Fake Fiancée

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  “I’ll text you later,” she said as she sat up on the bed to pull on her underwear and pants.

  “I won’t respond.”

  “I don’t care. I just like knowing you know I’m thinking about you. I picture you seeing my text and smiling. It’ll make your day better. Like a little ray of sunshine.”

  Psycho. I gritted my teeth. “Trust me, I don’t think about you. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Sierra.”

  “Fine, Sierra,” I growled. “Just because you slept in my bed and did a cock selfie with me doesn’t mean jack. I don’t do groupies.”

  Her lips curled in a half-smile. “I don’t give up that easily.” With a little wave she stumbled out the door.

  Yes! Finally. I slammed it shut behind her, the noise reverberating through the house.

  Eminem blared in the background as I flew around the room, getting my ass in gear for my Anatomy and Physiology class with Professor Whitt. I wanted to get an early start today, especially since he was one of the hardest teachers on campus. After taking the fastest shower ever, I threw on loose jeans, a V-neck navy blue Leland shirt, and leather flip-flops. I swept my long hair up in a quick man-bun. I hadn’t cut it since my mom died three years ago.

  With a swift gait, I strode in the den and saw my roommate, Tate, standing in plain view of the street from the bay window, his hair a rat’s nest as he scratched his junk in his Union Jack boxers. An overly hairy blond giant originally from London, he was the first string wide receiver and my best friend since freshman year.

  I clicked the light on. “Morning,” I called out, biting back a grin as he covered his eyes.

  “Bugger off,” he muttered and dropped down to the couch. “Never let me drink tequila again—at least until next weekend.” He leaned his head back, mouth flapping open.

  I slapped him on the shoulder. “Last night was our last hurrah, dude. Football has officially begun.” As a senior and the head quarterback, I was the captain on our team, and it was my job to make sure we all stayed tight. Living and breathing football would be all I’d do for the next few months.

  I wandered into the open kitchen area to scrounge for food. It was a small room, but sufficient for two athletes who did the majority of their eating in the athletic cafeteria on campus. We’d just moved out of the dorms and into the rental house this summer, and I dug it. The house itself, like many on the west side of campus, was built in the seventies and needed a shit ton of updates. We’d actually gotten one of the nicer ones thanks to my dad, who knew people.

  The Formica countertop was littered with empty pizza boxes and beer cans from our celebration of the scrimmage. I rounded it all up and chunked it in the trash. Tate didn’t care too much about keeping the place clean, but I did. A blueberry muffin that had somehow not been eaten this week caught my eye and I snatched it, devouring it in two bites. I grabbed a protein drink from the fridge and chugged it. I felt wound up. Antsy. Like something was about to happen.

  A staccato knock came at the door.

  “Bro, can you get that? I’m cleaning up,” I called from the kitchen.

  “I’m a fragile flower,” he moaned. “Can we just ignore it?”

  Fine by me. I grabbed my backpack, my laptop, and notebooks. Where were those new pens I’d gotten? I scurried around, opening the drawers under the counter until I found the new pack of fine-tips and stuffed them in.

  The knock came again, and a chick’s voice came through the wood of the door. “Hello, I know you’re there. I can see both of you through the window.” An exasperated sound came from outside, and I may have heard the creative insult jock-ass.

  I cocked my head. Not Sierra’s voice. Thank God. I made a meh noise and opened the fridge to grab a Gatorade. Which one did I want, the blue or the original . . .

  A loud plop came from the porch. Was our unwanted visitor stamping her foot? I smirked. She could stamp all she wanted. I was sick to death of girls showing up here expecting to get a signed autograph—or suck me off. I didn’t stick my cock in girls I didn’t know. I wasn’t my father.

  A grumble came from behind the door. “I’m calling the cops in five seconds if this door isn’t opened. One, two, three, four—”

  Cops?

  That got my attention. I slammed the fridge shut. I did not need the cops over here.

  If this was another groupie . . .

  I went to the door and flung it open.

  Sunny

  MY ALARM BLARED AND I reached over to click it off.

  The glare of the sun hitting my blinds woke me. I scrubbed at my face and squinted as I pried my eyes open.

  Welcome back to Leland.

  I stretched, loosening tight muscles that had washed every dirty crevice in my new rental house the day before. I’d even pulled down the weird mallard duck wallpaper in the den. I felt accomplished and ready to tackle the day, even though I had Professor Whitt this morning and my stupid-jock-ex would be there.

  I turned my head to check out the time again and met the beady gaze of a huge brown spider that sat next to my head on the pillow.

  My scream pierced the morning silence, the sound ricocheting off the walls and probably waking the old lady who lived down the street. Of course the spider didn’t like this. He skittered off my pillow and down between the cracks of the headboard.

  Shuddering in revulsion, I bolted out of bed, stumbled over last night’s shoes, and promptly stubbed my big toe on the wooden dresser. I yelped, fell to the floor, and poked at the red-hot pain that was my appendage. Only me. And only on the first day of class. Ugh.

  I eyed my bed accusingly, willing the spider to come out and face what he’d done. Dammit. Now I’d have to sleep on the couch for the rest of the semester.

  My phone rang, and I limped over to scoop it up. My bestie Isabella was on the ID.

  “Morning, Sugartits!” she sang into my ear.

  I winced. “Please. I haven’t had coffee yet.”

  “Can’t help it. I had sex last night, and it was phe-nom-e-nal.” She drew the last word out and made a crazy meow sound at the end. I held the phone out from my ear to lessen her sound effects.

  “Imagine that,” I said wryly. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  She rattled off some boy from the Tau house she’d met at a back to school party. She described him in vivid detail, right down to the piercing on his privates.

  “You think I’m a slut, don’t you?” she asked after a few moments.

  “Of course not.” Because that’s what friends say.

  She kept chatting, clearly in the mood for socializing, even though I could hear customers in the background of the local Starbucks where she worked. How she didn’t get fired, I had no clue.

  “I bet he has a buddy,” she added.

  “Don’t they all?”

  She harrumphed in disgust. “You need to hop on over and meet that sexy neighbor of yours. Hello, Mr. Quarterback. I bet he’s got some backfield in motion. I bet you could score with him. Heck, I bet he knows how to ball—”

  “Stop,” I said. “I don’t do athletes anymore. It’s a hard rule. And if it had been my choice, I wouldn’t have rented a house across the street from him.”

  “Hello, have you seen how wide his shoulders are—without the pads? Day-um.”

  I heard a slurping sound and pictured her sucking down a latte or a steaming mug of hot chocolate. “What are you drinking?”

  “Caramel Macchiato.”

  I cursed. I loved that drink.

  “I’m also eating a raspberry white-chocolate muffin. It’s delicious. There’s this amazing cream cheese in the middle of it—”

  “I hate you. I really, really do.” Sweets were my thing, and the image of a muffin made my belly grumble. Not surprising since my dinner last night had consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—’cause it was cheap and pretty much all I’d had in the house.

  Padding to the kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, I came to a dead halt in
front of the stained coffee maker I’d inherited from my grandmother Mimi when she’d upgraded. My heart dropped. I’d forgotten my grocery run last night. I wailed.

  “What’s wrong?” Isabella asked.

  “Dammit. I was so tired last night, I forgot to stop at the market.” I pressed my forehead against the coolness of the fridge and banged it. “I don’t have any coffee, there’s a giant spider under my bed, my ex is going to be in class, and my toe is falling off. I’m gonna die!”

  “God, I love the way your voice gets extra Southern when you get upset. Do I need to come over and give you a pep talk?”

  “Maybe.”

  She cleared her throat. “You’re Sunny freaking Blaine and you always have your shit together. You’ve paid your own way through college. You’re not Italian yet you make the meanest lasagna in the whole state of Georgia—maybe the world. You don’t care what people think, case in point: yoga pants are your dress up clothes. You drink coffee like I shoot tequila. You once stole a car. You are a badass mama jama, and I’d be your lesbian lover in a heartbeat if I went that way—and if you went that way. I’m so jealous of your blond hair that I dream of shaving you bald—”

  “Now it’s weird.” I smiled even though she couldn’t see me. “I feel better, though. Lunch at Hotdog Haven soon?”

  “Yeah,” she said around her chews. “I’ll tell you about frat boy’s big wiener.”

  I groaned. “Thank you for that parting image.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I got off the phone and limped to the bathroom. A small room with an antique claw tub, it had a certain eclectic charm with pale blue walls and a myriad of rainbow and unicorn decals leftover from the previous renters. I hadn’t the heart to take them all down. The biggest one, a white unicorn, was stuck right next to the mirror over the sink. With a glittery pink mane and long eyelashes, he was fit for a princess—so unlike my own childhood. Perhaps that’s why I kept him.

  I sent him a nod. “Morning, Charlie. Let’s hope this day doesn’t get any worse.”

  It did.

  After wrapping my toe in a waterproof Hello Kitty Band-Aid, I put my long hair in a bath cap and hopped in the tub, which had been modernized with a shower head on the wall above it and a shower curtain on an oval rod hanging from the ceiling. I turned the water temp to hot and just stood there, gut churning. Today I was facing Bart for the first time since we’d broken up.

  Later while I was brushing my teeth, I glanced out the window next to the tub and saw a disheveled brunette bounce out of Mr. Quarterback’s door, stumble off the porch, and fall in the azalea bushes. I snickered. She crawled up, brushed herself off, and weaved along the sidewalk, obviously still trashed as she dug in her purse for what I assumed were her keys. She was the second girl this week who’d done the walk of shame from his house. The brunette finally made it to her BMW, got in, and cranked it up. Gunning the engine, she lost control and sideswiped my poor Camry parked on the street.

  My mouth plopped open, and my forgotten toothbrush fell to the floor. I’d just paid the clunker off this summer!

  She threw her car in reverse and backed up, scraping along the side of my car, making me cringe at the sound of grinding metal. Then she sped off.

  Fuck! I stared up at the dingy popcorn ceiling and blinked my tears away.

  And so it begins. The football player and I were finally going to meet.

  I was going to murder him.

  Max

  THE GIRL ON MY PORCH was livid.

  I studied her, taking in the wild white-blond hair that draped over a wrinkled shirt with Pizza is my Soulmate printed across the front. A pair of black yoga pants clung to her lean thighs. They’d seen better days according to the hole at the knee. I quirked an eyebrow, my gaze leisurely as it roved across her nice tits, all the way to her pink toenails and then back to her flushed face. Simple, no makeup, and barely together. Not the usual kind of girl who knocked on my door.

  Yet . . .

  My heart jumped.

  I knew her.

  I shifted through memories of countless girls I’d met—and screwed—at Leland.

  Had she been in one of my classes? Had I met her at a party?

  Nope. I got nothing, but I couldn’t erase that feeling of goosebumps, like a ghost was blowing on the back of my neck.

  Her eyes flared as she took in every inch of me. Heart-shaped lips parted in surprise. Guess she hadn’t expected a six foot six badass.

  “Who are you?” I said curtly. Direct. I had shit to do.

  Smoky gray eyes blinked, looking uncertain. A range of emotion skittered across her face, from anger to amazement to complete and utter confusion. “I—I’m your new neighbor. I moved in last week.” Her voice was thin and reedy as if she couldn’t breathe.

  Great. Another psycho.

  I vaguely recalled a truck backed up to the porch of the sagging house across the street. “Yeah? What’s your problem?” I said, popping a smirk and slipping into my I’m cool mask. I wore it a lot in public. When you’d gotten to the level of success I had, everything you did was open for scrutiny. I played everything as if someone was watching—or I tried to. “Mad because you weren’t invited to our party last night?” I asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

  She rubbed her forehead and continued that dazed stare.

  Those fucking goosebumps came back.

  “Uh, hello?”

  She blinked rapidly. Clearing her throat, she shook herself, swallowed, and smiled tightly, seeming to gain her equilibrium. “I don’t really party. It’s the skank I’m here about.”

  “Skank?” I asked, rearing back with a frown.

  From the doorway, she swept intelligent eyes over me and Tate on the couch. “That’s right. Which one of you has a girlfriend that left here a few minutes ago—who was obviously intoxicated, by the way. She slammed into my car. And if you don’t give me her details, I’m going to notify the police.” A look of urgency came to her face. “But for right now, I’m hoping for a ride to class. It’s really important that I not be late.”

  Girlfriend? Neither of us—oh shit . . .

  “Didn’t I see Sierra leaving your room?” Tate asked me, scratching his bare chest. “Have to admit, she seemed a wee trashed.”

  I cursed, blew out a breath, and slumped against the doorjamb. Tate was the one who encouraged the groupies. He liked them to do his homework, make his bed, wash his car; they were his personal maid service.

  Neighbor Girl looked suitably disgusted, a smidge of I should have known it was you on her face. “Nice girlfriend. What are you going to do about her ruining my car, Mr. Quarterback?”

  The spitfire knew who I was—which wasn’t surprising.

  “She’s not my girlfriend. No doubt, she’d love for me to be her baby-daddy—”

  She held a hand up. “It’s a bit early to get squeamish.”

  Tate snorted in the background.

  “She broke into my room,” I huffed. “I woke up and there she was all bare-assed and ready, but nothing happened.”

  “I bet,” she muttered.

  Why was I explaining this to her?

  I rubbed my scruff. Most girls would be tripping over themselves to ingratiate themselves with me. Trust me, it gets old fast when you don’t know if a girl likes you for you or if she just wants to be with you for the money and fame that’s sure to be part of your future.

  I should have been more upset at her throwing a kink in my day, but for some reason I was more amused than chagrined. Perhaps it was the Hello Kitty Band-Aid on her toe. My lips twitched. “You’re kinda prickly, aren’t you?” And pretty.

  “Not usually.”

  “Then it’s just me?”

  “Just you, Quarterback.”

  I was stumped. Here was a girl who couldn’t stand the sight of me, and I had no clue why—well, except her car was ruined. Still. It was an odd experience to have a member of the opposite sex disliking me on sight. “Look—”

  Tate let out a gr
oan and pushed himself up to standing. “You’re both ruining a perfectly good hangover with all this bloody banter.” He grinned. “I’ll run you to class, love. Just give me a sec to put on my trousers.”

  What the hell? He didn’t have a class until noon. Why would he—

  Oh, I got what was going on. I saw that glint in his eyes as he checked her out. He thought Neighbor Girl was hot. Dude had more notches on his bedpost than he could count.

  I waved him away. “Take a seat. You’re probably still loaded.” Turning back to her, I said, “Sierra really did that much damage?”

  She nudged her head toward the street. “See for yourself. I can’t open the door, much less drive it.”

  I stepped out to the porch and considered the vehicle in question, a late model Toyota sedan with a smashed driver’s side door. The window had burst, and glass glittered in the road. Gouges raked down the entire length of the vehicle. I whistled.

  What the hell had Sierra been thinking?

  How had I not heard that from inside the house?

  Probably because I was in the shower with the music cranked up.

  I walked back in and took a more appraising look at Neighbor Girl, and she stiffened. She acted tough, but it was just that, an act, judging by the lip biting and twitchy hands that kept plucking at her backpack. She was oddly nervous.

  “It’s pretty bad, but I don’t think it’s totaled. Just cosmetic,” I said as I tried to find something positive to say about her poor car. I didn’t know Sierra well, but I’d seen her at practice before, usually pulling away in a sleek little convertible. I didn’t even think she was a student here. I exhaled. Shit, shit, shit. I was responsible for this. I should have noticed she was still drunk. “Let me find Sierra later today and I’ll ask her to call you.”

  “And if that doesn’t work out?” She crossed her arms.

  “Then I’ll take care of your car. Somehow.” Was I seriously going to cough up the money to pay for this girl’s car to be repaired if Sierra didn’t come through?

  Her brows knitted, surprise on her face. “Wait, that’s too much. I didn’t mean for you to pay for my car. I just came over to find out her name—and maybe bitch a little because it’s a big day for me and now everything is falling apart. But you didn’t hit it; the lunatic did. The police can deal with her—”