Fake Fiancée
A shadow crossed his face. “She screwed up my game last year. Can you believe she still throws herself at me when her boyfriend isn’t around?”
“Want me to kick her ass?”
He laughed.
I laughed.
And we stared at each other.
Okay, the staring thing was getting weird as heck. But I couldn’t stop—and neither could he. Heat grew in his gaze, and I felt my own body responding. Melting.
Get out of the fancy car, Sunny. Mr. Quarterback is dangerous.
“Wait,” he said as I moved to open the door. His hand touched my arm, lingering down to my wrist. My heart thundered. Good grief. I was as weak as a baby kitten.
I clenched my fists.
Keep your panties on, Sunny. Don’t. Fall. For. The. Quarterback.
My brain briefly noted that a football player was the only athlete I hadn’t dated. In high school, before I’d left to be homeschooled, it had been a scorching hot basketball player who could run down the court fast as lightning. At Southwest it had been a lean volleyball player with the softest kisses. Then it had been Bart, my latest, who was a sexy baseball player well on his way to the majors this spring. I sighed. The truth is I had a horrible, horrible thing for them. Call it opposites attract or whatever, but athletes were magnets to my heart, and once I let them in, they obliterated me.
“Yeah?” I studied his face, taking in the perfection of each feature.
He reciprocated the appreciation, his gaze skating over the V of my shirt just enough to make my nipples harden. Stupid nipples.
“Do you feel this thing between us? Like a connection?” he murmured and then scoffed a little under his breath as if the idea was ludicrous.
“No,” I lied.
“Really? The moment I opened my door, something strange happened.” He gave me a self-deprecating shrug. “That is, unless my girl radar is completely off the rails.”
I laughed, but then quickly sobered.
Why would the King of Leland Football be interested in me?
He was like . . . this famous football star that the entire university—heck, the entire state of Georgia—adored.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, guys hit on me sometimes when I went out. I have long blond hair and nice boobs, but I wasn’t anything special. My nose was a little too long and my cheekbones a little too broad to be considered a conventional beauty. I rarely wore makeup except for lipstick and mascara, and I wasn’t big on dressing sexy unless you counted skinny jeans and flats.
A black jeep whipped into the parking spot next to me and my breath caught.
“Someone you know?” Max asked.
“My ex.” The anxious feeling I’d woken up with grew in the pit of my stomach.
“You dated Bart Morgan, the pitcher of the baseball team? Huh. Maybe that’s why you look so familiar. Maybe I saw you at the athletic banquet last year?”
I nodded.
“He’s why you don’t date athletes?”
“He’s why I’m not dating anyone. All I want is to graduate and get out of here. I don’t need anyone but myself.”
“Ah. He played you,” Max said.
“Like a banjo.”
Bart exited his car, grabbed his book bag, and took off for the sidewalk. He never even glanced in our direction.
My face flamed at the memory of how I’d trusted him even though Isabella had warned me he had a reputation. I twisted my fingers into my hair, tugging on it.
Max’s eyebrows furrowed, and he pulled my hand out of my hair. “Hey. What happened between you two?”
I fidgeted, realizing that Max had been watching and scrutinizing my reaction to Bart.
“Sunny?”
Maybe it was because it was the first time I’d heard my name on his lips or maybe it was the scathing look he’d sent Bart’s back as he walked away—but whatever it was, I let myself sink back into the car.
“He . . .” My voice trailed off as I recalled his birthday party. It had been a warm night last spring, and I’d been exhausted after working my shift at the library. Excited to see him after his busy week of games and being on the road, I drove straight to the baseball frat house without calling him first. I found him at the back of the den, lying on a couch with his hands down another girl’s pants—in full view of everyone at the party. And totally oblivious I was standing there. Gaping at them.
He’d been such a LIAR.
Oh, baby, I love you.
Oh, baby, you and I are meant to be.
I chewed on my lip. “He was with another girl . . . I watched them . . .” I paused, remembering the humiliation.
“Want me to kick his ass?”
I half-smiled. “No.”
“You still care about him?”
“I shouldn’t. Do you still care about Bianca?”
“She’s going to be in our class.” His face hardened.
My mouth opened. “No way.”
“Way.”
I shook my head. “Aren’t we just a bunch of losers?”
He thought about that for a moment. “I hate losing—at anything.” A light dawned in his eyes. “I have an idea. Let’s walk in that class like we’re together and blow their fucking minds.”
I started, even more so when he reached across and grabbed my hand.
“What do you mean?” I didn’t disentangle our hands, though.
He edged closer to me, his face earnest. “Let’s show them we’ve moved on—to bigger and better things. What do you say about being my pretend girlfriend for class today?”
What?
Was he nuts?
I shook my head to clear the fuzzies. “Slow down a minute. Are you—gay?” How horrible.
He sent me a get real look. “No. I’m just feeling unsure this morning—not an emotion I’m used to. I’d like to walk in there and show her that I’ve met someone special. Start the semester off with a bang.”
“Are you serious?”
A wicked grin curled his lips. “Why not? Let’s screw with them.”
My thoughts raced, grasping at a reason to say no. I couldn’t find one.
He had offered to fix my car if the groupie didn’t pan out. He’d even stopped and gotten me coffee. Plus, it would be nice to waltz past Bart with the most popular guy on campus next to me.
Normally, I’m the least impulsive person ever, but what could possibly go wrong if I pretended to be his girlfriend?
Nerves and excitement flew over me. “Let’s do it.”
Max
WE STOOD WAITING FOR THE elevator, Sunny a good two feet away. Her expression was composed, yet I sensed nervousness. She’d been quiet since we’d agreed to do this, and I hoped she wasn’t regretting it. The idea of a fake girlfriend was growing, taking root in my head.
“I don’t have a disease,” I teased, poking at her arm, trying to get her to relax. At this point, no one was going to buy it.
She considered me with a serious expression. “Whatever. I’ve heard about your reputation with the ladies. Love ‘em and leave ‘em seems to be your motto.”
“Meh. That was freshman year when I was stupid.” I grinned. “Maybe sophomore year too—but I’m clean as a whistle. Just had a complete physical.”
Her gaze shot to the crotch of my jeans and then to the wall. She swallowed. “Nice to know. I’ll file that away under my Things to Know About Max Kent folder—which I’ll never use.”
I grinned. “And no one’s going to believe you’re into me unless we play it up, which means I’m going to have to kiss you before we walk into class,” I said.