by Maria Luis
What is wrong with me?
“You said the other day that my teeth must all be fake.”
“Did I?” I busy myself with a gulp of wine. “I don’t recall that.”
“No?” He watches me carefully. “It was right before you said that I’m overrated as a player.”
This is not good. I reach for my wine, only to realize that I’m on E. I pointedly look toward Caleb, but he notices my searching glance and pulls his pint out of reach.
Spoilsport.
I sip my water instead like a true lady.
“So, Charlie,” Gwen butts in, her chin resting on an upturned palm, “how’s work been lately? Hard? Still thinking about quitting?”
Through sheer force of will, I do not grimace. “It’s fine,” I tell her with a toothy smile, “We’re taking on a few new projects. Very, very busy. So busy I don’t have time to think about quitting.”
Duke is looking at me again. I can practically hear his thoughts—“If you’re so damned busy, than why the hell have you been harassing me on Twitter?”
I desperately need more wine if I’m going to survive this dinner. Obviously I did not think this plan through. I wonder if anyone will notice if I head to the bathroom and don’t return.
Gwen tilts her head to the side, fingers dangling over the rim of her champagne flute in a poised way that grates on my nerves. “I heard through the grapevine that The Tribune is on the verge of bankruptcy.” She pauses almost deliberately. “That’s where you are, right? The Cambridge Tribune?”
I hate the way she’s watching me smugly. “It is,” I grit out, “but, you know, The Tribune is on its way up the ladder.”
“Is it?”
No. Which is why I’m being forced to reel Duke Harrison into this ridiculous setup. If I had my way, I’d send his PR agent an email with a request to set aside some time to answer my questions. He or she would say yes. Done deal.
Instead, he’s told me “no” in five different ways. Sitting next to him only serves to remind me of the fact that I spent the last two nights tossing and turning in bed, thinking about what dinner with him would be like. And not like this fabricated double date—a dinner with just the two of us.
The corner of my mouth cramps from my too-wide smile. I push forth undeterred to prove to Gwen that I’m not some daydreaming journalist.
Even though I sort of am.
Duke, no doubt sensing that a fight is on the horizon, breaks the tension. “So, what’s ‘Charlie’ short for?” He flags down the server and points to my empty glass. I almost weep with gratitude, even as I think that he must be up to something. “Charlize?”
I blink. “As in, Charlize Theron?”
Across the table, Gwen snorts derisively and I curl my hand into a fist against my thigh.
Caleb kicks my foot, disrupting any homicidal thoughts that may or may not have entered my head. “Both you and Charlize have blonde hair,” he points out. I love him. I might love him more than I love his sister, and that’s saying something.
“Hers is sleek. I look like a lion stuck its mane into an electrical outlet.”
Duke chuckles. It’s a deep sound that curls my toes in my shoes and reminds me of toasty fireplaces and crackling wood. It’s the sort of chuckle that you want to hear up close and personal, with your cheek pressed against a solid, male chest, and that sexy laugh rustling the top of your hair.
I’m hopeless. Casey will have a field day when she hears about this disaster.
“Ooo, I’ve got it!” Gwen claps her hands together. “Charlie Sheen!”
Is.
She.
Kidding?
My toothy grin slips. Nothing like being compared to the “Winning” King to make you feel less attractive as a woman. “It’s actually just short for Charlene,” I tell the table stiffly. “It was my grandmother’s name.”
Like a true friend, Caleb murmurs, “A beautiful name. Very ancestral.”
Gwen doesn’t bother to say anything at all, as she’s now got her phone out and is scrolling through God-knows-what. Probably selfies, if I had to guess.
“I’m named after the Duke of Wellington. Duke Wellington Harrison. My parents are huge Anglophiles.”
It’s said so abruptly, so out of the blue, that both Caleb and I freeze as though we’ve suddenly found ourselves on a tightrope hoisted twenty feet above the ground. If someone were to tell me a month ago that I’d be having a legitimate conversation with Duke Harrison, I would have told ‘em to lay off the coke.
But this is reality. We are actually sitting her with the Boston Blades’ first-string goalie, and while he’s not exactly smiling, he’s not frowning either. If anything, he appears . . . uncertain. A little embarrassed.
It’s almost endearing.
He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m talking about the English military general, not the entrée.”
As if scheduled by the gods, our meals arrive and, sure enough, a Wellington is placed in front of Duke, whose cheeks are now roasting with color.
Pointing my fork at his plate, I say, “I like coincidences. Tell me, did you plan it?”
“Of course he did,” says Gwen, who has switched her focus from her cell phone to the dainty salad placed before her. “Also, Duke, the GQ editor just sent me an email about a feature with them. They want a full spread. Next week.”
The good humor on his face slowly seeps away. The broody frown is back. I’m not sure whether I should be disappointed or pleased. Except—hold on now.
I direct my attention to Gwen. “What is it that you do again, Gwen?”
Immediately I begin to pray. Please no, please no, please—
“I’m Duke’s PR agent. That’s how we met, actually. Duke’s sports agent hired my firm, Golden Lights Media, and it was almost like love at first sight. We spotted each other after a game and, oh, it was just magical.”
“Gwen,” Duke growls sexily, even if he is saying another woman’s name, “we are not together.”
Despite his assurance that he and Gwen are not, in fact, an item, my stomach drops somewhere south of my feet. Perhaps to Hell. I risk a quick glance at Caleb, whose mouth is pursed tightly like he’s holding back laughter.
This is worse than I expected.
I almost wish that Gwen and Duke were dating. I imagine it would be easier to navigate that mess than one in which Gwen James is actually The Mountain’s PR guru. There is absolutely no way she’ll let him even speak with The Tribune, off the books. She already thinks the newspaper is going down the drain.
And, yes, she would be correct on that assumption.
But how can I compete with G-freakin’-Q??!
Sweat beads on my forehead and I feel a mite bit dizzy. The conversation calls for a response, but I have nothing to say.
Well, nothing besides: fuck me.
Since this is neither appropriate nor a reasonable response, I force a bright smile. “That’s so . . . sweet,” I grit out, none too gently stabbing a piece of my steak. “So, Duke, does that mean mixing business with pleasure is accepted within the Blades’ organization?”
His frown deepens. “Gwen and I aren’t—”
“What he’s trying to say is that we’re a team, Charlie. We look out for each other, and make a sound decision on whether a tabloid photo or an interview—whatever—is beneficial to Duke’s overall career before rolling with it.”
There’s a hidden message if I ever heard one. I just haven’t quite uncovered all of the subtleties yet. Somehow, I imagine that those subtleties are lined with unsheathed knives.
I put down my fork and knife. “So, an interview with a local news publication. Would that be completely off the table?”
Duke drains his beer.
Caleb excuses himself to make a “very important phone call.”
And Gwen . . . Gwen just turns to me with such a serene smile on her face that I’m reminded of my twenty-one year old self, who thought Gwen James was the coolest girl ever. Thankfully,
I no longer suffer from such delusions.
“Is that a hint that you’d like The Cambridge Tribune to interview Duke?” she asks smoothly. Her smile might be wide and guileless, but the same cannot be said for her narrowed eyes.
I hold her gaze. “It was just a thought. The Tribune’s fan base doesn’t read Sports Illustrated or other, more well known publications.” I’m lying through my teeth, not that I care. “I just think that it would be nice for some of our locals to see a side of their favorite hockey player from their favorite newspaper.”
“I don’t think so.” That’s all she says before her phone rings and she’s forced to step away from the table to take the call.
Which effectively leaves Duke and I alone, seated side by side.
We’re facing a wall and neither of us turns to look at the other for long, heavy moments. Even so, I can feel his presence beside me as tangibly as if he’d pressed his knee to mine. I’m tempted to do just that, to slide my right leg just two inches over and touch him. But his body is rigid, his left hand curled tightly around the cutlery.
In fact, he might not be breathing.
“So,” I murmur, taking a sip of my wine, “you and Gwen?”
He blows out a breath of frustrated air. “You’re slick, Charlie Denton. I’ll give you that.”
I keep my gaze fixated on the wall. “Not enjoying our double date, Mr. Harrison?”
He leans forward and, oh God, his knee is now touching my bare leg. Shivers chase down my spine, and the thrill has nothing to do with the food in front of me and has everything to do with the man at my side.
“This date is a sham and we both know it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sniff. “Caleb and I—”
“Are not together,” he finishes in clipped tones. “Let’s not even pretend that he’s remotely interested in you. I walked up to you both, and his gaze went immediately to my crotch.”
Ah, hell. I can’t even blame Caleb for that reaction. Anyone with a pair of eyes would have a hard time keeping their gaze above the belt when it came to the man seated beside me. Duke Harrison just has that magical effect on people.
“He swings both ways,” I say, offering up another healthy lie. “Obviously he was just struck dumb by your presence.”
“A presence you ensured would happen when you reached out to Gwen.” His voice is a growl, and hearing it sends a flicker of awareness through my body. Is this how he sounds in bed?
I ignore the flutters in my belly. “Do you want me to be honest?”
The exaggerated wave of his left hand snags my attention, and I finally turn to him. He’s already watching me, I find, and his blue eyes are nearly a dusky black. “That’d be a nice change of pace.”
My eyes fix on his handsome face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He plants a hand on the table and leans in, invading my personal bubble. This close, I can see that he has a scattering of light freckles spattered across the crests of his cheeks, as well as a deep, pink scar that extends from his left nostril to the corner of his mouth. My lips part on the breath I’ve been holding, and Duke’s gaze drops down to my mouth.
“It means,” he says in a low, rumbling voice, “that you play dirty.”
“No, it just means that I play to win.”
Almost despite himself, his mouth kicks up in a wry grin. “Like I said, dirty.” He breaks eye contact and slouches back in his seat. “The answer is still no.”
“Because Gwen said so?” Now it’s my turn to plant my hand on the table and lean forward.
Chin tucked to his chest, he lifts his gaze to my face. That one look is potent. Sultry. Dangerous. It’s a very obvious reminder that while he might be playing nice with me right now, this is a man who is generally feared on the ice.
I lower my voice, mainly to conceal the quiver I fear will emerge when I speak. The way he is affecting me is so not in the plan. “Is it because you do everything she says, even if you two aren’t together? You sure she isn’t secretly your girlfriend? Oh, wait, I do believe I hear wedding bells ringing.”
He ignores my blatant taunting and plays it cool, reaching for his beer bottle and touching the glass to his mouth. He’s on empty, if I recall correctly, but perhaps for the sake of our battle of the wits, he doesn’t let on that anything is amiss. This almost makes me grin, because who knew little ol’ Charlie Denton from Cambridge, Massachusetts, could throw off the big, bad Mountain?
“You were saying?” I prompt with a little I’ve-got-this grin.
“How badly do you want this interview?”
Badly. And now that I’ve had the chance to speak to him alone, I’m craving more contact. It’s completely unreasonable, seeing as how we exist on two very different planes.
Him: professional athlete.
Me: struggling journalist.
Nevertheless, I tell him, “I’m not willing to go to jail over this, but yeah, I need this interview to happen.”
His left brow arches high. “Even though I’m ‘overrated’?”
Now my grin is full-fledged. “We’re all overrated in some capacity, don’t you think, Mr. Harrison?”
“All right.”
“All right, what?”
He studies me as he takes another fake hit of his beer. It’s still undeniably sexy, and I squeeze my knees together under the table. “All right, if you want this interview then—”
“Duke!”
It’s Gwen.
I slide back into proper position on my chair, facing the wall like a naughty school kid caught breaking all of the No. 2 pencils. Almost simultaneously, Duke places the beer bottle on the table and resumes his muteness.
Gwen doesn’t seem to notice, if the way she pauses to squeeze his shoulders on the way to her chair is any indication. She waves her phone in the air. “You will never believe who that just was.”
“The pope,” I say, cutting into my steak.
Her tone is snippy when she replies, “No, Charlie, it was not the pope.”
“A shame.”
I swear I feel Duke’s knee jostle mine, but the contact is so fleeting it’s possible that I’ve imagined the entire thing.
“Anyway, that was actually the sports editor from The Boston Globe. He gave a fantastic pitch.” Gwen resettles in her chair and flicks her voluminous hair over her shoulders. “You know, Charlie, I have you to thank for this opportunity.”
I don’t like the sound of this. Sending a hasty glance over my shoulder, my thoughts head straight to Caleb. Where in the world did he disappear to? He’s supposed to be my emotional support for the night. In other words, he’s failing at pretending to be my beloved my fake boyfriend. When I fail to spot him, I slowly bring my attention back to Gwen’s face.
Smug.
If her expression had a name, it would be “Smug” with a capital S.
Still, I can’t let her see how much she’s getting to me. I straighten my shoulders, tip my chin up and say, “You’re welcome.”
Her brows knit together in consternation. “In case you’re wondering how you’ve helped this—”
“I’m not.”
“It’s because if it weren’t for you, I would have told that editor no.” Gwen offers up another too-sugary smile. “But it was you, Charlie, who just pointed out that locals want to have a piece of Duke. So, we’re going to give it to them.”
My heart flops over in my chest. “You’re going to let The Tribune hold the interview?”
“What?” Throwing back her head, Gwen laughs. It’s one of those delicate ha-ha-has that celebrities used to hand out in spades on Oprah, the ones that don’t sound genuine. The ones you’re convinced are practiced in front of the mirror to check the line of a neck, the squint of the eyes. Gwen’s laugh is perfect.
Perfectly fake, that is.
“No, Charlie,” she says, wiping an equally fake tear from under her eyes, “Duke will be doing the interview with The Globe.”
Lovely.
/> Chapter Five
“How’d the double date go?” Casey asks me the following morning at work. “Did you land the interview?”
I let my head thunk onto my desk. “It sucked. Gwen’s his PR agent.”
“What?”
“I know.” My forehead squeaks against the desk as I turn to look her way. “I’d say it can’t get any worse, but, really, this is pretty much as bad as it can get.”
“Did you have the chance to ask her about The Tribune doing a feature on Duke, at least?”
“She said no.”
“Damn,” Casey says with a shake of her head. She sticks her pen in her mouth, chewing on the cap. It’s a habit that she can never kick once she’s in deep thought. Her desk is littered with teeth-imprinted pen caps. It’s a little disgusting, but who am I to judge?
After a beat of silence, she adds, “Well, it was a good idea. On to the next, I guess.”
On to the next.
The words ring hollow in my ears. Realistically, I know that missing out on an interview with Duke isn’t the end of the world. My brain knows this. I can’t say that my heart recognizes this truth, though.
A knock comes at the door and I lift my head from my desk. Josh, The Tribune’s editor-in-chief and CEO, is standing in the entryway, shifting his weight side to side on his feet. He’s an edgy sort of guy, and by edgy, I’m not talking about his personal style. He’s a constant bundle of untapped nerves in a short, squat body.
As for the personal style part, that’s pretty much nonexistent. Everyday is a cycle of cargo shorts, beaten up sneakers, and a different color polo T-shirt. Usually stained with whatever lunch he scarfs down that day—the polo, I mean.
“Need something, Boss Man?” I ask. Josh never shows up to our office unless something is on his mind. Sometimes, when we’re lucky, Casey and I go weeks without making any contact with him.
Now, to my misfortune, he steps past the threshold and pulls his Red Sox baseball hat farther down over his bald head. “Denton, what’s going on with that ‘special piece’ you were blabbing on about the other day?”
Ah, crap. He’s talking about the Duke exclusive. “Oh, you know”—I run my fingers through my hair and my nail catches on a curl—“it’s going. It’s going great.”