by Kata Čuić
“So, let’s tell them the truth.” Evie’s words about the most brilliant solution being the simplest ring in my ears. A lot of Evie’s words are still ringing in my ears.
“I can’t ask you to take on that much risk.” Tori lowers her gaze to the floor. “Just because I don’t think they’ll say anything online doesn’t mean it’s worth jeopardizing your starting position if the truth somehow gets out. All it would take is one of my brothers getting drunk at the bar and saying something to a friend for this house of cards to crumble.”
If she doesn’t trust her brothers completely, then I can’t either. “Do you trust me?”
Her deep brown eyes are full of sadness. “To worry about my welfare? Yes. Even though you’ve gone right back to being a closed door to me, you still care enough to make sure I won’t die by taking my family to the wrong place to eat. If you don’t trust me enough to tell me what Evie said that’s upset you so much, then…”
I know exactly what she leaves unsaid. She’s already told me before. It’s not just about supporting someone instead of solving their problems for them. Relationships are about trust. It’s a two-way street and a hotter commodity than a spot in Sports Illustrated.
Emotion I’m still fighting against clogs my throat. I clear it away. “Thank you for giving me the time to absorb what she said that night. I really appreciate that you haven’t pushed. I swear, nothing she told me is going to affect my ability to do my job. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want to burden you with it.”
She nods slowly.
“Hey! Are we gonna eat, or are you two gonna make out over there all night?”
Tori winces.
I turn toward her oldest brother who’s watching us from near the hostess station. The dude’s kind of a douche in my opinion. I’m already sick of her family shitting all over her, but maybe I can still turn around this losing game. “We’ll be right there. Go ahead and order.”
He grins. “We already did.”
I hold out my elbow for Tori to take. She does, but even that slight movement screams defeat. We follow her oldest brother to a private table, separated from the other patrons. It’s not because I’m a local celebrity. The staff here is honestly great about accommodating customers with food allergies. Since it’s nearly impossible to avoid seafood in restaurants in the Capital Region, an additional bonus to the more expensive places is that they cater to even the most sensitive clientele.
All eyes zero in on me as I help Tori into her seat.
One of the brothers smirks. “What a gentleman.”
He does not say it like he means it.
I take the empty chair on Tori’s right. “My mom didn’t raise me to be a rude jock.” I wink at their salty expressions. “Just a dumb one.”
Tori whips her wide-eyed gaze to me so fast, she’s probably going to have neck problems for a week.
I pick up my menu and pretend not to notice she’s basically screaming at me to behave. Without words. “So? Did everyone order the most expensive thing on the menu? Tori said dinner is her treat, and I’m starving. The wagyu is worth every penny. I’m thinking at least sixteen ounces.”
Tori chokes on her water.
That prime cut of beef is priced at twenty-five bucks for a measly two ounces. It’s good, but it’s not that good.
“I really hope someone ordered the Tomahawk. There’s a reason it’s the priciest item on the menu.”
Tori kicks me under the table.
Honestly, this is the most fun I’ve had in weeks.
I lower my menu and smile at Mr. Russo, who looks like he’s ten seconds from being overdone. “Did you order a drink, sir? This is the finest bar in all of Albany. They even have table service if you don’t want to drink from an opened bottle.”
“Been doing a little wining and dining, Mitchell?”
I think it’s the youngest brother who asks, but I’m not sure. They all look like male versions of Tori with red hair, pale skin, and brown eyes. I feel a little bad for them because they do not pull off the ginger look as well as their sister. Maybe that’s why they have such bad attitudes. They’re not convinced she’ll fail at life; they’re jealous she’ll outshine them.
She already does.
Her smile is warm and genuine when the server who’s usually assigned to us approaches our table. “Julian! It’s so good to see you! Did Amber say yes?”
Julian rattles off the results of the proposal plans he gushed to us about a few weeks ago. He and Tori go back and forth, excitement bubbling between them.
Stuff like this is why Tori has a chance to make it in marketing and public relations. She’s great at the public relations part, even if her marketing style isn’t what people expect at this level of business. She genuinely cares about others and is an expert at making strangers feel like old friends.
As I glance around at the various expressions at our table, it’s obvious her family doesn’t appreciate her for the amazing woman she is.
Mr. Russo clears his throat. Loudly.
Julian immediately stops his conversation with Tori. “My apologies. May I take your order, Miss Russo?”
She offers him a sympathetic half smile. “My usual, please.”
“Do you want gin or vodka this evening for your martini?”
A silent sigh heaves Tori’s chest. “Gin, please. Thank you.”
Uh-oh. Tori hasn’t touched gin since the hotel incident. She must really be feeling the pressure. Maybe I should ease up a little.
Mr. Russo raises a disapproving eyebrow. “You don’t need a drink.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll have a sparkling water instead, Julian.”
He nods and waits for my order, but food is suddenly the last thing on my mind. Every male member of Tori’s family has a rocks glass of something or other in front of them. They’re all apparently allowed to have drinks.
As ballsy as Tori’s always been since I’ve known her, she balances hunger for success with being a professional. I’ve never seen this submissive side of her. I don’t like it. I don’t think she does either. Her face is redder than ever, her eyes cast down to her empty place setting.
“I’ll have my usual, too. And Miss Russo will have whatever she wants.”
Julian’s green eyes laugh, but his face gives nothing away. “Yes, Mr. Mitchell.”
He flees the scene before a full argument can break out.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t come. Mr. Russo’s tone is flat. “That young man isn’t professional enough to work in a classy place like this. Discussing his personal life with patrons? Shameful.”
Tori calmly spreads her napkin across her lap. “That young man is responsible for making sure I don’t die while eating in this fine establishment, and he takes his job very seriously. He treats Mike the same as any other customer and has never once asked for a photo, an autograph, or any other favors. He’s extremely professional, and he’s our friend.”
Now, this sounds more like the Tori I know and—
Aw, shit. Evie’s right.
No time to dig into that though. I’ve got a bigger problem in front of me.
I take a sip of my water. It’s always a good idea to hydrate before playing a tough opponent. “Speaking of professional…To answer your question—Owen, right? Yes. I’ve been wining and dining your sister for months now, but she won’t give in. She insists our relationship stay business, only.” I shrug. “The media spins it the way they want. Tori’s so devoted to her job, she indulges my crush because she knows her market well. Fans want to see football players in committed relationships more than they want to hear another TMZ story about the latest domestic assault in the off-season. She makes me look good, and I get to spend time with her. It’s a win-win.”
Mr. Russo seems equal parts relieved and horrified. “This is all an act? A media stunt to make you look better?”
I rest my arm against the back of Tori’s chair. “Well, it’s all an act on her part. I’m not acting.”
/> I’m not acting.
Julian arrives with Tori’s drink.
The second he places the martini glass in front of her, she snatches it up and downs the cloudy liquid in three long swallows. She doesn’t even bother with the olives that are usually her favorite part. “Gonna need another of these, thanks.”
Julian’s worried eyes meet my steady gaze, but he pivots back to the bar without a word.
Tori’s oldest brother looks ready to breathe fire. “Do you need us to teach him a lesson about how to be a real gentleman, Tor? Because we can take him out back and do that right now if he’s forcing you into anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
That’s the first thing any of these guys have said tonight that I actually respect.
Tori just laughs. Snorts. Then, laughs harder.
This play was a gamble, but at least I haven’t pissed off the most important person sitting at this table.
I straighten in my seat and give her brothers and father the reassurance they deserve. Shit, I wouldn’t have asked permission before beating the ass of any guy who talked like that about my sisters. “I’d never do anything to hurt Tori. Honestly. I respect her decision to keep things professional between us. Spoiling her with nice dinners and nights out on the town are my ways of thanking her for all she’s done for my career so far. Would I like more? Yes. Would I ever force her into anything? Absolutely not.” I make sure my gaze is trained solely on her. “I respect the hell out of this woman.”
She won’t look at me, but a slight smile tips the corner of her lips. “It’s fine, you guys. Really. Mike and I both work very hard at our jobs. We’ve become friends since last season. It’s nice to have someone to blow off some steam with once in a while.”
“Blowing off some steam, huh?” The oldest brother leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “Sounds like friends with benefits to me.”
Mr. Russo growls, “What did I tell you?”
He straightens immediately. “I did not use the word ‘pleasure,’ sir.”
Every time I think Tori can’t possibly blush any harder, she surprises me.
“Focus, Peaches.”
The low rumble of his voice goes straight to my lady bits. My fingers have gotten more of a workout in the past week than they did during finals my senior year of college when I stayed up for nights on end, typing away furiously on my laptop to finish my assignments on time.
I’m losing sleep for an entirely different reason now. I blame it on my stupid brother and his stupid misinformed idea about friends with benefits. And Mike’s Oscar-worthy act in front of my family.
He sighs then rolls his neck, which makes a gross cracking noise. “I think we need a break.”
Yep. A break sounds like a fantastic idea. All this forced proximity with one of the most handsome, loyal, and caring men I’ve ever met is frying my brain. Short-circuiting my better business sense. Threatening to make me give in to urges that I would normally stomp out like embers from a bonfire before they can spread into something unmanageable.
I pull my laptop away from him. “You know what? I can finish this up. You’ve been more than generous with your time, and this is your last week of freedom before the season starts. I have enough of an idea about what you want your social media feeds to look like. I’ll round out the rest and run it by you for approval. How does that sound?”
He relaxes his large body against the couch, sprawling out his limbs. His very, very muscular limbs. Which are attached to such a glorious set of chiseled chest and abs that the definition is unmistakable even beneath a super soft-looking Wolves tee. My gaze travels down to sweatpants that define something else entirely. Something I fantasize about way too often to be good for my mental health.
I’m drooling. If I don’t get out of here, he’s bound to notice.
I shove my laptop into my messenger bag and hop up from my seat on the other end of the couch. “So, I’m just gonna get out of your hair now. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Mitchell.”
Even though it’s resting against the back of the couch, he somehow manages to cock his head back and squint at me like I’ve lost my mind. It certainly feels that way. “Did I do something to offend you? Are you mad about what I told your family? I thought I split the difference between what you wanted and what’s good for our careers pretty well, considering we didn’t have a lot of time to prepare.”
“Oh, no. It’s not that,” I squeak out. Very convincing. “You did great. I appreciate you putting yourself out there for me so much. Thank you. So much.”
He slowly rises from his seat, advancing for every step I retreat.
Predator and prey analogies race through my mind. This is exactly my problem. I am increasingly willing to be the object of his focus, time, and attention. All because I can’t separate acting from reality.
He said what he said to my family to help me, to support me and my decisions. That’s all. I’m the only one overcomplicating things when this situation is actually very simple.
My back hits the wall.
Nothing feels simple when he cages me in with his muscular arms, his face hovering so near to mine that I can feel his breath dust my lips. “Why are you calling me Mr. Mitchell again?”
His eyes practically dare me to lie to him.
“Because you’re my client, and I’m your PR manager,” I manage to whisper. It’s not a lie. It’s the absolute truth.
He nods slowly then rolls his lips in between his teeth as his gaze roves over every millimeter of my face like he’s trying to see deeper truths that have no place between us. “Why are you leaving?”
“Because I have a job to do!” I yelp. “The season’s about to start, and I have no idea how to be the public girlfriend of a pro football player. I need to go home and do some research, maybe update my wardrobe to something more appropriate, learn how to actually apply makeup, probably get a manicure…”
His arms fall away, then he scrubs his face with his hands. “Peaches. If there’s one thing I want from you in this mess, it’s this.” He levels me with a very serious expression. “Don’t change who you are just to be with me on the sidelines. Be yourself.”
Myself is about to ruin this. For both of us. “That’s not part of my job description, Mike.”
The mascara wand jabs my eyeball when a knock on my front door interrupts my latest attempt to follow a basic makeup tutorial.
This is it. I’m blind. I always thought I’d lose my eyesight from staring at a computer screen too long. Who knew mascara could do so much more damage?
“Hang on! I’m coming,” I call as I stumble my way toward the front door, bumping into furniture with only half of my usual depth perception in working order.
I don’t bother with the peephole. I can barely see anyway.
The flowers thrust out toward me the moment I throw open the door are kind of hard to miss though. “Mike! What are you doing here? What are these for?”
He leans down until his worried expression enters my half-field of vision. “I guess they can double as a get-well gift. What the hell happened to your face?”
I probably have black streaks running down my cheeks from involuntary tears. I definitely botched the contouring part of the tutorial. “I told you I have makeup research to do!”
He nods, still at an awkward angle as he stares up at me. “I thought you were just trying to get away from me.”
If I was that obvious about needing a little space, then he probably knows exactly why. My cheeks flame. “You didn’t offend me in any way. Thank you for the flowers, but there’s no apology necessary. I really do have a lot of work to do to get ready for the season. Shouldn’t you be…I dunno…bonding with your teammates this week?”
He mumbles something unintelligible before nudging me inside then closing the door behind him. “You only have to do all this stuff because of me, so…as long as you promise to never breathe a word of this…I can help you.”
That’s an intrigui
ng offer. One I shouldn’t even be entertaining. “Help me how?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rocks on his feet. “I sort of…know how to do makeup.”
Oh. That’s much more decent than the sort of help I’m perversely thinking about. I guess his offer isn’t so surprising. “Because you grew up surrounded by women?”
“Yep.” With a gentle hand on my elbow, he guides me down the hallway to my little bathroom. “Wash all this off and flush the mascara out of your eye with plenty of water, then we’ll start over.”
I follow orders. It takes me longer than it should to return to a blank canvas. Mostly because I can’t stop thinking that he’s skirting the truth somehow. His response was a little too rushed, a lot too curt, and followed up by a quick distraction.
It’s the same behavior my brothers use when they know they’re toeing the line with my dad.
Mike’s sitting on the bench in front of my vanity, sorting through the various tubes, brushes, and compacts scattered all over the place. He looks hilarious with his large body threatening to break the tiny pink stool, but the funniest part is that he’s choosing items deliberately. He forms a pile of makeup products on one side of the dresser then picks out coordinating brushes and even a sponge that weirdly resembles a sex toy.
I shake that thought right out of my skull and sit on the floor between his spread legs when he gestures for me to do so.
I can’t win no matter what I do. Thank God he’s at least not wearing sweatpants today, which would only accentuate the package that’s now at my eye-level.
“Wait a minute.” I suddenly realize why this situation feels like such a lie. “If you know how to do makeup, then why did you let me paint your face with concealer to hide the scratch marks Evie left behind?”
He frowns. “I kind of had a lot of shit on my mind at that point. I didn’t want to add more to the pile by blowing open another secret.”