Fake Fiancée

“Really?” I said, my voice dripping in disbelief. I walked closer to her, my lids low. “You can’t shit a shitter, Sunny.”

She fiddled with her shirt, not meeting my eyes.

I smirked. “Your face gives too much away. You love football. I bet you know my stats. I bet you’ve been following me my entire career—”

“Fine. Just shut up already,” she snapped, bopping me on the arm with a sharp knuckle. “I like watching you play, okay, fine. I know you should have run a screen in the second half of yesterday’s game when that lineman came after you. I know that in the first quarter you tended to throw too soon, but by the third quarter you had the kinks worked out . . . but it’s not like I’m some crazy groupie. I don’t stalk you or wear your jersey or pick your locks or even care if I see you on campus. I like the game. I always have. I like the crunch of bodies and the rush I get when the quarterback throws the ball or runs it in for a touchdown. What’s the big deal? Can’t I be a regular fan?”

Deep satisfaction settled in my bones. “You can be whatever you want.” Yeah, I wanted to push her against the wall and kiss her.

“Do you like all sports or just football?” I arched a brow.

She sent me an annoyed look and mumbled something.

“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”

She huffed at me, her chest rising. “You’re not going to ever let this go are you?”

“Nope.”

A defeated sigh came from her. “Football . . . football is my favorite.”

“Am I your favorite player at Leland?” God, I was enjoying this.

Her fingers toyed with the neckline around her tank.

“Well?”

“Hmmm, Tate’s fun to watch and rarely drops a pass . . .”

“Watch it.”

She shrugged. “He’s definitely going to be a top five draft pick—but yes, you’re my favorite player. Don’t get a big head over it either.”

I sat down and leaned my head back on the couch and a chuckle came out. My fake girlfriend loved football—and she wasn’t a psycho!

“What?” she snapped, still fuming, probably from my smug expression.

I patted the seat next to me and grinned. “Come on, get your notes, darlin’. I’m gonna help you study.”

Sunny

THE NEXT DAY THAT I didn’t have class with Max, I came outside and took in the Land Cruiser he’d parked on my side of the street the night before.

The carpooling plan was for us to ride together on the days we had A&P, and on the days we didn’t I got the car and Max rode his Harley. When he needed to get to and from the field house, he’d catch a ride with Tate. The arrangement seemed easy—but underneath the surface lingered the feeling that nothing is ever what it seems.

I crawled in the luxury vehicle and basked in the smell of spicy alpha male and leather. I popped the glove compartment open and nosed around, but all I found were documents, rural road maps of North Carolina, and a bottle of Bleu De Chanel. Yes. I cracked it open and inhaled, seductive images of Max front and center in my head: him at his door wearing a cocky smile . . . his piercing eyes and sexy hair that made me want to put on some Marvin Gaye and get it on—okay, stop already. I ran my hands over the supple seats. Is it bad that I wanted to roll around and sniff everywhere he’d been?

Get to class.

I cranked the car, shouting in glee when I felt the power under my feet.

Ten minutes later, I carefully parked his vehicle in student parking and arrived at the Coleman Arts Building for Lit class.

I took the stairwell to the second floor, and when I came out the door, I ran straight into Bart. We collided, and he dropped the backpack he’d been holding to put a hand out to steady me. “Whoa, Sunny. You good?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the save.” I stepped away from his hands as inconspicuously as possible. A laugh came out but it sounded off.

Tuesdays and Thursdays were my Russian Lit class with Bart. For the past two weeks I’d done my best to avoid him, and now here I was practically mowing him down. Nice.

The ride home the other night had been uncomfortable, with me just listening while he vomited out everything he’d obviously wanted to say to me since we’d broken up this summer, mostly I’m sorry I fucked up, you’re the only girl I wanted, and it will never happen again. I told him it didn’t change things. Perhaps it had been good for us to let it all out. Now we had closure and maybe we’d be able to move on and be civil to one another.

I fidgeted in the hallway.

He did a half-smile and ran a hand through his auburn hair. “So . . . you and Max, huh?” His eyes clung to mine. Gold with flecks of brown, they were hard to look away from.

“Yeah.”

He mulled that over then sent me a curt nod. “I hope he’s good to you.”

“He is. Thank you again for the ride Sunday.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “You and I . . . it’s weird being in a class together, huh?”

He nodded and sighed, his eyes roving over me and then coming back to my face. “You look gorgeous today.”

I swallowed. I didn’t. I looked crazy—mostly because I’d barely slept. Max had ended up coming over again to go over my A&P notes.

“Nice shirt, too,” he added with a little chuckle, breaking the tension between us. “You sure that’s not a sign I have another shot with you?”

I glanced down. Crap. I’d slipped on a tight, V-neck baseball shirt he’d given me. I’d loved the softness of the material and one day when I’d been experimenting, I’d cut out the neck and added a thick blue lace collar with hand-sewn pearl buttons. It was sexy with a dash of tomboy—one of my favorites.

“Funny. I just grabbed the first thing in my closet.”

He smiled, albeit a little sadly. “Well, there’s no crime against wearing a winning shirt. Come on. Let’s find our seats.”

We turned to walk in the Lit class, but I stopped when I felt eyes on me and turned back. There was Bianca. Watching us. She swept her gaze over Bart, curled her lip, and shot me a go to hell glare. I could feel the disdain dripping from her as she raked her eyes over me, sniffed, and turned her back.

She was trouble. Big time.

Ugh.

After classes, I drove to the local Wal-Mart and picked up a few things that Mimi needed for her pantry. She didn’t have a license, so if she had any errands I typically ran them for her. I drove to her apartment, unpacked her groceries, and made sure she was set for the week. I left her out by the pool flirting with Mr. Sully and some of her friends. She’d told all the residents I was dating Max Kent, and since most of them knew who he was, they’d grilled me about what it was like to date a famous football star. I’d lied to all of them, and it was getting easier.

I arrived home around five in the afternoon, and my eyes went straight to Max’s place. It looked empty. They’d never put blinds up on the big front bay window, and I could see straight to the television—which was off. I sighed. He had long days at practice, and it wasn’t hard to see that football was everything to him.

I found myself wanting to tell him about seeing Bart. About how my heart didn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it would the night he’d driven me home.

Maybe it was better if I didn’t confide in him, though.

I settled down at my small desk in the den, opened my computer and scrolled, finding the article I’d bookmarked a long time ago. It was an online piece from the Asheville Gazette about a girl who’d wrecked her car on the bridge overlooking Casey Lake right outside of Asheville, North Carolina. Posted three years ago, it described how a passing motorist had phoned in the accident. It didn’t give the motorist’s name or any identifying information. The paramedics and police had responded, but it wasn’t until the next day they’d got the equipment out to drag the lake. Once they found evidence of the car, divers had gone in to search for survivors. The article concluded with the statement that the search was on-going and the person driving was considered missing. There was no report of a young man on the shore, no report of someone pulling a girl from the water.