No More Horrible Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Nick Zachary.

  Lucky me.

  “I don’t need to relax, but thanks for your concern, Nick.” I smile sweetly at him and turn back to watch the numbers.

  “How come you’re tapping your thigh like that, then? You look to me like you could do with chilling out.”

  I paste on a smile and turn back to face him. “Statistically speaking, only one-point-five percent of people relax when they’re told to relax, you know.”

  He arches one of his eyebrows at me. “Statistically speaking, huh?”

  I raise my chin. “That’s right.” I totally made that stat up, but there’s no way I’m backing down, not with a self-satisfied jock like Nick Zachary.

  “Oh, I get it now,” he replies, his eyes dancing. “What you’re saying is, you are uptight, and you do need to relax.”

  “No, I…” Damn him! I grope around in my head to find a change of subject and land on the billboard image. “It’s good to see you’ve managed to wear a shirt today.”

  “Excuse me?” he asks with a surprised laugh.

  “Your billboard is on my way to work,” I explain as my cheeks begin to heat up.

  I see you’ve worn a shirt today? I scrunch my eyes shut in embarrassment. What was I thinking?

  “Ah, that. Yeah, I figured since I’ve got a meeting with, you know, civilized people who wear clothes every day, I’d better throw something on.” He pulls on his top, and my eyes trail over him. He looks every bit the off-duty professional sportsman he is. Despite the loose-fitting top, it’s obvious he’s in great shape—and considering I’m subjected to that billboard image of him every day, I don’t need to be reminded. “You know, I hear they even wear shoes.”

  “Very funny,” I quip. I turn back as the doors thankfully swing open and step out into the Hawks’ reception. “See you, Nick,” I say over my shoulder as I throw Harriet, our receptionist, a quick smile and bustle down the hall to the conference room. I burst through the door, aware I’m now a full eleven minutes later than I told Ed I would be and come to a sudden stop. Sitting around the table are four men, all dressed in navy suits, all with grim looks on their faces. There’s Ed Steele, my boss, John Rogers, the head of the whole Hawkes Team, and two stern men who look like they’ve sucked on a whole stack of lemons. One of them I recognize as the Commercial Manager I’ve met a few times at Bennett Motors—the reason why I’ve got to look at that billboard of Nick Zachary on my daily commute.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say with as confident a smile as I can manage in my flustered state. “Traffic, right?” I slide my purse onto a seat, shake out my hair, and extend my hand toward the sour-looking suits. “Good to see you again, Mr. Stinklater,” I say (and yes, my friends and I have had a good laugh over that name before). I turn to the other lemon sucker. “Hi, I’m Erin Andrews. I’m an Account Manager here at Hawks.”

  Both suits stand up, and the distinguished, elder statesman shakes my hand and says in an American accent, “Trey Coombs, President of Bennett Motors.”

  President of Bennett Motors? As in the head honcho, the big cheese, the guy the buck stops dead with? I resist the urge to let out a whistle. Something big has got to be going on here.

  “Great to meet you, Mr. Coombs,” I say. I pull up a chair and glance at my boss. His face is so taut with worry, he looks like he’s undergone some extreme plastic surgery since I left the office on Friday afternoon. Which of course he hasn’t, because this isn’t Hollywood. It’s Auckland, and he’s Ed Steele, my usually sweet middle-aged boss who’s recently acquired the habit of texting me IN FULL CAPS.

  “Erin, as Account Manager for Bennett’s very valuable sponsorship here at the Hawks, I felt it was important to make you aware of the concerns that Mr. Coombs and Mr. Stinklater have raised with us,” Ed says.

  I steeple my fingers and nod in an attempt to look as though I’m not only interested in what’s going on, but I’m a considered, knowledgeable professional. Which of course I am. “Go on, Ed.”

  “There was an incident over the weekend,” Ed says. “It involved a Bennett vehicle and one of our higher profile players.”

  Aghast, I say, “Was there an accident? I hope no one was hurt.”

  Ed shakes his head. “Nothing like that.”

  “But it is equally serious,” Mr. Stinklater interjects, and Ed nods. “We at Bennett Motors put our trust in the Hawks and everyone who represents them. This sort of thing cannot happen again.”

  “What sort of thing?” I ask, riveted. Did one of the players drive a car off a cliff? Did they use one in a bank robbery? Did one of them entertain a lady in the back and get caught? When it comes to jocks handed free stuff and a wad of cash for fronting sponsorship deals, none of these options are outside the realms of possibility.

  Mr. Stinklater ignores me. “The player in question is skating on thin ice. He’s got a morality clause in his contract, and we don’t want to have to terminate because of it. But if things continue as they have been…” he leads.

  Terminate? Losing Bennett Motors’ sponsorship would be like losing the whole team. We could barely keep our players on the field without their cold, hard cash.

  Ed twists his mouth, his brows knitted together. “I understand completely.”

  “We’ve called the player in to meet with you,” John Rogers, Ed’s boss says. “In fact, he should be here any minute.” He looks up as the door swings open. “Ah, the man in question. Mr. Coombs, Mr. Stinklater, of course you both know Nick Zachary.”

  I swivel in my chair to look at him. Nick Zachary. I should have known. When I take in his easy, relaxed vibe, I draw my lips into a thin line. Why am I not surprised? Along with being arrogant and self-obsessed, Nick Zachary has gained the moniker the Wild Boy of Rugby from the media. He’s been seen falling out of nightclubs at all hours with a different girl each time and always, always out of his head drunk.

  “Good morning,” he says with an easy smile, as though he didn’t do some terrible thing to a Bennett vehicle over the weekend. Whatever that was. I am so itching to know.

  “I got here as quick as I could.” He pulls out a chair and folds his bulky frame into it, leans back, smiles at us all, and says, “I guess I should apologize for the truck.”

  “That would be a great start, Nick,” Ed says with a stern father expression on his face. Ed’s good at such expressions, probably because he’s a father to five now fully-grown boys. Parenting in his house must have been like wrangling a pack of wolves.

  Nick leans forward and puts his hands up in the surrender sign. “My bad. I shouldn’t have left it parked on the beach like that.”

  I blink at him. He left his truck parked on a beach?

  “That wasn’t the best choice, no,” John says.

  “In my defense,” Nick continues, “there were no parking spaces outside the bar. What was I supposed to do?” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Really, this is a much bigger issue than my truck getting washed into the sea. This is about the city of Auckland not taking its role seriously enough to provide adequate parking spaces to its residents. We have rights, you know.”

  I regard him through narrowed eyes. Is this guy for real?

  “Whether the city has enough car parking spaces or not is not our concern, Nick,” Mr. Stinklater says. “My team advised me yesterday that there’s no way to repair the truck. It’s a total write-off.” He glances at Mr. Coombs, who gives a slow considered nod.

  Nick leans forward in his seat. “Look, I get that I messed up, and I’m sorry for that.”

  I harrumph. You are not in the least bit convincing, Nick Zachary.

  “I guess I didn’t know the tide would come in,” he adds.

  Well, that confirms it for me. This guy is so arrogant he thinks even the ocean’s tides revolve around him.

  “Tides come in, and they go out, Nick. That’s what happens with the ocean,” Ed explains as though Nick were a four-year-old.

  “Yeah, Ed, I get that,” he replies. “It was du
mb of me, and I’m happy to pay for the truck.”

  “The problem is wider than simply the truck, Nick, which is why the president of Bennett Motors, Trey Coombs, is here,” Mr. Stinklater says gravely.

  “Nick, we’ve got an image problem,” Trey says then tilts his head to Mr. Stinklater, and adds, “Show him the photos.”

  “These images turned up on the same night.” Mr. Stinklater holds his tablet up, and we all lean in to see yet another slew of photos of Wild Boy of Rugby Nick out partying with a sea of girls at some club; Nick looking like he drunk enough alcohol to completely replace the blood in his veins; Nick being dragged out of the club by a couple of buddies. It looks like quite the night. I bet his hangover kicked him in the face the next day. And I cannot feel in the slightest bit bad for the guy.

  See what I mean? Jocks. They think nothing can touch them, that they can park their cars on a beach—a beach!—and the tide will stop doing its thing until they can bother to collect it. You know what that tells me about Nick Zachary? He literally thinks the world revolves around him. Literally.

  “Look, Nick,” John says. “What Mr. Coombs and Mr. Stinklater are concerned about is not just the vehicle or the salvage costs. It’s the wider issue of the image you’re projecting these days. You’ve changed. You used to be a stand-up guy, never misbehaving, always the kind of guy we could rely on. Lately? Well, for the past couple months you’ve been partying pretty hard and making some poor decisions.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Nick replies.

  “You guess?” John scoffs. “Try the cover of magazines, news stories about you, social media going crazy after you stripped down to your underwear and went for an impromptu swim in the fountain at Mission Bay last weekend. A very public fountain. Drunk out of your skull, might I add.”

  Nick holds his hands up in surrender. “I get it. I’ve been taking things a bit far lately. I need to dial it back a notch. I can do that, no problem. Just give me another chance.”

  “Your game is suffering, too. You’re a stellar athlete. I’d hate to see you throw that all away,” John says.

  “With all due respect, Nick, we need more than you giving up the partying. If you’re to continue to be the face of Bennett Motors here in New Zealand, we need a total image overhaul. It’s either that or we’ll have to consider our options here,” Mr. Coombs says.

  “Consider your options?” Nick asks, and for the first time I think I detect a note of concern in his voice, and a whisper of something other than arrogance on his face.

  Huh. Maybe the guy’s not just some arrogant jerk who thinks of no one but himself after all?

  Mr. Coombs replies, “It’s business, that’s what it is. When you signed a sponsorship deal with us, you and the Hawks became part of the Bennett brand. The face of Bennett Motors is a big deal, and we pay you handsomely for your efforts. We need to see you as the role model we intended you to be.”

  “So, what do you want me to do exactly? Other than not park on beaches when the tide’s out, of course. Although now that I think about it, I don’t have a truck anymore, so I guess that won’t be an issue,” he replies, his features returning to the impassive expression of before.

  “We’ll get you a new one,” Mr. Stinklater says, and I almost fall off my chair. Nick Zachary trashes one of their vehicles, shows a blatant disregard for it, and now he gets another one? So typical.

  “That would be good,” Nick replies, adding, “Thanks,” as an afterthought.

  “Here’s what you need to do,” Mr. Coombs says. “You’ve got to drop the partying, stop the drinking, stop being seen out with a different girl every five minutes. You need to come across as a reformed man, one who’s got his life together. Do you think you can do that?”

  Nick harrumphs, and I swear I see him pout. “I guess,” he grumbles.

  Ha! That told him.

  “We discussed it before you got here and agreed that not only does the partying need to stop, but you need to start dating a nice girl, someone the papers will like, not some model or actress. A regular, ordinary girl. Someone you could be seen out and about with for a few weeks, two months tops, to show the country you’re the honorable, decent guy you were not that long ago,” John says.

  “Where would I even find a regular, ordinary girl? Well, one who’s not in my mom’s knitting circle, that is.” Nick laughs at his own joke.

  I nod and say, “I agree. It’s a very good plan. Do you have someone in mind?”

  “Someone normal. Someone approachable and easygoing,” John replies.

  “There must be out of work actors out there who would be happy to take the job,” Ed suggests.

  My brain begins to tick over as the seed of an idea is planted. Nick needs to be seen with a normal girl, someone who’s not a celebrity or a model. That girl could be me.

  I know what you’re thinking: am I insane? Have I forgotten that I despise sports pros in general and Nick Zachary in particular? The thing is, I could benefit from his fame and the exposure he could give me. Being his fake girlfriend could be my chance. On Nick Zachary’s arm, I will get a lot of media attention, which I could use to showcase my fashion designs. This could be the start of my whole new career!

  “I’ve got an idea,” I say, and all eyes in the room swivel to me. Well, all except Nick’s. I bet he’s too busy admiring his own reflection in the glossy table to bother looking at a lowly Sponsorship Account Manager like me.

  “What’s your idea, Erin?” Ed asks.

  “What about me? I could do it,” I reply, half wondering at my own sanity.

  Nick flicks his eyes to mine, a smile teasing his lips.

  Ed’s eyebrows ping up. “You, Erin?”

  “I’m normal. I’m easygoing. People generally don’t hate me,” I say with a small laugh. “Why not me?”

  John leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. “You’d be prepared to be seen out with Nick, acting as though you’re his girlfriend, getting photographed?”

  “I would.” I give John a firm nod and turn to toward the two Bennett Motors. “As the Sponsorship Account Manager for Bennett Motors, it will give a chance to ensure Nick is representing you and your brand in the best possible light.”

  “You’d do that to keep an eye on me?” Nick asks, incredulous.

  “No. I would do it for the good of the Hawks-slash-Bennett Motors relationship,” I reply curtly.

  “You are the type of person we had in mind,” Mr. Stinklater says.

  I smile at him. “The perfect solution, don’t you think?”

  As they confer, I run through all my designs in my head, working out what I could wear to best showcase my work. As I do so, I notice Nick sizing me up out of the corner of his eye, but I ignore him.

  After a few minutes, John leans forward and says, “Erin, as long as you’re happy to do this for us, we would be thrilled for you to act as Nick’s girlfriend, and we would be very grateful to you.”

  “Thank you,” I reply with a broad smile.

  I steel a look at Nick. He’s leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed, watching me closely. I shoot him a closed-mouth smile, and he raises his eyebrows at me in question. I look away. I bet he’s thinking I’m doing this to get close to him, like so many other women would. Well, he’s got another think coming. I’m in this for my own reasons, and they’ve got absolutely nothing to do with Nick Zachary.

  Chapter 3

  “You’re dating Nick Zachary?” Sophie’s big blue eyes are open so wide with shock, they could roll right out of her pretty head and onto the table at Jojo’s Karaoke Bar, our regular Saturday night hangout where we love to talk and sing and catch up on each other’s lives.

  For almost as long as I can remember, Saturday nights have been for going out with my girls to sing karaoke. Sing karaoke at Jojo’s Karaoke Bar, to be precise. It’s me, Darcy, and Sophie, the three BFFs. We sing, we laugh, we share stories, and we generally do our best to solve the world’s problems over a bottle of cheap sparkling plonk
.

  We haven’t succeeded yet, but we’re giving it our very best shot.

  “But, Erin, you hate Nick Zachary,” Darcy adds, looking equally agog as she gazes at me across the table. “Don’t you?”

  “I’m fake dating him,” I correct under my breath as I look around the busy karaoke bar to check that no one is listening in. “But you can’t say anything to anyone, okay? You two are the only people who can know because I trust you both. This thing has got to seem real.”

  Darcy knits her brows together. “I don’t get it. You hate jocks, especially rugby players. You tell us that all the time.”

  “And you’ve said how much you dislike Nick Zachary before,” Sophie adds.

  I get it. They think I’ve hopped on board the train to Crazytown. They know how much I despise jocks, so this is the last thing they’d ever expect of me. You see, I’ve been BFFs with Darcy and Sophie since high school, and we know one another inside and out. I can’t imagine my life without them both. We’ve been through zits and braces, first boyfriends and first breakups, and we’ve always got each other’s back, right down to agreeing to vet one another’s dates in the No More Bad Dates Pact.

  “None of that has changed,” I reply firmly. “I still don’t like jocks, and I definitely still do not like Nick Zachary.”

  My mind turns to the way he sat back in his chair, watching me with a smug smirk as we discussed fake dating with Ed and John. I know he was looking down his nose at me, this non-model, non-celebrity, “ordinary” girl. I bet he was thinking how excited I must be about getting to spend time with the likes of him. How much brighter my life will be because he’ll be in it. “It’s the opposite,” I wanted to tell him, “the polar freaking opposite.”

  Darcy is persistent. “Okay, I get that this is not real dating. But have you thought about the fact that you will have to be in the same room as him, pretending everything’s great? I know a little about working with someone you don’t like, you know. It’s not easy.”