Real Fake Love

by Pippa Grant

  His eyes narrow briefly, like he knows I’m faking my excitement, but then he nods. “Great. Let’s go.”

  “Now?”

  “Oh. You need to go to the bathroom?”

  I jerk a hand up and down my body.

  He starts to grin, and gah, stupid ovaries. They’ve completely forgiven him for not wanting to cuddle me.

  One simple grin, and he’s back in my good graces, and, unfortunately, I want to kiss him even more.

  “What’s wrong with your pajamas?” he asks.

  “These aren’t party attire.”

  “But they match today. You could wear your panda slippers and complete the ensemble.”

  I huff.

  He grins bigger. “Okay, okay. You can have a few minutes to get ready. Gotta find your matching panda hat, right?”

  That man.

  He’d take me to a party while I’m in my panda pajamas.

  And unfortunately, that makes me like him all the more.

  27

  Luca

  Seeing Henri crying is like seeing all of the happiness in the world sucked away by an evil demon of darkness who needs to take a baseball straight between the eyeballs and a bat between the legs.

  And I don’t ever believe in racking a dude, but in this case—yeah.

  I’d rack the ever-loving shit out of whatever took Henri’s happiness away.

  But since I can’t rack a pregnant woman, I did the next best thing.

  I texted Nonna.

  She calls me back while Henri’s in the shower, and I give her a quick rundown on what I need her to do.

  Also?

  Nonna’s cackle should be terrifying. I can hear what she’s thinking even though she’s currently in Vegas with a spotty cell signal.

  It worked. The Eye worked!

  Joke’s on her.

  Probably me too, because the last thing I’m going to be is the next guy to ask Henri to marry him. I promised her I wouldn’t, and why would she even believe I was serious if I did?

  But if Nonna will help Henri in the meantime, she can think whatever she wants.

  Henri’s laptop won’t boot up, so I wipe it off as best I can and pack it up to take in for repairs.

  Or recovery.

  Whatever the computer shop can do for it.

  And then I wonder what’s taking so long, because throwing on a clean Confucius T-shirt and jeans shouldn’t be a forty-five-minute affair.

  I’m about to head up the stairs when I hear them squeaking.

  “There you—whoa.”

  Henri—my Henri, the Henri who lives in funny pajama pants and expressive T-shirts, the Henri who covers her hair with a bandana or my Fireballs hat when it gets unruly, the Henri who lives in mismatched pajamas and doesn’t own makeup, is a fucking bombshell.

  She freezes above the trick step. “Is this a cow-tipping party? Did I overdo it? Should I go change again?”

  Her short hair has been tamed into submission and is an organized mass of curls without the devil horns. Her lips are painted like cherries, her eyes are smoky, and she’s in a fancy, soft purple lace tank top showing enough cleavage to catch a man’s interest—namely, my interest. She’s covered it with a classy white cardigan that’s doing nothing but make me want to see her bare arms, and her white jeans are making me itch to peel them off her hips too.

  She might not fit the definition of a classic beauty, but Henri Bacon is friggin’ gorgeous to me.

  Her brown eyes are wary as she inches back up a step. “Or is it because I’m wearing white after Labor Day? I know—my mother would have a fit too. But I like these jeans, and they’re the only ones that fit me, because I have those five extra launch week pounds that I’ll work on next week.”

  “I—no. You look—you look amazing.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m now fit to stand beside you on that Kangapoo billboard downtown.”

  “Hey.” I snag her by the waist and pull her down off the stairs.

  Her hands fly to my shoulders. “Gah. Warn a girl.”

  “I fucked up.”

  “Luca. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know the door would scare me, nor did you know I had hot chocolate in my hand, and—mmph!”

  And here I am, fucking up again.

  Because I’m kissing Henri.

  Again.

  And god help me, she’s kissing me back.

  There’s only so much I can resist, and Henri thinking she’s not attractive isn’t something I can let go.

  Especially when my fuck-up is that I haven’t told her she looks amazing when she’s wearing her pajamas. Or when her hair’s crazy. Or when she’s smiling so big it looks like her face can’t possibly hold all that happiness without cracking.

  She doesn’t have to get dressed up to be her own brand of gorgeous, yet here I am, being the asshole who waits to tell her until she fits herself into the mold of what society says is pretty.

  I turn to press her against the wall, trip over the damn philodendron that my mother insisted on putting in here for me, and we break apart, panting, while I make sure Henri doesn’t fall. “You okay?”

  Her gaze meets mine, and she immediately looks away. “Yes. Yes! Perfect. We should take a selfie or something to send to Nonna, since you’re wearing my lipstick now. Super smart. Really smart. Here. We can use my phone.”

  She fumbles and drops it, and I want to grab her chin and make her look at me and tell her I like her, but what happens then?

  Nothing good.

  She doesn’t want forever.

  Hell, I don’t want forever. I want to play baseball and—

  And not ever hurt a woman again the way she’s put herself up to be rejected five times.

  She’s not being paid to be here. She knows about Nonna’s Eye. She’s asked me to not fall in love with her.

  She’s not Emily.

  She wouldn’t hurt me.

  But I’m terrified I’ll hurt her.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Drop the hot chocolate?”

  “Get engaged. Why did you let yourself get engaged to five assholes who weren’t good enough for you?”

  Her cheeks go pink as she dives for her phone. “You say that like I’m the victim of five proposals.”

  I press my lips together and fist my hands in my own hair, because if I don’t, I’ll either grab her and kiss her again, or start ranting about everything she deserves and what idiots her former fiancés are, and that’s not what she asked me to do.

  She asked me to help her learn to not fall in love.

  “There we go. Here. Smile for your Nonna. She’ll love the little lipstick touch.”

  Her phone screen displays the two of us, me looking like I want to go punch a hole in the fabric of the universe, her looking like she might want to puke, and the two of us fake the most awful, unconvincing smiles I’ve ever seen.

  “Now, you promised me a party.”

  Only Henri could dig deep enough to find that much cheer and enthusiasm for a party that neither of us wants to go to right now.

  But if my options are staying here, alone with this woman who’s maddeningly more attractive with every breath, or heading out to be surrounded by people on our first chance to celebrate making the playoffs, then I’m heading out to the party.

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  She says goodnight to Dogzilla, and we take off.

  I don’t argue about climbing into her small SUV instead of the two of us squeezing into Fluffy Maple, who’s in desperate need of a tune-up, and she doesn’t argue about letting me drive.

  Thirty long, painful minutes later that are full of listening to her chirp about everything that’s on her mind except herself and me and us together, we pull into a downtown parking garage, and I wish we could sit down here so I could listen to her for another hour, which is the exact wrong thing to wish.

  She. Needs. Not. Me.

  I don’t do love.

  I don’t do marriage.

&n
bsp; And Henri? One day, Henri will find her Prince Charming, a man who deserves her, who recognizes her for the sparkling diamond she is, and who will spend his life making her happy.

  I’ll hate him. But he’ll be better for her than me and all of my fucked-up baggage could ever be.

  On our elevator ride up to the penthouse, she tells a story about Dogzilla waking up in Nonna’s laundry basket, startling herself, and then freaking out even more after jumping out of the basket with one of Nonna’s bras hung around her neck.

  I can’t laugh. Not when I’m struggling to figure out how to simultaneously protect Henri from all the assholes in the world while helping her find the happiness she deserves. And she’s acting like it’s completely and totally normal for me to be a distant asshole, even though the image of Dogzilla racing through my house with a bra dangling behind her while Henri and Nonna tried to corner her is hilarious.

  This isn’t normal.

  It’s not normal at all.

  But my brain is stuck in a loop that I can’t get out of.

  When the season’s over, Henri’s leaving. It’ll be over-over without a doubt as of November first, because best possible scenario, we make it all the way to the championship series, which can’t go any later than November first.

  I’m down to mere weeks before this fake relationship is over, and before I have to face the Nonna music.

  But it’s not facing Nonna that makes me want to ask Henri to stay. It’s Henri.

  I can’t ask her to stay without telling her how I feel, and telling her how I feel means admitting that I don’t want this to be fake, except a real relationship implies commitment, and it requires her to take a leap and want to date me too.

  I could live with myself if Henri tells me I’m not her type.

  I couldn’t live with myself if I asked her to stay, and then became one more guy who lets her down.

  Her laughter at her own story dies away, and her brows furrow as she studies me.

  The elevator doors open, and the sounds of a party in full swing invade the antechamber.

  Her inquisitive brown eyes light up. “Oh my gosh, is this Cooper’s place? Mackenzie told me he has a super cool apartment, but she also said she hasn’t been there yet, so we looked at pictures and it was pretty. And fancy.”

  “No, it’s—”

  “Oh my god, it’s Beck Ryder!”

  I wince. “—Beck Ryder’s place,” I finish.

  “Luca, man. Welcome.” The former hometown boy band guy turned international underwear model and fashion mogul grins at us and gestures us deeper inside. Playing professional sports has its perks. Like hanging out with the rich and famous. Bonus when they’re good people. “Beer? Water? Steak? Cheese fries? A few chicken breasts? Piña colada? You hungry? Thirsty? I’m starving. Great game, man. Great game. Hi. I’m Beck. You must be Henri.”

  He holds out a hand to my fake girlfriend, who’s gawking.

  “Can I sniff you?” Henri asks.

  Beck’s brows go up. “Like, my hair? My clothes?”

  “Your armpits. I have a writer friend who swears you wear the best deodorant. It’s for research. Cross my heart.”

  “Ah, let me check with my wife. If she doesn’t care, I’m good with it.” He shoots me a look. “If it’s cool with you too.”

  “Lift your arm, Ryder. If my girlfriend needs to do research, she needs to do research. You don’t get in the way of an author in need.”

  Henri beams at me, and I feel like I just ran a marathon and then hit four grand slams and set a deadlift world record.

  That is, elated but also very tired, and also suspicious that I’ve been using steroids or something, because no mortal man could do all of that in a single day without artificial assistance.

  Beck lifts his arm, and Henri leans in. “Wow. You do have good deodorant.”

  Hell, now I’m curious.

  I lean in to sniff too, but Ryder shoves me away with a laugh. “Don’t think so. C’mon. Get some food.”

  “Henri!” Marisol charges into the entryway. “I didn’t know you were coming! Get in here—the Thrusters’ wives and girlfriends are here too. They want to meet you, because the Thrusters have a book club. A romance book club. Plus, chocolate fountain. Chocolate. Fountain.”

  I swear, Henri blows out a relieved breath before she gives me an apologetic smile, starts to leave, comes back, hesitates, then goes up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “Text me if you need me, okay?”

  And then she’s gone like she’s glad to get away from me.

  Not that I can blame her.

  “Whoa, Luca, did your Nonna shrink your junk again?” Francisco asks as he pops his head around the corner too.

  Beck ushers us both into the kitchen, where most of the rest of the team is gathered around the massive island loaded with food. The chocolate fountain is on a side countertop, which I can only tell by the number of women surrounding it and leaving with plates loaded with chocolate-covered fruit.

  Brooks glances at me, then at Henri diving into the chocolate fountain crowd like it’s her salvation. “I don’t know what you did, man, but I recommend figuring out whatever she likes most in the world, and doing a lot of that.”

  “Junk problems?” Emilio asks it, but every last one of my teammates who’s here is watching me like they were all thinking it.

  I ignore them and glance around the penthouse, looking for Henri again.

  She’s near the television in the next room, surrounded by Copper Valley royalty. Athletes, both soccer and hockey. Their significant others. A token rock star and movie star. Cooper’s sister, who should be famous, because that would annoy him.

  And they’re all gathering around Henri because she’s a beacon of joy, and when she lights up and starts talking, it’s impossible for anyone to resist wanting to be closer to her.

  So how the fuck has she been dumped by fiancés five times?

  “Eat a sandwich.” Cooper shoves a plate into my chest. “It’ll help the hangries.”

  “I’m not hangry.”

  “Trying to help so they quit thinking of your shrunk junk, man,” he stage-whispers.

  “I don’t give two shits about you all thinking about my junk.”

  Cooper lifts a brow. Beck does one of those subtle gotta go check on something motions and slips out of the open kitchen and down a hallway. Brooks and Emilio share a look.

  It’s one of those dude’s got it bad looks.

  I glance at Henri again, feel my blood pressure rise as one of the single hockey players angles closer to her, which she’s naturally oblivious to, because she’s Henri, but Marisol steps in and glares at him before I have to go rack him in the nuts—which, again, I’m morally opposed to, because that shit hurts, but not when it’s a dude hitting on Henri.

  Yeah.

  I have it bad.

  And I don’t want it.

  I don’t want to be the guy who teaches her how to not fall in love.

  She falls in love with the sunrise every morning, with the weird shapes in her toast at breakfast, with the way a bird shakes itself off after flying into a window, and with basically anything that isn’t evil.

  Henri falls in love.

  Not only with men, but with the world.

  Every. Single. Day.

  I can’t be the person who helps her figure out how to not do that.

  I won’t.

  Because she wouldn’t be Henri if she didn’t fall in love.

  I glance around again. “Doesn’t Ryder have a big game room?”

  Cooper grins. “You feeling like getting your ass whooped in some Pac-Man?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  Beats getting my ass whooped by myself.

  28

  Henri

  I owe Luca so big for tonight.

  Not that I expect him to let me pay him back—or that I expect he wants anything to do with me given how weird he’s acting—but I do.

  I owe him.

  Maybe I’ll get h
is stairs fixed for him.

  Or maybe I’ll make him my famous waffles for breakfast in the morning.

  He’s off tomorrow—it’s the team’s last day off before the end of the season—and so I should—

  I should not make him waffles.

  Nonna isn’t around.

  We’re not honestly dating.

  And since he kissed me earlier, he’s been acting like I gave him cooties.

  Or like I should’ve brushed my teeth better, or possibly like kissing me gives him psychic visions of the end of the world, and the fate of humanity rests on the two of us never boinking again.

  “Henri?”

  I blink at Marisol and realize I must’ve stopped talking mid-sentence, because seven people are staring at me expectantly. I swirl a strawberry in a pile of chocolate on my plate and smile like she caught me doing something bad. “Oh. Sorry. Plot bunny. It happens sometimes. I’ll be in the middle of a sentence, and poof! A new idea comes up.”

  I am such a Liar McLiarson.

  “For Confucius?” Tillie Jean asks.

  I shake my head. “I can’t talk about it yet. I have to see if it has merit first.”

  “Y’all back up and give Henri some room.” Marisol flaps her hands at the three guys who’ve leaned in closer. “Shoo. Go on. Somebody bring this poor woman a drink. You’ve been asking her to talk nonstop for an hour, and all she’s had is chocolate and strawberries.”

  “An hour?” I whisper to her while one of the hockey players dashes off to do her bidding.

  “At least,” Mackenzie agrees. I’ve finally gotten to meet her best friend, Sarah, who’s married to Beck Ryder, and who wasn’t at all bothered by me asking to sniff his armpits, though in retrospect, I’m a little concerned that I did that.

  It’s possibly not quite normal.

  But it was the first thing that popped to mind when we got off the elevator after Luca was so growly and silent the whole way here.

  Honestly, I would’ve signed up to go to a party anywhere, with anybody, to escape the weird tension that’s settled between us tonight.

  It’s worse than the tension after Boston.

  Much, much worse.

  And now I’m talking too much.