“So Patrick’s attentive, but not too much?” I ask carefully.

  “Just the right amount. I swear,” she says. “He gives me space when I need it, and he’s around when I want him to be.”

  “Good. I’m glad. I worry about you,” I say as I pull open the door to the front office.

  She snorts. “Understatement of the year.”

  I bristle. “I’m allowed to worry about my baby sister.”

  “And I appreciate it, but I swear everything is good. Now…what about you and Drew? I haven’t said anything to Patrick about you two…” But the way she trails off makes it sound like she wants to.

  “Good,” I say, then take a deep breath. “But maybe soon it won’t have to be secret.”

  Wow, that felt strange to say, and a little uncomfortable, but only because I’m getting used to the idea of not hiding.

  I hope.

  “Really? Are you guys going to do this for real?”

  “We’ve talked about it,” I say softly, floating the idea out loud since I’ll have to float it to Stephen any second now.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I’m flying blind here, but I’ve given it a lot of thought in the last twenty-four hours. “I want to talk to my boss. Try to understand what’s possible. I know how to ask things without implicating myself or Drew.”

  “I’m rooting for you,” she says, her enthusiasm loud and clear.

  I thank her, then say goodbye and head inside. Once I reach my office, I settle in with the employee handbook, digging into any guidelines on employee-player relationships. There’s not much in here—the only guideline is that dating a co-worker should be disclosed to human resources.

  I’ll start with my boss.

  I take a deep, fueling breath, push back in my chair, and stand up so I can find Stephen.

  Only, there’s no need to track him down. The tall, shrewd man is knocking on my open door. My stomach dips. I’m hardly ready. Do I say, Hey, what would you think if I dated the quarterback? Or maybe, Stephen, I have a funny story to tell you involving a paddle board oar, a margarita, and me.

  “Come in,” I say instead.

  He closes the door behind him and chooses the chair across from my desk. “About last night…”

  I sit up straighter, nerves tightening. “The Every Kid event?”

  Did he overhear our sweet nothings at Whac-A-Mole? Cold fear seeps into my bones. Just because I was about to march into his office for a heart-to-heart doesn’t mean he’ll rubber stamp my plan.

  My messy, unformed plan.

  What the hell is my plan, anyway?

  All my clarity slinks out the door. I need this job. I have loans to pay off. Drew needs to have a good season. The team is rehabbing its image.

  What am I doing?

  “You and Adams,” Stephen adds.

  A weight lodges in my chest. Keeping a blank face, I wait for him to say more.

  Stephen clears his throat. “Did I pick up on a vibe?”

  “What vibe do you mean?” I ask evenly.

  He spins his phone around, slides his thumb across the screen.

  My body is a high-tension line as he shows me a photo from last night on a sports gossip site. The shot is of Drew and me talking by the Whac-A-Mole.

  Flirting, really.

  But the caption reads: Mercenaries QB playing a boardwalk game with the team’s attorney.

  Like the site thinks we’re cute?

  Stephen’s gray eyes flicker with Machiavellian delight. “Fun pic, right?” He swipes the screen again and displays another. “Just like this one the reporter found.”

  He shows me a picture I’ve seen before—the one taken at the first event at the hotel, in front of the Young Athletes banner for the charity. Here they are last month at the Young Athletes event. Hmmm ☺

  “And that gave you a vibe?” I ask, stripping emotion from my voice until I’m sure what he’s after.

  “A vibe and an idea,” he says. “Especially when I came across this shot.” He hands me the phone once more. I gulp. The picture of the four of us leaving Fake Play is new to me. Looks like it was taken from a distance. Was a photographer stalking Drew that night?

  The caption reads QB and friends seeing fake romance movie.

  “Where’s that from?” I ask, wildly curious.

  Stephen shrugs. “Just some fan. Someone was eating at Ruby’s Taco Truck, then posted this shot of you guys too,” he says, like those details don’t interest him.

  It seems Stephen’s not interpreting the handbook the same way I am, and his interpretation is the one that matters.

  “We ran into each other. I was with my sister, and he was with his friend, so we all saw the movie together,” I explain, feeling like I’ve been called into the principal’s office.

  And I’m doing a horrible job telling Stephen I want to date Drew. I’m backpedaling. I’m untelling him.

  I am the worst.

  He waves a hand dismissively. “That’s all fine. The fake romance movie and the pics got me thinking. You two seemed like a real couple. And I thought, wouldn’t it be great if they were together? This happy couple on the team. Maybe even going to dinner tonight in Venice Beach.”

  Ohhhhh.

  Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

  “I thought we were having dinner with you tonight?” I want to be crystal clear on his meaning.

  “You can take my reservation. Just the two of you. Let me be blunt, Brooke.” He clasps his hands together. “With all the shit this team went through last year, this potential love affair is looking to be a bright spot—the quarterback playing Skee-Ball with kids, and then with the woman he likes at a charity function. An upstanding, respected attorney. What a delightful story. Co-workers falling for each other. It made me think if I were writing a movie script, I’d craft this kind of romance because the press is eating it up.”

  Oh, my stars. That’s why he sounds so…delightfully calculated. He wants me to date Drew? Or wait. Does he want me to fake date him? “So you want me to pretend date him? Or date him for real?”

  Stephen smiles devilishly. “What a great idea you just had.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “But make it seem real.”

  But it is real.

  I try to make those words pass my lips, but he heads for the door, checking his watch. “I’ve got a call. The reservation is at eight under my name, and I’ll adjust it for two. Look natural if someone takes your pic. There’s little the public loves more than when the squeaky-clean quarterback wins the heart of a good woman, so carry on. There’s even that press tour next week of the new food booths here at the stadium. He’ll be there. You’ll be there. I’ll make sure HR knows, so everything’s on the up and up,” he says as he walks away, dropping the mic and leaving me to fake-date the quarterback with his blessing.

  Or real date?

  I don’t even know which one. Or if it matters. But I know this—I’m expected to be seen with him tonight at eight.

  I sink into the chair, shell-shocked, trying to figure out how in the hell that happened. Then I open my phone to send Drew a text.

  Brooke: So, this is an unexpected twist. Stephen got a vibe from us, he said. He wants us to be fake dating. Or maybe he thinks we’re real dating. It doesn’t matter. I was so shocked when he told me he thinks we’re adorable together and that it’d be a great idea if we were together.

  Drew: Holy fuck, that’s all that matters, honey! Because we are.

  Brooke: This is so surreal. He even changed the dinner reservation this evening so it’s just for two.

  Drew: Except it’s the real world, finally. We’re not in the parallel one any longer, and tonight, I’m taking you out.

  I guess I didn’t screw this up. At least I don’t think so.

  21

  BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

  Brooke

  “Can I interest you in wine?”

  It’s a simple enough question from the server at Max’s, but I draw a blank.

  I glance at Drew, then at the goateed server, then back at Drew. Am I supposed to order liquor? Is that acceptable for a fake date? A fake real date? Should I order lemonade instead?

  I’m…flummoxed

  Drew lifts a brow. “You like chardonnay usually, right, honey?”

  He must think I’ve spaced out.

  But if I order wine, will that make me sound like a lush in the sports press? Is the media going to say I have a drinking problem?

  “I’ll have a Perrier,” I choke out.

  “And for you, sir?” the man asks Drew.

  “Same,” he says with a smile, so natural when I’m so not.

  When the guy leaves, Drew shoots me a curious look. “You okay, Brooke?”

  “I’m great,” I chirp.

  But do I look annoyed? Wait. Do I look appropriate? I’m wearing a red blouse and jeans. Is that proper fake dating attire? Should I have worn a boho dress? A cute little hat? A slouchy top?

  Where is the handbook for this, Stephen?

  “How was your day?” I ask Drew, pasting on a smile. Like we always have cheery, PR-y, media-friendly conversations. Not like we play with innuendos, talk dirty, share stories, or chat about hopes and dreams and orgasms.

  “It was good. Worked out, ran with Patrick, practiced. I told Patrick about us,” he says, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes bright.

  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.

  I ease down, his strong hands digging into my hips as he guides me. I lean in closer, my breasts brushing his chest.

  “Just you and me now,” he murmurs. “Use my dick to get off, honey.”

  I shudder from the pleasure rushing through me already. “I love riding your cock.”

  His eyes darken. His growl deepens. “That’s right. Use my dick to get off, and use this beautiful mouth too,” he says, running a finger along my bottom lip. “Love it when you say filthy things.”

  “Love it when you fuck me hard,” I counter as he thrusts, stroking up.

  His big hands run along my waist until he covers my belly with one palm. There’s something deliciously possessive in the gesture.

  “You look so fucking beautiful riding my cock, Brooke.” His voice is a filthy whisper, but tender somehow too.

  I moan, letting my head fall back as I find my perfect pace, rocking up and down on him.

  “Love the way your sweet pussy grips me,” he rasps out, and I gasp at the lovely smut.

  We become a hot, wild thing, a smashing of sweaty, greedy bodies. I’m nothing but desire and the wish to come. As my muscles tense, pleasure erupts everywhere inside me.

  Seconds later, he follows me, pounding me hard, rough, like the lashing of rain against a window as he joins me.

  Soon, we collapse in a sweaty heap on my couch, and he smothers my neck in kisses, then my cheek, then my ear. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, you.”

  “I’m falling for you,” he says.

  I smile. “I’m falling so hard for you.”

  22

  A CLEAN SHAVE

  Drew

  Best week ever.

  I’ve spent every evening at Brooke’s home except last night, when she slept here with me at my condo. After a fantastic round of morning sex, I walk her to the door on Saturday and give her a long, lingering kiss goodbye. “See you on Monday,” I say.

  “See you then,” she says, then breezes out.

  The team flies to San Francisco tomorrow morning for a Sunday night game against Carter’s local rivals—the San Francisco Hawks. I hurry to get ready to head to the stadium for a review of the playbook before tomorrow’s kickoff.

  But when I open the door to leave, I stop short.

  Patrick stands outside, his fist poised to knock.

  “Hey man, what’s up?” I ask, my brow furrowed. “I need to head to the stadium.”

  “Just this little thing known as a meeting.” He taps his watch. “I was at the coffee shop down the block with Tavarez, waiting for you. To talk about the donations you’re making, the role he wants you to play. Pretty sure he wants you on the board. But you didn’t show. What’s up?”

  Oh, shit.

  I’m a dick.

  “I’m sorry.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I totally forgot.”

  He gives me a quizzical look. “That’s not like you. But that’s why I texted to see what was up. I called too. You didn’t get either?”

  “Um,” I say, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. Truth was, I was busy with Brooke all morning. My face between her thighs and all. Didn’t check my phone. Didn’t even turn it on. “Must have missed it. I’m sorry. I feel like a jerk.”

  Patrick’s a chill dude, and rarely gets ruffled. But he’s clearly concerned. “You getting enough sleep?” His protective side is out in full force. “You’ve always needed a solid eight hours.”

  I do the math. I’ve been nowhere close to that. More like six, maybe seven. But the sex and the conversations with Brooke are so worth it. “I’m close to that.”