Fake Fiancée

And wasn’t that my answer?

“Fuck off,” I said and brushed past him, needing to distance myself from Bart and his feelings. It reminded me that someone had once been crazy in love with Sunny . . . and it hadn’t been me.

She’d had someone before me.

Someone real.

An hour later I was sick of the party and back home. I sat on my porch with my phone in my hand thinking about Sunny.

Drunk texting was never a good idea—so why was I contemplating it?

I glanced at my watch. Midnight. I checked her house from my seat on the steps of the porch. Yep. All the lights were out.

Are you awake? I sent her.

She didn’t reply.

I texted her again. Hello. Are you there?

This better be a freaking emergency. I was sound asleep until my phone buzzed.

I need you.

I pictured her sitting up in bed and staring at the phone with sleepy eyes.

Why?

I want to see you. Now, I sent.

You’re demanding.

I know.

And an asshole, she added.

I know.

But I like you.

A sigh of relief came from me. God. I’d needed to hear those words since the fake proposal. I closed my eyes, imagining her in her tank top and flannel shorts, her breasts straining against the fabric, her nipple piercing begging for my tongue. I groaned, shifting in my jeans. Down, boy.

I’m sorry, I said.

For texting me?

For everything. You can give the ring back if you want. I deserve it.

We’ve moved past that now.

You can keep it when it’s all over.

Is it real?

Yes.

Did you pick it out?

I paused. Tate did. One of the groupies works at the jewelry store.

A few ticks went by.

I asked her, Does that bother you?

Would you pick out your real fiancée’s ring?

Yes.

We’re fake, so it’s fine. Right?

It didn’t feel fine. It felt off and weird and I wished I’d picked it out.

Right. Can I see you?

What are you really saying? Spit it out, Quarterback.

I wanted her so fucking bad . . .

I’m drunk and I want to have sex with you . . .

Not going to happen.

I won’t stick it in your butt. Promise.

Ha.

Will you send me a naked pic of you?

No.

Will you open your window and flash me?

No.

I was just kidding anyway.

Really?

Yes, really. I was hiding behind my humor, not wanting her to see that I’d been scared as shit these past few days. Part of me had been worried about football, but another side of me could only think about her.

Hello? Are you still there, she texted.

Just . . . can we start all over and try this thing again?

What thing?

I sighed and let my fingers fly. I want to laugh and go to class together, drink coffee with you, talk about how much better the Falcons are this year. I want to study with you. Just . . . I need you to tell me that I have another chance . . . because I’m not Bart. I will never hurt you like that.

A full minute went by.

I’d just spilled a ton of guts here . . . and she had nothing?

Fuck. Can I just hold you in my arms and watch you sleep?

I’ll unlock the door, she replied.

Sunny

HE SAUNTERED INTO MY BEDROOM wearing low-slung jeans and a tight black shirt, his wavy hair a mess as if he’d raked his hand through it a million times. Dark scruff covered his chiseled jawline, and his full lips tilted up in a half-smile. With an effortless, almost feline grace, he rested one bulky shoulder against the doorjamb and considered me with intense eyes.

Looking away was unthinkable.

“You look gorgeous,” he murmured.

At the growly sound in his tone, my stomach grew heavy, and my heart kicked up.

Time and time again, I was taken aback by his off-the-charts hotness. But it wasn’t his looks that tugged at my heart. Not really. It was him—his innate charm that made me want to strangle him one second and then hug him the next.

And I knew why. We’d never been strangers. Not even from the beginning.

I propped my head up with my arm as I lay on my side facing him. I patted “his side” of the bed. “I’ve been keeping it warm for you.”

He grinned, his top teeth tugging on his bottom lip. Was there anything he did that wasn’t sexy as hell?

“I’m pretty hot already,” he said, eyes at half-mast.

“Mmm.”

I bit my lip as he pulled at the back of his shirt, pulling it from his neck and over his head. It landed in a pool of black on my floor. His jeans were next. He popped the snap and shoved them down and off his legs. I swallowed. Holy football miracles. I was glad I’d left the lamp on. His package strained against his tight black briefs, and my hand itched to cup him, tug down his underwear and wrap my mouth around his . . .

I sat up in the bed and scooted over to him.

His eyes went straight to my breasts. I wore a thin pink camisole, a pair of lace panties and nothing else. He took it all in, his throat moving convulsively, hands clenching at his sides.

“Just don’t move . . . okay?”

He nodded, his blue-green gaze glittering as I got up on my knees and pressed my palm to his chest—right over his heart.

The touch of his skin sent a jolt of heat through me. My eyes met his. “It’s beating so fast.”

“Yes,” he said huskily, his velvety voice caressing my skin, making me breathless.

“I’m glad you’re here.” I rested my head on his shoulder, inhaling his woodsy scent.

“Sunny . . .” His voice was strained, and I raised my head to look at him. His face was bewildered, as if he didn’t know how he’d come to be where he was. “I was being real on the phone. I didn’t come over here to fuck you. I don’t want it to be like that between us. This is something . . . I don’t know what’s going on . . . but I’ve missed you this week, and I don’t want to mess it up tonight by doing something neither of us is ready for.”

His words tore at my heart. I put my hand over his lips. “I know. I feel the same way. But I want to kiss you. Without anyone watching. No audience. Just me and you.”

He nodded and cradled my face, staring at me like he was terrified he was going to fuck it up. He gazed into my eyes until the very air buzzed. Soft and slow, he pressed his lips to mine, inhaling me as if I was the finest Belgian chocolate he’d ever tasted and he’d never get another piece. A nip of his teeth, his hand at my waist, and I was gone. Butterflies went crazy. Our kiss was pure, unadulterated magic, making me powerless in his arms. He was gut-twistingly perfect, and I wanted to drown in him. I didn’t need air. All I needed was Max Kent and his lips and tongue.

We sank down onto the bed together. His tongue traced mine, and my body yearned to give him everything.

We kissed. Over and over, learning each other, sighing, our breaths mingling.

In between kisses, we talked about our dreams. He wanted to live in New York someday and have a wife and a whole house full of kids. He told me about growing up alone without relatives or siblings. I told him how I’d run away at seventeen and had let my father believe I was dead until I was eighteen. I told him how I wanted a love I could call my own.

Our dreams weren’t that different.

And after we talked, our lips found each other again. Deep kisses. Hard kisses. Soft ones. We explored and tasted, yet our hands never went past our shoulders. This wasn’t about sex or getting off. It was about us being real—and as for me, well, fate was ripping apart my rule of not falling for him, tearing at the very fabric of my resolve. I was falling in love with the guy I’d tried my best to guard my heart against.