Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
He’s happy and relieved.
But I can’t shake the sense someone is watching. Probably because someone, somewhere, is.
“You did?” I glance around. Someone is probably listening too.
What if some fan finds out how long our fling has been going on? A reporter? A blogger? Will we be sooo cute then?
“How did it go?” I ask.
Drew takes a few seconds before he answers, like he’s weighing something—or maybe editing himself? I can’t quite tell. Then he smiles and says, “He got a kick out of learning you’re my taco-spankings woman.”
“Shhh,” I hiss.
Shoot. Did I just sound like a shrew? Disciplining my boyfriend? Wait. Is he my boyfriend?
My stomach churns.
“My bad,” Drew says, chastened.
My heart slams against my chest. I feel so foolish. “It’s fine.”
“He’s happy for us. He’s a good guy, like I told you, and he understood why I kept it quiet. But he said for the rest of time, he will look for a chance to pretend he’s you via text.”
I laugh, but it fades quickly.
Drew stretches a hand across the table. “But seriously, are you okay?”
I peer around. Is that skinny guy at the bar going to take our picture? The woman with the pierced nose? The couple taking selfies?
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Pretending to real date him is harder than sneaking around.
I wake the next morning to a slew of pics of us on social—laughing at Max’s, toasting with Perrier, eating scallops.
We’re apparently the new it couple.
Quarterback Drew Adams and his new GF Brooke Holland, an attorney for the team, were spotted dining at Max’s in Venice last night. Aww, they’re like an office romance! I wonder where they had their meet-cute? Outside the locker room? Or did the QB stop by the break room to make a cup of Joe? We want to know!
What would they say if they knew we met on the beach over a month ago? Sneaked around a few times? That he got me off in traffic?
My stomach swoops as I walk into work.
Felipe gives me a thumbs-up.
Nancy catcalls with a you go, girl.
At least they aren’t talking about Sailor and how hot my ex is.
Until I walk past Abby’s desk in analytics. “You have the hottest exes,” she says, then stammers, “I-I mean boyfriends. The hottest boyfriends.”
They’re not both my boyfriends. But I don’t correct her. I smile, like I’m doing a toothpaste commercial. Then I shut my door, blow out a breath, and dive into work.
When Stephen stops by, he looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in ages. “I trust Max’s was good.”
“Fantastic,” I say brightly. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. It’s not easy to snag a table there. Besides, he doesn’t want to hear how exhausting it is to fake it, yet not fake it.
“Last night looked great. Maybe take a walk along the beach some evening,” he says, like a conductor of this fake real boyfriend theater.
Code for do it tonight.
I want to just be alone with Drew. But Drew is the face of the franchise, and Drew draws fans, and Drew is great in public.
Really, I can’t complain that I’m going for a walk with the guy I’ve been secretly longing to publicly date.
That night, we stroll along the sandy shores of Venice Beach. Do I hold his hand? Put an arm around his waist?
When he comes in to kiss my lips, I dart away, giving him the cheek.
“Brooke, I can tell you’re uncomfortable,” he says, his brow creased. “What can I do?”
I can’t stand feeling so tense, so wound up. “It’s just weird. I feel like I can’t be myself. I’ve always felt like myself with you—until now.”
As soon as I say it, I want to kick myself for complaining.
I wanted this, right?
I wanted to be with him for real.
But I don’t want to do it wrong. I don’t know how to do it right as a public couple.
“You didn’t feel like yourself last night either, did you?”
He knows me so well already. I’m grateful, though, that he gets me. That he sees the issue.
“No,” I answer. “I just wanted to tease you and make innuendos, and play footsie, and kiss you at the table, and…” All at once, my tension loosens into a sex confession.
“Climb me in public?” he murmurs with a lascivious raise of his brows.
“Kind of,” I admit, then I spill more of my concerns. “Are we supposed to be a nice guy/nice girl couple? Because I’m not. I want you to—”
He shuts me up with a kiss.
A very un-chaste kiss, very much in public.
When we break it, I say, “I want you to take me home and fuck me.”
It’s the first thing that’s felt real since this fake dating started.
He parks himself on my couch and pats his legs. “Get on me and ride me.”
Hell yes. He’s not using a condom. We’re both negative and exclusive, so I straddle him, and he grasps my hips, positioning me over his cock.