Max Westbrook.
The music gets quieter as I turn around, and people seem to be moving in slow motion as our eyes lock. His eyes are bluer than I remembered. He takes a step toward me, gliding through the crowd of dancers like a shark through a school of fish.
His eyes roam over my body, sending delicious tingles coursing through my veins. His dark hair is pushed back from his broad forehead, and his black t-shirt is pulled tight across his muscular chest. I ball my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching out and touching him.
He looks a lot better in those jeans than he does in athletic shorts.
A lot better.
When he’s in front of me, I inhale his scent and another thrill passes through me. He leans forward and his cheek brushes against mine as his hand drifts to my hip. He lays a soft kiss on my cheek and says hello.
I melt.
I close my eyes as the smell of man fills my nostrils.
“Bride Tribe?” He asks, pulling away and arching his eyebrow as a grin stretches his lips.
I laugh, shrugging and pointing my thumb over my shoulder toward Julia. She’s found a condom somewhere, and is slingshotting it across the dance floor to a chorus of shrieks and laughs. Max nods, grinning.
“Ah.”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“You want to get some air?” He nods to the front door of the bar.
“Yeah,” I say. I can’t seem to manage any actual words. I glance back at Meg, who is staring at me with a big grin on her face. Ariana is right beside her, giving me a not-so-subtle thumbs-up. I shake my head, turning back toward Max. He slips his hand into mine as if it were the most natural thing in the world and guides me toward the exit.
5
Max
Of all the bars, in all of New York City, she walks into mine.
Or I walk into hers. Or we both walk into the same one.
Whatever.
This isn’t Casablanca, it’s real life. And right now, Naomi Rose’s hand is clasped in mine as we walk out of the crowded space. The fresh air hits us as soon as the door opens. It’s the end of September, and the chill has well and truly set into the air in New York City. Naomi takes a deep breath, slipping her hand out of mine and running her fingers through her fiery red hair.
“It’s hot in there.” I watch her chest rise and fall as she fans her face, flicking her eyes back toward me. Her look almost knocks me back. I don’t know if it’s her makeup, or hair, or that emerald green, skin-tight dress she has on, but looking at her is doing all kinds of things to my body.
“It is,” I reply, trying not to stare at her. I nod to her sash. “Whose idea were those?”
Naomi runs her finger along the sash, looking down at the gold writing. She chuckles, shrugging. “Not mine.”
“Not into weddings?”
“Not into marriage, really,” she replies with an arch of her eyebrow.
“No? I thought girls loved weddings.”
Naomi rolls her eyes, planting a hand on her hip. “Right, because all women are just one monolith who share all thoughts and opinions.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I grin.
“That’s a stupid stereotype anyways.”
“What’s that?”
“The one where women are all these wedding-crazy bridezillas who plan their wedding from the day they’re born.”
“I’ve met lots of women who love weddings.”
Naomi huffs, shaking her head. It feels like the wedding talk has struck a nerve, but I don’t know how to steer the conversation away from it.
“I’ve met lots of men who want to get married,” she says. “It takes two to tango, you know. I refuse to believe that all these men are just being dragged to the altar against their will.”
“True.”
“I hate that ‘ball and chain’ saying. If you don’t want to get married, then don’t get married! It shouldn’t be joked about like it’s a life sentence. Why is there so much pressure on us to tie the knot?”
“You should talk to my parents,” I laugh. “Maybe you could convince them to come around.”
She glances at me, cocking that pretty head to the side. Her eyes soften.
“Do they pressure you to get married?”
I snort, glancing down the street as a car zooms past. I rub my hands together to warm them up as I shake my head. “They’re brutal. They’ve been asking me when I’m going to get married since I left for college.”
“That makes me glad my mom is the way she is,” Naomi replies, following my gaze to the street. I steal a glance at her and my chest squeezes. Her body looks unbelievable in that dress. It makes her skin look milky white and her hair look like it’s made of pure fire.
I clear my throat as the heat flows between my legs. “Your mom’s not into marriage?”
Naomi snorts, looking at me. Her eyes are gleaming under the streetlights. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, shaking her head.
“My mom is pressuring me not to get married.”
“Must be nice.”
“I guess,” Naomi laughs. “She never got married, and I think she instilled this idea in me that marriage was a way to keep women under control.”
“Do you believe that?”
Naomi is quiet for a while, and I take a step closer to her. She shivers, and I run my hands over her arms. She must be freezing in that dress.
She closes her eyes and lets out a soft sigh that makes my body thrum with desire. When she opens her eyes again, she tilts her chin up to look at me. Her lips look soft and kissable and her tongue darts out to lick them. I resist the urge to groan.
“No,” she finally responds. “I don’t believe that marriage is evil. I think it’s not for everyone, but I do think that people can get married for love and that it can work. But I think that people rush into it.”
“You can say that again.”
My hands are still on her arms, and the touch is making my heart beat faster. I desperately want to kiss her. I want her to flick those pretty, green eyes up at me, and I want to crush my lips against hers.
“Why did you leave your fiancée at the altar?” She asks, looking up at me as her eyebrows draw together. I drop my hands and take a deep breath.
My failed engagement is like a constant reminder of how things just never seem to work out for me. It didn’t work out in college, when I thought I would marry Farrah. And then it didn’t work out again two years later, when I realized I couldn’t spend my life with Heather.
Maybe the problem is with me, not them.
Naomi is still waiting for an answer, so I shrug.
“I guess it’s just what you were saying. We rushed into it. I gave in to the pressure from my parents. I thought it was the right thing, and then I realized it wasn’t. Or maybe she wasn’t the right woman.”
“And it didn’t occur to you before the day of your wedding? I mean that poor woman…”
“I know, I’m an asshole.”
Naomi grins. “I never said that.” She shivers again, and I wish I had a jacket to lend her. Instead, I just wrap my arms around her and pull her close. She sighs into me, leaning her head against my chest. My heart is thumping, and I hope she can’t hear it.
“You want to go back inside?”
“Not really,” she mumbles into my chest. “But I guess we should.”
“I thought you weren’t the kind of woman who does things just because you think you should. Isn’t that what all the hatred of weddings is about?”
Something flashes in her eyes as a grin spreads across her face. She pushes away from me, keeping her hands on my chest. “Mr. Westbrook, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were mocking me.”
“Me? Never.”
She takes a step back, searching my face. Her lips part for a moment and I see desire flash in her eyes. Then, Naomi swallows and her expression changes.
“This is probably inappropriate,” she says, laughing nervously. “I’m half drunk, hugging
my client. All the while my boss is inside for her bachelorette party. I could probably get fired.”
“For talking to me?”
She chews her lip, staring at my face and letting her gaze drop down my body. Her look sends a thrill straight down my spine, and all I want to do is wrap my arms around her again, tilt her chin up toward me and taste those soft, pink lips of hers.
Finally, Naomi shakes her head. “Let’s go back in. They’re probably waiting for me.”
“They’re probably still drunkenly dancing and haven’t even noticed you’re gone.”
Naomi grins, smacking my arm and shaking her head. I wrap my arms around her and she melts into me. It feels so good to have her near. My whole body is drawn to her like a magnet. She puts her hands on my chest and slowly pushes herself away. She bites her lip and the fire in my belly ignites.
I want her so fucking bad.
“You’re trouble,” she grins.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
Instead of answering, she just shakes her head and laughs, turning back to the door. She looks over her shoulder, nodding toward the sound of the music.
“You coming?”
“I was thinking we might get out of here,” I reply. Naomi’s eyes widen and she turns toward me. I take a step closer to her, running my hand over her hip. She shivers, leaning toward me slightly. When she opens her eyes, she’s got a sad smile on her face.
“I can’t,” she says, shaking her head. A sharp, burning pain passes through my chest. Naomi puts a hand on my chest and sighs. “We work together. It would be wrong. You’re making such great progress with your knee, I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardize that.”
“Are you saying you care more about my knee than you do about me?” I ask, forcing a smile on my lips.
“I guess so, yeah. I am saying that,” she laughs. She slides her hand to my shoulder and stands up on her tip toes. Her soft skin brushes mine as she lays a kiss on my cheek. She’s so close it’s making my head spin.
“Sorry I asked,” I reply. “Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I didn’t mean to… you know. Proposition you or whatever. I’ve put you in an awkward situation.”
“Under any other circumstances, I would have said yes.”
My eyes widen as my whole body throbs for her.
I watch her turn back toward the door. The music gets loud and soft again as the door opens and closes behind her. I run my fingers through my hair, groaning.
That was the nicest rejection I’ve ever had, but it still stings. She’s right, obviously. It would be a terrible idea to sleep together. I’d probably end up sabotaging the whole thing and have to find a new physical therapist right as my knee is starting to feel better.
But as much as I repeat that to myself, I can’t forget the way her body feels in my arms, or how the heat in my veins ignites whenever her skin touches mine.
6
Naomi
The music hits me like a wall as soon as I step inside. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but I spot Ariana and Meg right away. They’re at the bar. Ariana has some poor man hanging off her, as usual. She’s laughing, but I can tell she’s just flirting for the sake of flirting.
I make my way over to them, looking over my shoulder half-hoping to see Max. I wouldn’t go home with him. At least, I don’t think I would. But if he asked me again, it would be hard to resist.
I want him. I can’t deny it. He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. When he held me in his arms, all I wanted to do was run my fingers up under his shirt and feel his skin under mine. I wanted to feel the rippling of his muscles under my hands, and feel the power of his body as he held me tight.
I’ve touched his body before, but only in a professional setting. What would it be like if we weren’t in my physical therapy office? What if we were in his bed, or in my bed, or anywhere else, for that matter?
When he looked at me, I was dying for him to kiss me.
But he’s my client.
We work together.
It would be wrong and unethical.
And plus, he’s Max Westbrook! He’s in the tabloids, for crying out loud! His family is like, the richest family in New York or something. They do some sort of big business importing and exporting for huge corporations.
What would he want with me?
He was probably just drinking, and I was the easiest girl for him to chase tonight.
“So?” Meg asks with a raised eyebrow. “Should we change that sash from ‘Bride Tribe’ to ‘Bride-to-be?”
My cheeks warm and I shake my head. I accept a drink that Ariana hands me.
“No,” I say to Meg.
“But…”
“But nothing!” I laugh, sipping the drink. I grimace, looking at the amber liquid. “What is this?”
“Long island iced tea,” Ariana says. “I asked the bartender to make them extra strong.”
“Of course you did.” I roll my eyes and taste the drink again. ‘Strong’ is an understatement.
“Stop stalling,” Meg says. “What happened!”
“Nothing happened, really. We talked about marriage and how we didn’t like the pressure to get married. Then I came back inside.”
Sort of.
“Yeah, right. And Ariana was just discussing the geopolitical importance of the Middle East with her new friend.” Meg side-eyes me, shaking her head. “So where is he? He didn’t come back in with you.”
“He had to leave.”
“Oh my gosh, Naomi, stop lying,” Meg laughs. “Did he come on to you? Did you kiss?”
Ariana raises her eyebrow. “He is smoking hot. Those eyes, my god!”
“It was fine. It was professional,” I lie. Meg and Ariana just laugh. I sip my drink and say a silent thanks when Julia comes barging into our conversation. We’re soon swept up in another wave of dancing and drinks and celebrating her upcoming wedding. Meg gives me a loaded look and I just shrug.
I’m not lying, nothing happened.
Technically.
Well, it didn’t feel like nothing. The way he held me made my whole body vibrate. It felt like a whole lot more than nothing.
But on paper? Nothing happened. We didn’t kiss, I rejected his advances. I was professional.
Ish.
Except the part where he invited me back to his place and I was dying to say yes. I can overlook that as a drunken slip-up.
The whole thing feels like the complete opposite of professional. I can’t help scanning the room for him. My eyes keep drifting to the front door, hoping that I’ll see his wide, muscular shoulders slipping through. He’s at least a head taller than everyone else wherever he goes, and I imagine locking eyes with him across the crowd.
It doesn’t happen, though.
He didn’t follow me in, and he’s not here waiting for me to change my mind.
A drunk man puts his hand on my hip and I elbow him away. He tries to rub up against me again on the dance floor, and Ariana brings her heel down on his foot. He yelps and hops away from us as Ariana shields me.
“Oops,” she shrugs, making sure he’s as far away as possible. “My foot slipped.”
“Thanks,” I laugh. “Why do guys think they can just rub their junk all over girls? It’s gross.”
“Just break their toes with your heels,” Ariana grins. “I have a hundred percent success rate with that strategy.”
I grin, scanning the crowd again for Max. Finally, I shake my head and turn back to my friends. I put my arm around Julia as she sings along to the song. She’s off-key and off-time, but she’s happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
For the thousandth time tonight, I wonder if marriage isn’t so bad after all. Maybe promising to commit to someone for the rest of your life isn’t a jail sentence for women. Maybe it really is a celebration of love.
Not that I’ve ever had the opportunity. I never let myself get close enough to men
for marriage to even be a remote possibility.
Tonight is the perfect example. I probably lost any chance I had to hook up with Max. Even though I know it’s for the best, I can’t help but feel disappointed. Isn’t that how relationships start? With the thrill of someone new, and thinking, ‘maybe I should, maybe I shouldn’t’? Why is my reaction always to lean toward ‘shouldn’t’ instead of ‘should’?
Ariana has another man hanging off her, Meg is dancing and singing with Julia, and I’m just scanning the room for any sign of the man that I just turned down.
I down the rest of the Long Island iced tea and put the glass down on a nearby table before heading toward Meg and Julia. I plaster a smile on my face and start singing along with them. I’m greeted with smiles and hugs and they start singing louder.
I may have lost my chance with Max tonight, but that doesn’t mean it has to ruin my evening. A Beyoncé song comes on over the speakers and the bridal party erupts into excited shrieks. I laugh, glancing one last time at the door. Then, I shake my head and do my best to forget about Max Westbrook.
7
Max
The ringing of my phone wakes me up. It’s the ringtone I’ve set for my mother’s number, and based on the headache gathering behind my forehead, there’s no way I’m going to pick up that phone call.
I wasn’t kidding last night when I told Naomi they were pressuring me to get married. It’s been the number one topic of conversation for most of my adult life.
They thought I’d marry Farrah in college, but she left me as soon as she knew my football career was over. They pressured me to marry every single girl that I ever dated after that. Once, I agreed with them, and I ended up leaving the poor woman at the altar.
That was all over the tabloids, just like every other mistake I make. Even Naomi’s heard of the last one. The guilt still makes my chest burn when I think about Heather. I shouldn’t have done that to her, and I won’t do it to anyone else.
So, no. I’m not going to field any questions about my love life at 7am on a Sunday morning. My parents can wait.
Mr. Right: The Complete Fake Engagement Series Page 3