Outmatched: A Novel

by Kristen Callihan

  Ignoring my physical response to his smile, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, why can’t you just call me sweetheart? Sweetheart is nice. Not the way you’ve been saying it, in that sarcastic, condescending, makes me want to punch you way. But if you changed your tone, sweetheart would definitely work.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said in that sarcastic, condescending, made me want to punch him way. “Don’t ever try to punch me. You’d break your tiny little hand.”

  Before I could come up with a suitable response, he continued. “Everything else looks okay.” He stood and placed the contract on the desk to sign. Then he held out the pen. “Your turn.”

  Oh my God. I was actually going to do this. I was going to engage in a ruse with Rhys Morgan, pretending I was his girlfriend. Glancing between us, my doubts resurfaced that anyone would believe it.

  “What?” he asked.

  I wrinkled my nose. “No one will believe this.”

  During my Rhys googling I’d come across photos of him with women. He had a definite type. Hair color, eye color, face—they all changed with every new woman but what didn’t was the long legs, curvy hips, generous boobs, and overtly glamorous style.

  They were sexy bombshells.

  I was so not his type.

  “You mean because I’m a low, rough boxer and you’re a Fifth Avenue princess?” he said with a teasing smile.

  “No.” I squirmed, not sure how to say it without coming across like I was insecure. I was not an insecure person. “I’m just… people are used to seeing me with men like your brother. He has a computer science degree and definitely makes more sense on paper. You’re more physical and you date women who are the absolute opposite of me.”

  If Rhys heard the last part, he didn’t acknowledge it. “You think I’m a fucking moron because I don’t have a fancy college degree?” He crossed his arms over his chest and frazzled me on the spot with the heat of his glare. “I’ll tell you something, princess”—he said the word with such distaste, I longed for Tinker Bell to make a reappearance—“some of the smartest, most capable people I’ve ever met don’t have a fancy college degree from MIT.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I just meant… I’m worried that people won’t buy the idea of you and me as a couple.”

  “Well, sweetheart, I can sell anything.” He crossed the room to stop in front of me, forcing me to look up. His eyes smoldered so intensely, my breathing went bye-bye. Rhys trailed the back of his knuckles down my cheek and neck; a shiver skated down my spine. As if he’d felt it, his eyes danced.

  His voice lowered, smoky and husky. “Don’t you worry about me convincing people I want you.” He bent his head to whisper in my ear, “I always put a hundred and ten percent into any job.”

  Skin burning hot, sensations tingling in places they had no business tingling, I stumbled back from his overwhelming presence.

  What the heck was that?

  Avoiding his gaze, I nodded. “Uh-huh. Okay. Well. That is comforting to hear.” I pushed past him to the table where the contract sat and quickly signed. “I’ll make copies and have one couriered over for you for your records and then I’ll be in touch when I need you again, which might be soon because Jackson said Fairchild has been asking about—”

  “Tinker Bell, you’re rambling.” Rhys cut me off.

  He was grinning. Huge. Self-satisfied. Very, very pleased with himself for rattling me.

  The big jerk. “If you’re done crowing, I’ll need your number.” I pulled my cell out of the small backpack I had with me and waited.

  Rhys gave me his number.

  “Okay. I’ve sent you a text so you have my number now. Text me your bank details. I’ll send the payment at the end of the first month.” I slipped my cell back into my backpack along with the contract. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll be awaiting your call, boss.”

  I sniffed haughtily and moved to stride past him. “That’s an improvement on Tinker Bell.”

  Just as I cleared his personal space, I felt a tug on my ponytail and let out a little squawk as my hair tumbled down around my shoulders. Whirling around, I glared at the sight of my ponytail holder dangling from his fingertips. “What the heck?”

  He shrugged. “No one would believe I’d date a woman who wears a ponytail other than to work out. You have nice hair.” His gaze looked over said hair. “Why hide it?”

  “Because,” I said, snatching the holder back, “I rode my bike here and I need to be able to see, not to be constantly shoving windblown locks out of my eyes. I’m sorry if that interferes with your caveman expectations of what constitutes feminine beauty, but if you get to say the F word, I get to wear my ponytail.” I spun away, my strides furious and stompy.

  “You got a lot of rage in you, Tinker Bell,” he called at my back.

  I pulled open his office door with one hand and threw up my middle finger with the other. His laughter followed me all the way down the hall.

  If we made it through this ruse with me going to prison for assault instead of murder, I’d call it a win.

  The guy really pushed my buttons.

  And I hadn’t even known I had any.

  Six

  Rhys

  * * *

  AngryTink: Hey. This is Parker. Parker Brown.

  My phone dinged loudly. I fumbled around my bed, finally finding the damn thing under a pillow. Wiping the sleep off my face, I rolled onto my back and read the text that had pulled me out of a pleasant sleep. I smiled. It was just so … Parker. Settling in, I answered her.

  RhysThis: Don’t have to tell me who you are. Your number is programmed on my phone. What do you want?

  AngryTink: Well, good morning to you too, Happy Pants.

  My smile turned into an evil grin. The girl was always going to punch back and make it count.

  RhysThis: That’s Mr. Happy Pants. Though, TBH, my pants aren’t too happy at the moment. Want to help me out with that?

  AngryTink: Tempting. Truly. But, no.

  RhysThis: RU sure? ‘Cuz Happy Pants Rhys is much more agreeable than Sad That He Had to Self-Satisfy Rhys.

  AngryTink: Would you please behave?

  RhysThis: I’m not the one who mentioned the emotional state of my pants.

  AngryTink: ARGH!

  A chuckle rumbled in my chest as my thumbs tapped out a response I knew would piss her off more.

  RhysThis: Was that even English? Honestly, Ms. Brown, I thought you were educated.

  She took a moment to answer. I could picture her, phone in hand, grinding her teeth.

  AngryTink: You’re deliberately trying to annoy me, aren’t you?

  RhysThis: You’re quick. I’ll give you that.

  AngryTink: Mr. Morgan, I’m about ten seconds away from finding an alternate fake boyfriend. A goat on a rope would be a better candidate at this point.

  It was cute she thought that was threatening.

  RhysThis: Yeah, probably. But the goat doesn’t have a signed contract. I do, Tinker Bell.

  AngryTink: ARGH@!!

  RhysThis: You’re kind of cute when you talk pirate.

  She didn’t answer. Rubbing my chest, I sat up in bed and tried again.

  RhysThis: Parker? You there?

  RhysThis: Parker?

  Hell. Maybe I pushed too far. Or maybe she dropped her phone. Or threw it. She might have thrown it.

  RhysThis: You really going to give up that easily?

  The phone rang in my hand, startling me. Parker Brown. I guess we were through with texting.

  “You missed the sound of my voice, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Hers was crisp with irritation. “My thumbs got tired. Would you please behave yourself for a moment, Morgan?”

  “Misbehaving is much more fun.”

  “Be that as it may, I have business to discuss.”

  So fucking proper. It shouldn’t have turned me on. But it did. Which was unfortunate. Scowling, I hauled myself out of bed and walked toward the kitch
en. Coffee was in order. Coffee and a good dose of reality. Flirting with Parker Brown was a stupid idea.

  “All right,” I said, filling the carafe. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve been invited to a cocktail party tonight.”

  “Aw, look at us, already getting invited to places as a couple.”

  She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Honestly, the speed in which they accepted our fallacy as a reality surprised me as well.”

  “I bet.” I snorted and flicked on the brewer. “Just chalk it up to the magic of my winning personality.”

  “More like your winning record,” she muttered.

  “Nice volley, sweetheart.” I grabbed a cup off the shelf. “And a hard punch too. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “There’s a lot in me that you don’t know about… wait… I don’t know if that made sense. Never mind. The point is that you don’t know me.”

  I smirked at her rambling. She was too cute.

  Focus, Rhys. I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a much-needed sip. “So, where’s this gig tonight? Some fancy hotel?”

  “No. It’s on Fairchild’s boat.”

  “I’m not wearing boating shoes, Parker. I’m saying that right now.”

  “His boat is a two-hundred-foot yacht, Morgan. No boating shoes required.”

  Right. I should have known. Suffocating heat invaded my chest, and I set down my cup with a clink. Who was I kidding? I was a racehorse being pulled out and put on display so the guests could get a good look at the merchandise. It was my job here, and forgetting that was stupid.

  Parker nervously filled the silence with more rambling. “No, I think a nice pair of trousers and a button-down shirt would work. If you’d like, I’d be happy to provide you with—”

  “I told you I had proper clothes.” I rolled my tense shoulders and glanced at my closet. The thought of putting them on made my skin tighten. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I won’t embarrass you.”

  “You are determined to be in a foul mood over this, aren’t you?”

  “Let’s just say the only woman allowed to pick out my clothes was my mother, and that stopped when I was seven.”

  “Fine. Moving on, we need to get our stories straight about how we met. I was going to discuss this with you on Saturday, but …”

  She trailed off with a strangled sound. And I found myself smiling again.

  “I distracted you, didn’t I?”

  She didn’t say a thing. Because we both knew it was true.

  “How did we meet?” she asked. “I can’t quite figure out what to say that will be believable.”

  “Because the idea of us makes absolutely no sense?” I offered lightly. I mean, I could have been insulted, but she was right—we didn’t make sense.

  “Yes.” She sighed. “I’m not very good at acting.”

  She sounded so forlorn, I was almost sorry for her.

  “My mom once told me that love doesn’t make sense.” As soon as I said the words, I winced, feeling like a sentimental fool. I was never sentimental. But I pushed on. “Falling for someone isn’t about logic. It’s chemistry.”

  She was quiet for a second. When she answered, she sounded softer than before. “That’s … well, that’s surprisingly romantic.”

  Don’t go there, honey.

  “Yeah, well, it’s a good line of attack. I’ll tell them …” I rubbed my neck and stared out the grimy window where the sun shone down on the black tar rooftops. “I’ll tell them I was on my way to meet my brother for a drink.”

  She snorted loudly.

  I bit back a grin. “I was late and in a hurry so I wasn’t watching where I was going. You were walking out of the door. I was going in. We collided. And there I was, my hands full of this irate little pixie with the prettiest brown eyes I’d ever seen. How could I resist? So I asked you to join me for a drink to make up for nearly plowing you down. But it was just an excuse because I knew I’d be a fool to let this gorgeous uptown girl walk out of my life without at least trying to get to know her first.”

  Utter silence met me on the other side of the line. It was so quiet, I could hear a morning news program playing on her end. An uncomfortable flush worked its way up my chest. This is why I didn’t talk too much.

  “Parker? You there?”

  She made a noise in the back of her throat, as if she were choking. “Yes. Yes. I’m here. Sorry.”

  “Well? What do you think? Will that pass muster?”

  Silence greeted me again and I swore I heard her mutter “fiddlesticks.” But then she answered crisp as new bed sheets. “Yes. That’s … good. Perfectly adequate.”

  Perfectly adequate? Well, hell. I thought I’d done all right. It had been kind of sappy, sure, but I couldn’t see anyone not believing it.

  She cleared her throat and charged on. “The party starts at seven thirty. Boston Harbor. We could meet—”

  “I do not meet my women for dates. I pick them up. Always.”

  “Morgan,” she said with asperity, “I am not your woman.”

  She couldn’t see my grin, but it didn’t stop me. “Tinker Bell, I have a contract that says otherwise. Better get used to it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Sand snakes,” she snarled under her breath.

  Whatever that meant.

  “Oh, and Tink?”

  “What?” Another snarl. Such joy and light from my irate pixie.

  “Prepare yourself for some physical contact. Because I touch my woman. Always.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  I paused, my hand hovering near the small of Parker’s back as she halted on the sidewalk outside her apartment. “What am I trying to do?”

  I honestly didn’t have a frickin’ clue what she was thinking. Hell, I was trying my best not to look too closely at her. If I did, I might not stop. Parker wasn’t dressed like any of my usual dates. She was wearing a black halter-top dress that started at her collar and skimmed her slim form to a few inches below her knees. It wasn’t tight and revealed nothing but her tanned shoulders and arms. It was incredibly sexy.

  Maybe because it didn’t show everything. Only hinted at it. I had to use my imagination. My imagination was vivid.

  I itched to undo the clasp at the back of her long, graceful neck and see that top slide down to her waist. She didn’t have large breasts. They were little cupcakes. Goddamn, but I wanted a bite.

  I pushed the thought away and peered down at her big brown eyes. She’d put on makeup, some shimmery gold color that made her eyes the color of rich coffee. Her petal-pink lips pursed in annoyance.

  “You think I’ll balk at riding this stupid motorcycle and then you can play Mr. Superior about it.”

  I glanced at my Harley Fat Boy, and then at her dress. That fancy silk dress hugging her hips and slim legs. Hell. “You might not believe it, sweetheart, but I didn’t actually think.”

  Her brow quirked. “Oh, I believe that.”

  Funny.

  Grunting, I rubbed my jaw—which was now smooth and bare. Yes, I’d shaved for her. I’d put on fresh pressed gray slacks and a cream cashmere top. Both from my circuit days. They were a little loose on me; I’d lost about ten pounds of muscle since I’d stopped training. But I had them on. I’d done it for her. An effort lost to the blunder of picking her up with my Harley.

  “I’ll call us an Uber.” I pulled out my phone but her slim hand on my wrist halted me. Why I felt that touch all the way to my balls was a mystery for the ages.

  “This wasn’t a trick?” She eyed me like a little human lie detector.

  “Fucking hell, Tink. I’m not out to get you here. I’m getting something out of this arrangement too. I just didn’t think. I have a bike. It’s what I ride. But I’ll get us an Uber, all right?”

  My verbal spew ended in a ringing silence. The sun was sinking, shrinking golden rays that highlighted the red strands in her hair. She had it pulled back in one of those fancy updos that
lay like a coiled snake at the back of her head. Delicate pearl earrings dangled from her small ears. Everything about Parker Brown was delicate and pretty.

  An illusion. The woman had an iron core.

  “You really shouldn’t cuss so much,” was all she said. “It shows a lack of imagination.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Her brows kicked up. “It’s not bull … bull-hockey.”

  Bull-hockey. Jesus. This woman.

  “It is.” I laughed at her scowl. “Cursing is a sign of intelligence and those who do it frequently are both happier and healthier than the poor repressed souls who keep it all in.”

  “Oh, bull-pucks.”

  “Hockey? Pucks? What’s next? Bulls on skates?”

  A flush worked over her cheeks, and she growled.

  I laughed again. “Look it up if you don’t believe me.”

  “I will.” She stomped over to my bike. “Are we going, or should we stand here talking nonsense all night?”

  If I had my choice, we’d talk nonsense.

  “You really going to ride on this?” I handed her the spare helmet I’d brought along.

  She sniffed, all polite irritation, and put it on. It was adorably huge on her head. “My mode of transportation is a bicycle. I think I can manage.” And then she did something I knew was designed to kill me. She pulled the skirt of her dress high up her thighs, exposing some truly spectacular legs, and straddled the bike.

  I stared at those beautiful, smooth legs, imagining my tongue tracing a path up the curve of her thigh, and my dick twitched. I got on my bike before I had a situation going on in my pants that would make driving uncomfortable.

  It wasn’t easy, though. Not with Parker’s thighs bracketing mine and her hands gripping my sides. By the time we pulled up to the docks, I was practically sweating. It was a relief to park and get some much-needed distance from my tiny tormentor.