Fake Fiancée

“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 swallowed. 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.