little spikes and the sound of Travis’s sex voice filled her mind. Virgin or not, you’ve thought about riding this dick or you wouldn’t have dropped your skirt for me. Tell me I’m right. A drop of sweat slid down her spine, absorbed by the bike shorts she wore under her costume. This was what happened when a girl remained a virgin well into adulthood, got a taste of Travis, then went back to depriving herself. She exploded. They wouldn’t need a piñata at this party—they could just collect little pieces of her off the ground.
Finally, Travis seemed to realize her predicament, because his smile slowly melted away. “Hey.” He licked his lips, his eyes a little unfocused. “Think about the time you spent an hour making the perfect hopscotch before Stephen and I sprayed it away with the hose.”
When that reminder did nothing to cool her lust, Georgie knew she was in big trouble, but she did her best to pretend his method had worked like a charm. “You’re right. I’m making you a really ugly dog,” she murmured. “With a gas problem.”
“That’s the spirit. Although I’m not sure how you can translate that on canvas.”
“Where there’s a will . . .”
Turned out, Georgie’s will was pretty strong, because she made Travis ugly as sin for the first time in his life. Through the magic of art, she made his cheeks look like heavy jowls, his nose stumpy. His flinch when he looked in the mirror sent the parents and children alike into a riot of laughter, providing her with no small amount of satisfaction. But nothing stopped the raw, physical draw she felt pulling her toward Travis. Not even the dog face. She’d always found him the most attractive man on the planet, but now she knew he walked the walk. Knew he could fulfill hungers inside of her she hadn’t even been aware of.
Even though it was against their one, single rule, her body wanted to go another round.
Her body wasn’t her biggest worry, though. It was her heart. She was a smart girl capable of objectivity, right? Now if she could only maintain that objectivity while Travis stared at her like a meal, she’d be golden. Was he the only man alive who could get to her like this? Watching him as they packed her party gear in silence, she couldn’t even conjure a decent memory of Pete’s face. Although Pete would no longer be an option as soon as word spread that she was seeing Travis, would he?
She waited for the regret, but it never surfaced.
“Hey,” Travis said, shouldering her carrying case and falling into step with her as they left the backyard. “I’m glad I crashed the party. I knew you were good, but I didn’t realize you ran the whole show like that. It’s a lot of work.”
“Thanks.” Wings of surprised pleasure beat in her chest. “It wasn’t always so organized. My first year of clowning was more like a series of mutinies. I’m still scarred.”
“Kids are no joke.” A beat passed. “This job hasn’t put you off having your own?”
“No way,” she said without hesitation, a smile curling her lips. “It makes me want them more. That look on their face when the cake comes out and everyone sings happy birthday. It’s like you can see a memory forming in their head. It’s magical.”
She could feel Travis watching her closely. Why the sudden interest? “Your mother made me a cake for my thirteenth birthday,” he said. “Only one I’d ever had.”
Georgie stopped walking, a fist taking hold of her throat. “She did that?” She barely checked the urge to bury her face in his chest and sob. “What color was the icing?”
He laughed without humor and glanced away. “Yellow. With white writing.”
Travis’s body language told her not to press any deeper. That he’d already given her more than enough for now. But God she wanted to. She wanted to relive all her earliest memories of Travis, but know what he’d been thinking this time around. “You see? Magic memories.”
“Yeah.” With a swallow that lifted his Adam’s apple, he set the carrying case down behind the trunk of her car. “How do I get this paint off my face?”
“You don’t. I switched to permanent lacquer when your back was turned. Good luck commentating with a dog face.”
“Very funny.”
“I have questions about our plan.”
“Wow, you really just jumped in feetfirst.” He stepped closer. “Fire away.”
Georgie pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach. “We’re going to be doing a lot of canoodling, so to speak, for the cameras,” she said quietly, in deference to the man not so discreetly snapping shots of them beside his blue Honda about forty yards away. “Let’s say you drive me home and someone is following us. They’re going to expect you to come inside. And . . . what if s-e-x just happens—”
“You did not just spell out the word ‘sex.’”
“Sorry, still in birthday party mode.” She straightened her spine. “If sex happens—”
A parent cleared his throat behind her. Scarlet-faced, Georgie turned around.
“We were just hoping for a business card,” said a man in a Giants cap who wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You know, uh . . . for the future.”
“Yes, of course,” Georgie croaked, handing him one from her pocket. “We have specials running through Christmas. I look forward to your call.” A moment later, she was alone again with Travis, who was definitely battling a laugh behind his fist. “It’s not funny.”
“Please stop. You know it’s funny.”
“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you.”
“You’re dressed like a clown and my face is painted like a dog, baby girl. It ain’t happening.” Travis took the car keys from her hand, popped the trunk, and stowed her gear. Once it was put away, he rounded the car with the box of baby wipes she kept in the trunk. “Come here.”
“I can . . .” Clean off my own face. But of course, she wouldn’t be doing that, because it was far too incredible having Travis tilt up her chin and smooth the cool, wet wipes over her mouth, getting rid of her wide red clown smile. Then down her cheeks and over her T-zone, careful as he cleaned around her eyes. All in all, it probably took him a single minute, but it lasted forever, because her brain moved in slow motion, counting eyelashes and wondering if he’d been born with the freckle under his right eye, or if it had popped up one summer as a child . . . and none of these thoughts was productive. Neither was the electricity snapping and humming between them, garnering power from the phone lines and nearby houses, building and building until Georgie had to push Travis away or risk public indecency. “O-okay, I can get th
e rest.”
Why was he staring at her mouth like that all of a sudden? Like a wolf who’d spotted a lamb. Had he been as affected by what they’d done as she had? It didn’t seem possible when he’d been with so many women. Women who actually knew what they were doing. The subtle sound of a camera snap reminded Georgie this was all for show. Travis wanted a job on a family-friendly network and she wanted adult respectability. She needed to remember that.
Travis cleared his throat. “You’re good.” He tugged out a few wipes and returned the box to her trunk. While he used his reflection in the back windshield to help him clean off his own face, he cut a glance in her direction. “You were saying?”
“Oh. Right.” Her courage to have this conversation had been ferried away on a lust gondola, but she begged it to come back. “Um. Okay, so you heard what I said before.”
“About us having sex.” His jaw popped. “Yeah. I heard.”
“Well, you’re not going to be able to see anyone else for real. While this is going on.” Oh God, what was she doing? Stop. Nope. She kept going. “Won’t you need some kind of . . . action?”
“Yes, Georgie. My very survival depends on it.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Yes.”
She barely resisted sticking her tongue out at him. “I’m only pointing out that we’re pretty compatible in the adult arts and you could probably teach me a lot. About art. While we’re killing time.”
“Christ. So much to unpack there.” Laughing without humor, he swiped a hand down his face. “My mind hasn’t changed. It’s not happening again. We do this, we keep it black and white.” His jaw bunched as he looked her over. “It doesn’t matter if there’s something of an . . . attraction here. We’re keeping this platonic. That going to work for you?”
She was relieved and disappointed at the same time. Without the magic of his touch, she had a much better chance of keeping her heart intact. Why had she pushed the issue in the first place? Probably because he’d looked at her like she was the last woman on earth that afternoon in his bed—and she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
