by Bria Quinlan
He didn’t even bat an eye, which made me think Catherine might have already tried this line of attack.
“I think you're wrong there. My reputation is a bit tarnished, but that fourteen to twenty-six group is, if not always positive, at least very curious. Even when they’re not loving me unconditionally, they’re hate-stalking me.” He took another step up. “And, Catherine said your mind is like a sponge. It sucks in everything it sees, twists it around, and spits it out a bestseller. If you wanted to know anything about professional sports or baseball or celebrity...well, all those connections come into play.”
“That’s not what I write.”
“Not right now. But,” he took the final step to join me at the door. “Maybe when you know more you will.”
We stood there, staring each other down. Neither one of us wanted to do this, but only one of us was willing to walk away.
“One lunch,” he pushed. “I'll have someone deliver whatever you want. We'll chat. I'll win you over.”
He gave me what I could only assume was his Disarming Smile.
Consider me armed.
“The menus are in the drawer next to the fridge. Make yourself at home. I'll be right back.”
I hurried into my bedroom, dropping my tote and kicking off the incredibly cute, but not yet broken in shoes.
So, Connor Ryan was in my apartment. I wish I could have gotten more excited about that. But I was just annoyed he was in my space and I didn’t have any option other than to let him stay while we figured this all out.
Taking a deep breath, I joined him in the kitchen, heading past him to the “office” I’d built out of the double-sized coat closet in the “dining area.” Yes, all those quotes were valid in my tiny world. He overwhelmed the space.
It wasn’t even that my apartment was small or that he was an oversized guy. It was him. His presence. It was bad enough in the offices or on the street, but here, in my space I felt dwarfed by him.
I took a minute, sorting my notes and checking my calendar. I brought my email up to make sure nothing insane—more insane—had happened. A bunch of excited tweets about launch week. A few new reviews I swore I wouldn’t look at. And about thirty emails. I set myself up to get to work once I got rid of His Charmingness and took a deep breath.
Okay, so that may also have been a whole bunch of stalling.
“Your place is really cozy.” He’d moved to the living room while I’d been working.
I didn't mean to jump, to give away the surprise I felt at finding him still there.
“I used to think cozy was just a word girls used to describe something small, but this really is cozy.” He leaned his head back against the worn leather of the overstuffed chair in the corner. “Where’d you find this chair?”
I'll admit it didn't go with anything else in the room. My place was more cottage-chic and the chair was more uptown guy.
“An ex moved to California. He lived across the hall and had movers come get all his stuff. Only, that chair was in here because it didn’t fit in his living room. He forgot it…and I didn’t exactly chase them down the street when I saw the truck drive away.”
His loss. I wrote most of my books in that chair. It was the most comfortable thing I'd ever sat on in my life. Some nights I wished I could stretch it out and make it a bed.
“Serves him right.” He stood, rubbing his hand along the worn-to-softness leather of the arm. “You should always arrange for your furniture to be moved yourself.”
He prowled the edges of the room, picking things up and then putting them back down. He touched everything he walked by. He glanced at movies and music. He checked out my TV and shook his head—I can only assume it didn't meet with Millionaire Guy TV stature.
At the end of his circle, he collapsed back into the leather chair. Guess I wouldn't be sitting there.
I curled up on the far end of my couch, putting enough distance between us for comfort. Not to mention a cushion for all this awkward silence going on.
“I called Teo's.” Apparently he needed the silence broken too. “They said you usually get barbeque chicken pizza so I ordered that, a salad, breadsticks, soda—diet and regular—and two slices of chocolate cake.”
If he was trying to buy me off, that was an excellent start.
I breathed in a deep, centering moment, taking him in. One of America's Sexiest Athletes was sitting in my living room and all I wanted was him gone. He looked comfortable, sure of himself, and devastatingly handsome just sitting there.
“Have they ever approached you to do The Bachelor?” It would make sense.
He grinned. When other people grinned you knew what they were thinking. Not Connor. Whether it was sarcastic or because I'd called him on something, who knows.
“Here's what I'm thinking.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “We need this to look realistic. Not just a pick-up or an infatuation. We need it to be just public enough for people to believe it and private enough to convince them we're serious.”
I was still stuck on the pick-up or infatuation part.
“I'm sorry. Back up a bit.” Because, I was pretty sure we’d already covered this. “You still think I'm going to become infatuated with you?”
“I'm just saying, one of us has a bit more experience.”
“Yeah. At sleeping around.” I shook my head. His ego knew no bounds. “And one of us has a bit more experience with relationships.”
“And we all see where that landed you. Single with a really comfortable chair.”
Oh, he was ticking me off. This so wasn't going to work.
“Stop glaring at me.” He glared at me.
“You have no idea about my success or failure when it comes to relationships.” I tried not to stand and put my hands on my hips. Only one of us lived in the real world here. “Maybe because it's not splashed all over the cover of every magazine decorating the checkout at the grocery store.”
“I'm—You know what. Fine.” He all but threw his hands in the air. “You have more experience with relationships. I could never possibly have had one.”
Again I couldn't tell if that was sarcasm or not, so I steamed ahead, unworried about him and his relationships. I’d never met anyone who could push all my buttons like he was.
“I'm also really good at narrative.” I paused when he looked at me blankly. “That's storytelling.”
“I'm an athlete, not an idiot. Dex showed me your website. Saying I'm good at catching a ball is like say you’re good at storytelling.”
Since he was one of the top ball-catcher-guys in the country, I was at least a little flattered by the comparison.
“What we need to do is write the story of our relationship.” If I was going to do this, I was going to do it write…er, right. “Why wait for the media to do it? We plot it out today and then let them fall into our storyline. That seems safer than hoping we can wing it.”
“That seems a little...dry.”
“You have me for four weeks. How you handle the time during and after is up to you.” I leaned forward, matching his body language. “The one thing—this one thing—is the only deal breaker for me. While we're together, you are sweet, considerate, and for Pete's sake you are faithful. When this ends, our busy schedules are forcing us apart. I’ll be smart and as adorable as possible. That's my deal. Take it or leave it.”
“I'm—”
The high, irritating buzz of my door’s bell interrupted him, giving me a chance to escape to the kitchen and ring the delivery girl up.
An excuse. A good one, but still an excuse.
I took the food from the teenage girl standing in my doorway and went to my room to find the tote I’d tossed on the bed. Before I could get back, I knew. I just knew.
Okay. It could have been the squealing "OMG!" that gave it away.
“You're Connor Ryan! Oh my God! What are you doing here! Connor Ryan! Oh my God!"
I tried to step between them and pay,
but there was no way I'd get anywhere near him with the mini-tornado swirling around, screaming.
It was quite a sight. I felt like I’d just stepped into some type of movie premiere red carpet line her excitement was so high.
“Could you sign...” She glanced around trying to figure out what he could sign and then started to lift her shirt.
“Whoa there.” Connor raised a hand as if to shield his eyes. “My days of chest signing are way over. And starting up again in front of Hailey is probably not the best idea.”
Plus the whole she-had-to-be-underage thing, which was pretty wise of him to back away from.
I tried to inch backward out of the room as gazes turned my way, but Connor threw an arm around my shoulders and pulled me into the doorway with them. “Say hello, Hailey.”
I smiled. It was a less-than-comfortable smile as I tried to ignore the heat of his arm on my neck and the girl scrutinizing me. I worked hard to remember my lines with new people. What do normal people say when strangers were introduced to them?
“Ahhh…Hello?” I stuttered.
The over made-up teen glanced from Connor to me and back again.
“She doesn't look like a model or an actress…or anyone.”
And so it begins.
Connor’s arm tightened across the back of my shoulder. Well, tough for him. He knew this was coming. Of course, we hadn’t even gotten a chance to leave the house yet, but I was an overachiever.
“No. She's a writer. Actually, she writes books for teenagers.”
I had to admit, I was impressed he knew that much.
Her little lip-glossed mouth formed a perfect O.
“So, she's famous too?”
“No. I mean, she's...” He glanced at me, his brows gathering together with a look I could only assume meant he was feeling cornered. “She's popular. I think that's how you'd put it. But, unfortunately, not a lot of writers get famous. Like spot-them-on-the-street-famous.”
“So, no one really knows who she is?”
This was something I'd always been happy about. I so wasn’t a crowds person. I never wanted to be famous...never even understood the desire to be famous. And yet, part of me couldn’t understand how the creators of some of the most amazing stories were overlooked in favor of their multimillion-dollar earning cousins.
Actors.
Don't get me wrong, I loved Hugh Jackman as much the next girl. But, watching amazing books get turned into award-winning movies that people didn't even realize had been books first—well, it kind of broke my heart.
“Nope.” He grinned, looking like that was a good thing. He even had me fooled.
Connor signed the girl's hat, took a picture with her iPhone that was sure to end up on seven bazillion social media sites and—very nicely—shoved her out the door.
I carried the food to the kitchen island, finding twice as much food as he’d listed, and trying to catch my breath again. Trying to get myself back together after all that energy spent. A nice bubble bath and a good book would be great right now.
Forks. Knives. Plates. Glasses. No wine, it was too date'y. Iced tea. Napkins. What else? What else?
“Hailey.”
Placemats. That's what was missing. I grabbed some from the bottom drawer in the island and laid them out.
“Hailey.”
Should I put the food on serving plates or just leave them in their boxes? That just meant more dishes to do later, so I was voting no to that.
The counter set, I had nothing to occupy my hands and so—
“Hailey.” Connor grabbed my hand as I headed back to the refrigerator for ice. “Stop. Sit.”
To prove his command, he pulled me toward my chair then sat in the one across from it.
“Do you want to tell me what's going on?”
“This isn't going to work. I'm not good with people. All we did was open a door to one person and look what happened. Imagine what's going to happen in public. I'm going to be the worst-fake-girlfriend ever. Which, honestly, would serve you right. But I need to look smart. Writers need to look smart. If, by some small chance, someone meets a writer, she needs to believe that person is clever enough to create a whole 'nother world in her head. To create characters and conflict and weave a story that makes you stay up hours past your bedtime.” I sucked in a breath, fighting off the panic. “So, yeah. This isn't going to work.”
I watched Connor think about that while he watched me try to catch my breath. With nothing better to do, I started opening boxes and dishing myself out enough food for a weekend. With guests. What had he ordered?
“Hailey.”
My name was beginning to be one of those words that sounded wrong the more you said it.
“Listen," he continued. “I get that not everyone loves the spotlight. Some of my best buddies hate it. They don't even like giving the ten-second sound bite the team's PR person wrote for them. We can work with this.”
He leaned back, watching me as I'd moved on to loading his plate up with food.
“Think about it.” He dug into the salad and chewed while I—as ordered—thought about it. “This is actually perfect. You just be yourself and I'll be the protective, handle-the-media guy. People will love that.”
I fought rolling my eyes.
“You mean people will love you as Mr. Hero.”
“No. I mean, we make this a win-win. I'm smart enough to know if it isn't working for you, it's going to blow up in our faces. We can do this.” He unfolded his napkin and pointed at my plate. “Eat your food.”
“And then?”
“And then, you write us that narrative.”
I could live with that.
For now.
6
THE MAKEUP ARTIST Personal Shopper Becca hired had gone all out. I couldn't even name everything she’d put on my face. In the end, when I told her there was no way I'd be able to do that—let alone want to—she’d handed me powder, lip-gloss, and mascara for everyday coverage.
Even I could handle that.
Becca called that morning to make sure I was wearing the perfect outfit that would say I’m the woman he’s willing to change for. Even my clothes were lying now.
With only four weeks on our deal—not to mention our schedules—Connor and I had decided to move our relationship up a few weeks.
It had been two days since the pizza delivery girl had posted her picture and mentioned “some short girl” Connor was with. Thinking back, he’d been brilliant. He’d given her all the info we’d want out there without making it seem planted and the girl had completely failed to mention more than my height.
Or, lack thereof.
On top of that, Connor had been caught with Ackerman’s girlfriend about three weeks before. Figuring he and I met right after that and I caved to his charm immediately, we'd be halfway through our time together. Probably magically making me his longest relationship ever. So, tonight was a big show of Just Comfortable Enough.
Connor was right on time. I'll admit it was a bit of a shock. I figured him for the wander-in-whenever-he-remembered-to-show-up type of guy. The way he’d held us both up for the meeting the first day didn’t scream I value punctuality. And may the universe help us all if a model crossed his path.
Luckily, I’d made sure to be on time for this. Or Kasey who was obsessed with timeliness came over to help me get ready and made sure I was on time for this.
I grabbed my wrap and headed toward the door before the buzzer finished echoing against the walls. At the top of the stairs, I ran head-on into a solid chest. Patting my nose to make sure it wasn't broken, I glanced up.
“You're ready?” He gave me one of his probably-patented once-overs.
“You said seven.”
We stood there, facing off eye-to-eye, with him on a lower step, because we were both punctual. For once.
“Right. I know. But I've never met a woman who was actually on time.” He gave me a look that said, and that includes you.
I smiled, trying to
portray that my occasional tardiness was part of my charm.
I considered the high-maintenance women he dated. With the hair and the clothes and the whole have-to-be-perfect thing, no wonder he was always waiting.
“Well, I don't have as much work to do as the girls you date.”
His eyebrow went up and I realized that didn't come out the way I meant it.
“I mean, I don't do as much to myself to go out...you know? I guess my self-standards are lower. I mean, with the makeup and everything. I’m just…yeah.” And thank goodness for that. After my makeover, I definitely did not envy the women who had to look perfect all the time for their job.
He was chuckling now. A deep laugh under his breath, and I couldn't figure out which part he was laughing at, the low-maintenance part or the stumbling-around-for-words part.
“No worries. I know what you mean. I guess I'm just used to sitting on uncomfortable, feminine furniture, sipping a Whiskey Neat for half an hour before each date.” He shrugged. “My own personal date ritual.”
Oh, geez. Whiskey Neat was Scotch, right? I didn't even own any whiskey. Or Scotch. I was already a fake girlfriend failure.
“Don't worry.” He must have seen the panic. “I can order a drink at the restaurant if I want one. I guess I was just looking forward to having a comfortable chair to sit in for once.”
Connor rolled his shoulder and I noticed the strap of a bag over it. Please, please don't let him be one of those guys who carried a weird murse thing. Or who wore indoor scarves. Or got manicures.
Connor didn’t seem like a girly-guy, but he was edging toward high maintenance if any of those things were true.
I scanned him for a scarf or overly fashionable socks before asking, "What's that?”
“I brought some things over. I was talking to my brother Gavin and he pointed out that if we'd been dating seriously for a few weeks, I'd have some stuff at your house. And they'd catch us sneaking out to breakfast some morning wearing something different than the night before.”
Stuff? And he was going to put it in my place and leave it there?
This was way more involved than I'd anticipated.