by Crowe, Liz
He pulled her into the elevator and into his condo, barely making it to the couch. She straddled him and he sat staring up at her sweaty skin, his brain a blank slate, his body never more sated.
“I love—”
She pressed her finger to his lips. “Nope. Don’t even start with that. We are only pretending, remember? Enjoy it while it lasts, fake fiancé man.”
“Well, I was gonna say I love fucking you. But take that how you will.”
He stood, bringing her with him and walking them over to his rumpled bed. Her arms and legs stayed wrapped tight around him as he lost himself in her, unwilling to consider the truth of her words. That he might just have screwed himself into a corner with this strange obsession with the woman he’d literally stumbled into and fallen so hard for he wondered if he’d ever recover.
Chapter Twenty-One
Kayla sat staring at her computer’s home screen, trying to conjure some motivation to work on the next documentary project. She’d been tasked with some low-level research that she knew was crucial to its success but at that moment felt slightly superfluous. When her phone buzzed from the desktop, she jumped in surprise, realizing she’d just spent that past twenty minutes doing exactly nothing. Cursing under her breath at herself, she grabbed the device, expecting it to contain some sexy missive from her fake fiancé. The words on the screen didn’t quite compute at first, as if they were written in Old English.
Unknown: Hey there, hot chocolate. U may think ur something special. But ur boyfriend will dump u as soon as that stupid movie is done. He’s probably already fucking at least 2 other prettier, whiter, skinnier hotties. Good luck finding a job after that, whore.
Once the words sunk in, which took at least six re-readings of the odd missive, Kayla’s entire body froze, then heated up so hot sweat popped out on her forehead. Both J.D. and Marlo had warned her that her high profile would attract trolls. But they’d only really meant online, in comments and whatnot, so she could easily ignore them. This was something altogether different. Before she could stop herself, save it for the security guys or whatever, she deleted it with fingers that shook so hard it took a couple of tries to get it done. She gulped water from her fancy insulated bottle, blotted her face with a tissue, and stuck earbuds in her ears so she could transcribe notes from the production team’s most recent brainstorming session.
“Tonight’s your big night. Are you nervous?”
Kayla flinched again, heart racing at the interruption and looked up to see LeeAnn leaning on the divider between Kayla’s cubicle and the hallway. She’d tried to forget that the Lady Balls documentary was supposed to air in prime time tonight. But of course the station’s social media team had been in overdrive, promoting the hell out of it. She’d avoided it, part of her afraid she’d be laughed off the sports stage for being such a big cry baby, the other part in early heartbreak mode over the ending of her arrangement with J.D.
“Oh, yeah. Um. Sure.”
“Gee, don’t sound too excited or anything. Might hurt yourself.” LeeAnn lingered, making Kayla nervous. “I guess you and J.D. will watch together?”
“Oh, uh…” She wiped her lips, recalling how their attempted Netflix watching session had ended the night before—in serious “chill” on the couch.
Good luck finding a job after that, whore.
She shook her head to dispel the words that floated across her consciousness. “No, he was going to surprise everyone with a big watching party.” She checked her watch. “His email should be going out any minute.”
“Well, shit, what if some of the rest of us had plans?” But LeeAnn looked happy at this news, which gave Kayla a surprising warm fuzzy feeling. She liked her boss more and more every day. Admired her cool-as-a-cucumber manner, her hyper-adulting abilities when it came to her stable of high-strung assistants. “Speaking of plans, when is the world getting its save the date from you?”
“Its save-the-what?” Kayla rolled her shoulders with a wince. It had been arm night last night—before the roll on the couch part of the evening, that was. She was sore in her every nook and cranny, but in a most excellent way.
“When the hell are you and J.D. going to get married?”
“Oh … uh…” She glanced at her phone, relieved to see a text from Mr. Hot Stuff His Own Self. “Sorry. I need to answer this.”
LeeAnn rolled her eyes then left her to it.
She and J.D. were about ten days from the original proposed end of her employment at DSN, not to mention their engagement period. Lisa had shown up a couple more times, which meant she had to haul ass down to his office and be all smoochy-face with him again until the woman got the message. It made Kayla feel shitty, every time she did it, even though she understood the need for it. Ever since J.D. had confessed to her that he’d never really loved Lisa in the middle of an argument, she’d been turning that over and over in her head, trying to come to terms with why he’d said it. In some way, it had felt good, very adult-y and honest. In another way it made her nervous, because she knew damn well that the curtain was about to come down on this little play of theirs.
And then what, huh, Makayla Jean? What the hell are you gonna do then?
When she’d allow herself a hot second of inner honesty, she’d admit it—he was pretty amazing. Equal parts funny, caring, considerate, and sexy as all hell. It really wasn’t fair. But she figured this was how grown-ups did such things—how mature relationships progress. Which was yet another weirdness she had to square in her head. Here she was, working a real job, preparing for a real soccer team try-out, in something resembling a relationship with a real man.
And—side bonus—said man was rich as hell and super generous. She was forever finding gifts from him around the condo. Jewelry that was always perfect, bags she’d never in a million years think she’d own. When she had to break the news to him that she’d rather poke needles in her eyes than go clothes shopping, he’d hired a personal shopper who’d filled her side of the massive walk-in closet with the kind of clothing she would’ve picked out if she’d had an unlimited budget for clothes, which she apparently now did.
A big part of her balked at this largesse, but J.D. was awfully good at convincing her not to be stubborn about it. To accept what he was offering because he wasn’t about to stop doing it.
But the best thing he’d brought into her life, was Gwenyth Baxter.
She smiled, thinking about the past weekend. They’d packed a picnic lunch and gone to Belle Isle, taken a boat ride, then played an hour or so of two-on-one soccer—J.D. and Gwen against her. The weather had been picture perfect. The sky so blue it seemed fake. The breeze blowing at the right moment to cool them during their game.
Gwen had wanted hot dogs for dinner and rather than argue about it, J.D. had driven them to his favorite Greektown diner, where they’d spent a fraught night several months ago. He’d put a warm hand in the small of her back as she entered the noisy, fragrant place. Something about that gesture had made her want to weep with happiness while she held up his hand so everyone could see them, her and him, together.
Afterward, they’d laughed their way home, where Kayla had drawn a bath for Gwen to splash around in.
“C’mere, you.” J.D. had pulled her into his bedroom once she emerged from the bathroom. “I’ve been wanting to do this all damn day.” He kissed her in that way he had, slow, easy, relaxed, yet focused and incredible, his hands on either side of her face.
Responding in kind, Kayla had tried to keep her wits about her. She loved this, whatever this was. It was so damn close to perfect she didn’t know what to do with herself. She pulled away from him, her hands on his chest. “Don’t,” she’d muttered, staring at her hands. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” he asked, thumbing her chin and making her meet his gaze. “Don’t do what?” His gaze was so intense, so very sapphire blue in a way no man had a right to have, she got that odd torn sensation again. Wanting to scream, to bolt, to bury her face in his ches
t. It made her hurt, knowing it was almost over.
“Daddy! I wanna get out!”
J.D. held her close a few more seconds, their silence speaking volumes.
“I’ll make popcorn,” she said, averting her gaze so he couldn’t see her about to cry. She hated to cry. And she didn’t want to waste tears on this. She’d agreed to it, had changed the parameters of it herself, convinced she could keep it on a sex-only level. But now…
Now.
Now she was all in and didn’t know how to extract herself although extraction was going to be required, and soon. She squared her shoulders and forced herself to think about what she really wanted—a place on the Detroit roster, and maybe even on track to try out for the national team. That. Not this fake domesticity nonsense. She hummed to herself while the corn popped and she assembled water bottles and bowls.
Gwen settled herself under a blanket with Kayla while they ate and Kayla read the latest chapter of Harry Potter to her. When she realized that the girl had dozed off, she shut the book and, without thinking about it, kissed her still damp hair. Kayla lifted her gaze to find J.D. staring at her and Gwen, whatever was on his tablet forgotten. His head was tilted to one side, his eyes wide, dark, somewhere between pensive and admiring. She frowned, then stuck her tongue out at him. Times like that, which were more and more frequent as they zoomed toward the end of their “arrangement,” she truly wondered about her sanity.
What was it, anyway? Why be afraid of allowing herself a true emotional connection with him? He made her the sort of happy she didn’t understand, which made her want to reject it. She tried everything, up to and including reminding herself that he was a woman collector. A don’t-tie-me-down-unless-I-knock-you-up dyed-in-the-wool bachelor. He’d never be anything more and to think otherwise was to put herself straight back in the position she’d been right after her accident.
More and more often, something else was sneaking into her psyche. Fear that she might fail at her efforts to do what she truly wanted. J.D. had never failed at anything, except for a marriage that he’d only undertaken for the good of a child. She’d done nothing but fail for the last few years and, despite all her hard work and earnest preparation, she honestly worried that she might not make the roster for the Detroit pro team.
And what would he think of her then? Not much, she guessed. And why should he? That had made her quash the desire to say yes to his request for “more formality” in the current relationship. She was flat out terrified that she’d fuck it all up and he’d not want her anymore.
Now, she’d give anything to make their arrangement “more formal,” as he’d suggested, but she had no idea how to broach the subject again. He’d not brought it up either, so here they were, as he liked to remind her, fucking like college kids when they weren’t working, or working out, or enjoying Gwen’s company together.
She glanced down at his text message again on her way to the elevator.
J.D.: I need your help with something.
She shifted from foot to foot, already heating up from the inside out at the words that had saved her from more wedding talk with LeeAnn. It was their code lately for “get up here, get naked, and make it snappy.” She waved to Matilde, shut his office door behind her, and turned the lock. It was cloudy out and he had all his lights off so the room was gloomy and felt empty.
“Hey? Where are you?”
“Over here.” His deep, raspy voice sent a familiar bolt of lust all the way through her, making her wonder if she’d ever reach a moment when she could forget the way the sound of it made her feel. Not to mention the sight of him, standing there in his dark suit, looking at her as if she were the last oasis in a desert.
She unlocked her knees and wobbled her way over to him, falling into his arms.
“You are so…” He paused, as if unable to finish the thought while he flipped open her bra and tugged up her skirt.
“Much like an addiction?” She finished for him with a sigh as he turned her around so she could hang on to the bookshelf. “Jesus, yes…”
“Yeah, that,” J.D. said as he pounded into her.
They climaxed fast and got their clothing rearranged within a few minutes, laughing at themselves and their teenager-level horniness. “I’m wondering something,” J.D. said, as he wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Well, you’d better ask fast ‘cause our engagement is close to being over.”
“Uh, huh, about that.” He stepped away from her and walked back into his office suite.
Kayla allowed herself a small smile before she turned to face him, arms crossed, her expression stern.
“I think we should … explore … extending our arrangement.”
“Extending it, huh?”
“Well, more like, expanding it. C’mere. I’ll show you.”
Against all manner of better judgements, Kayla followed him to his desk and sat in one of the white leather chairs opposite him, still tingly from their encounter. The tiny voice she’d been ignoring for the last few weeks set up such a clamor inside her head. She almost had to stick her fingers in her ears to get it to stop.
He’s a great guy.
He’s not collecting you.
He won’t think you’re a failure if you don’t make the stupid soccer team.
You’re not just another female he wants to claim as his.
He’s a good man, Kayla. Look at him. Pay attention to the way he acts with you.
The usual.
And of course, every time she did look at him it made her weak from her scalp to her toenails. He was amazing. The problem was, he was way too aware of his own amazing-ness and she was still too nervous about attaching herself to yet another prima donna. Besides, he’d not really wanted to hook up with her that first night. He’d come to The Grange for one reason—to convince her to be the main story for another successful documentary. The sex? Well, they’d been drunk off their asses, so it just … happened.
Kind of like all the recent sex.
Except it wasn’t like that anymore and she damn well knew it.
Stop making excuses and tell him how you feel.
She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. Determined to maintain her cool, she crossed her legs, relishing the ache between them and the light aroma of his soapy-clean cologne on her skin. “What did you do, Mr. OCD, put it in a Power Point presentation with spreadsheets or something?”
“No. I went one better. I had my attorney draw something up.”
That cut through her pleasant sexy after-glow. She plunked both feet on the floor, shot up, leaned over the edge of the desk, and yanked him forward by his silk tie. “I won’t be signing any fucking contracts for you, J.D. Baxter. And if you try to make me—”
He unwound her fingers from around his tie. “Would you relax, please? It’s not like I’m putting a prenup in front of you.” He hesitated. “Although, for the record, I would never make you sign one.”
She rolled her eyes, but her heart was whamming so hard inside her ribcage it made her have to sit back down. “Okay, what’s so important you’d pay your attorney to come up with it?” Crossing her arms only made her more anxious, so she let them drop to her lap, where the over-the-top fake-engagement diamond caught her eye. She cursed under her breath and twisted it around so she didn’t have to be reminded how bizarre this whole thing was. What an utter and ridiculous fantasy she’d been inhabiting these past few months.
“I always have my lawyer involved when I’m serious about something. And I’m dead serious about this so hear me out before you grab a pen and stab me with it, okay?”
“Fine.” She waved her fingers in the air, mainly to hide how much she was trembling.
He sat and leaned his elbows on the desk, his blue eyes narrowed, as if pondering his words carefully. “I know you’re going to make the team, Makayla. I have so much faith in it, I’m willing to bet my future on it.”
“Your … future?”
“Yes, well, my future happiness, l
et’s say.”
“Get to the point already. We have a watching party to attend.” She’d been bitching and moaning almost non-stop the past four or five days as her confidence in her ability to do what he claimed she would do waned. She’d never in her life been in better physical shape. But the other women on the team were all so fast, and so agile and so … much better than she was. She hated that she’d given up on it—hadn’t so much as looked at a soccer ball for the past three years. She’d gotten soft. And the game had changed while she’d been sidelined.
His lips turned up in a smile, which made her want to leap at him and rip his suit off. He opened the single manila file folder that lay on his ever-tidy desk, turned it around, and pushed it across to her. “I propose a bet.”
She tried to make sense of it but couldn’t thanks to the ringing in her ears and the stupid not-that-small-anymore voice pushing her to confess how she really felt about him. “Do tell,” she said, keeping her eyes down but still not really reading anything.
“I bet that you will make the team and that you’ll start next season. If you don’t, I’m willing to take back that ring and send you on your merry way, never bothered by me ever again.”
She shook her head. “You … want to bet me that if I don’t make the team, we’re … done?”
“Of course, there is a flip side.” He rose and walked around the desk. Then he pulled her up and straight into his arms. She leaned away from him, needing to hear that flip side. “I also propose that when you do make the team, you stay with me, engaged, or not, if you want, but we stay together at least long enough for us to maybe figure out that being together is an improvement over the alternative.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, her nose, each cheek.
She closed her eyes, relishing every inch of his firm body against hers. “I don’t know. You’re … so…”