by K. Bromberg
The pro—preppy in his white polo shirt and perfect hair and goofy smile—makes an awkward attempt to give her a high five and then pull her into a celebratory hug.
Fuck this. That’s enough.
“Harlow? Honey . . . ” I call her name and stride from the bar into the range.
Harlow’s head startles and when she spots me, her smile spreads wide. “Zane! Did you see my drive?”
That’s right fuckers. She’s with me.
I stop just inside the platform. “Great shot.” I look over at the pro and fire off a warning shot with a glare to back the hell off before turning back to her. “You ready to go over everything?”
“Everything?”
What in the hell am I talking about?
“Yes. For tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.” Confusion fills her eyes before she glances over at the clock on the wall and then lifts her brow. “You want to take the last few shots left in my hour?”
“No thanks. I have a seat for us at the bar.”
She nods and smiles. Satisfied that all of the pricks watching know she’s with me, I make my way toward the bar. It takes a few moments before she reaches me, and I stand and press a chaste kiss to her lips.
That was for anyone who doubted that she was with me.
She stiffens when our lips touch but then seems to realize that this is the location of our event tonight, and any one of these people might be attending.
It takes a few moments to get our orders settled and once we do, she turns her attention on me.
“So?”
“So . . .what?”
“You said you needed to talk about tonight. Should I assume we do the same as last night? Talk. Flirt. Inform. Mingle.”
“Right.”
“Act like we’re madly in love.”
I snort and look away from her to where pro golf boy has moved on to the next Stepford wife.
“You confuse me,” she says, prompting me to look back at her. “You run a matchmaking company yet everything you say about it in private is a total contradiction.”
“That’s my prerogative. And I run a lot of businesses. This just happens to be my current focus.”
“And when it’s not your focus? What does that mean for the thousands of people who are signing up and who believe it’ll work because we say it will?”
“Not my problem.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say.”
“Perhaps, but it’s the way of the world. Things in this life only last so long. You enjoy them, take advantage of them while you can, and then you wash your hands of them and go your separate way.”
Her eyes narrow, the hazel in them darkening. “That’s what you really believe?”
I shrug. What I said had its merits but fuck if I’m going to let her play shrink to see how I feel about women and dating. I’m a thirty-three year old man. A busy one at that. I don’t have time for commitment. I don’t have time to devote to one person in the way I’d need to make a relationship work . . . and frankly, I don’t really want to.
Growing up with my mum and dad didn’t exactly paint the rosiest picture of what a good relationship should be. Hitting the bottle, all day, every day, just so you can stand your spouse taught me never to want one.
“Earth to Zane? Is that what you really believe?”
She pulls me from my thoughts and for a beat I stare at her and try to find my answer.
“My theory evolves daily,” I finally say.
“Don’t think about it. Just answer.” She leans her elbows on the table and levels me with a stare. “Do you believe in love, Zane?”
“Love is a bullshit emotion.”
Harlow angles her head and stares at me as if she’s trying to believe I just said that. I did. And it’s true.
“Don’t tell Robert that.”
“Didn’t plan on it.”
She takes a sip of her drink and then watches the ice cubes as she stirs the straws around in it. “I don’t get it.”
“Stop trying, it’ll make your life that much easier.” Too much talking. Way too much talking going on here.
“I don’t understand. You’re a wealthy man—”
“Ahh, the all knowing power of Google. Did you look up my sordid past while you were at it?”
And why does that fucking bug me if she has? What about my past do I want to hide from her when I’ve never fucking cared before what people think of the many women I’ve dated. Hell, I looked her up. I even searched all the men whose arms she was on.
Or maybe it’s not my dating past I don’t want her to know about, but rather the life I left behind that I’d prefer to keep out of the discussion.
“Your past was nothing I didn’t expect.” She shrugs. “So where does Robert come into play in all of this?”
“His monetary contribution helps, but his value to SoulM8 is in his experience in the industry and his vast network of connections with the media.”
“So it’s his influence you’re after.”
I take a sip of my drink, lean back in my chair, and just stare at her. How did we get here? How in the fuck am I sitting here, pretending to be a couple, pushing a dating website?
Fucking Kostas and his contest.
“His influence? Yes. Ever heard of IMM?”
I can see the confusion flicker over her face. The same confusion I first felt when I met him while I tried to rationalize that this unassuming man was the scrupulous businessman who founded and built International Market Media to be one of the top publicity firms in the country.
She eyes me as if she’s still trying to wrap her head around it. “You mean . . .?”
“Yes, as in International Market Media,” I say. “It was started, owned, and sold for a pretty penny and a lot of stock options by one Robert and Sylvie Waze about fifteen years ago.”
Surprise registers on her face, lips shocked in an O, those eyes of hers rich with colors flash with fascination. “He told me he had a company, but I would have never known that was it.”
“Not everyone is who they seem, Harlow.”
“HEY YOU.” ZANE’S MURMURED VOICE breaks through my fog of sleep and for the briefest of moments, I thinking he’s speaking to me.
My body stills, the affection in his tone sounding a little too familiar for me.
He chuckles softly, the sound echoing through the darkness of the bedroom, prompting me to open my eyes. I glance at the clock on the nightstand to find it’s three in the morning.
What the hell? Who is he talking to?
“You like that? Do you?”
I freeze, the playfulness in his voice and my sudden awareness of the blue light from his computer screen shocking me fully awake.
“Have you been playing with yourself? Do you miss me doing it? Huh? It seems you can do it all on your own?”
Please. No.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask louder than I should as I sit up in bed, pulling the covers around me. “Can’t you have some common courtesy and not do that when I’m lying right here?”
“Do what?” he asks as he turns abruptly to look at me, shirt off, face highlighted by the screen.
“That!” I say shoving a finger to the computer screen I’m petrified to look at.
“This?” He laughs in the most disbelieving of ways, pulling my eyes to what he’s pointing at.
And then I die.
Of embarrassment. Of sweetness overload. Of my own idiocy.
There on the screen of Zane’s computer is a room with a very large bed. Standing on said bed angling his head from one side to the other is none other than Smudge.
Yep. The dog.
He’s talking to Smudge.
Big, macho Zane Phillips is checking on his dog in the kennel and talking to him at three in the damn morning.
I must turn ten different shades of red as I flick my eyes from Zane’s confused expression to Smudge sitting pretty now waiting to hear his owner’s voice again.
“I’m sorry. I t
hought—I should—” I stop myself mid-sentence when I see the realization, plain as day, register on his face.
“Oh my God!” Zane throws his head back and laughs, hand to his stomach. “You thought that I was—fuck that’s funny.”
“I’m just going to shut my mouth now,” I say and flop back on the bed and cover my face with the comforter.
“I mean, I really like doggy style, Cinder, but that’s taking it to an all new level I’m never going to.”
“Will you be quiet, please?” I ask, my mortification heightened with every riff of his laugh.
“Fucking classic,” he murmurs through his laugh. “Sorry Smudge, I love you and all . . .”
And the smartass remarks continue, one after another, as I hold my hands over my ears and fight my own smile.
I’m such an idiot.
Zane talks to his dog via web cam.
I guess I need to reevaluate my initial opinion of him.
Any guy who does that gets an up-rating in my book.
“C’MON, LET ME BUY YOU a drink.”
I look over at the very handsome man to my right. Dark hair, light eyes, and an arrogant air to him that says he knows it. The one who has been making eyes at me all night long, regardless of the fact that I’ve been on stage with my supposed boyfriend talking about the love we’ve found on SoulM8.
“No, thank you.” I offer a tight smile and take a step back.
“That’s Zane Phillips, you know,” he says and takes a step toward me.
“I’m fully aware who he is. Thank you.”
“We run in the same circles. I know how he is.”
“I know how he is too.”
The man’s laugh is condescending. “So you’re prepared for your heart to be broken?”
“My heart. My business,” I say as kindly as possible, more than aware that I’m here representing a brand and so telling him to go to hell like I normally would isn’t exactly professional.
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” He trails a finger down my bare arm, and I immediately take a step away from him.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies room.”
I exit the ballroom of the country club and make my way down the hallway. Needing a better escape from Mr. Forward than the bathroom, I push through the first set of unlocked doors and find myself in an open courtyard of sorts. There are concrete benches and trellises where vines have crawled up the stone walls and onto the wooden lattice. Fairy lights twinkle around me, and it’s everything I need right now to give me a breather.
I tense when I hear footsteps and then sag in relief when I see Zane. Our eyes meet across the dimly lit space and I register the tension sewn into the lines of his face.
“You going to flirt your way through the whole room, Harlow? I think you may have missed a few.”
“Excuse me?” The relief I’d felt moments ago gives way to confused anger.
“You’re supposed to be with me, remember? Not that asshole Miles Finlay.”
“Miles Finlay?”
“The prick you were more than chatty with.”
Mr. Forward?
“It’s none of your business who I’m chatting with—”
“Like hell it isn’t—”
“And I’m well aware of what I’m supposed to be doing.” I move to abate my sudden restlessness. “And from where I was standing, you seemed to be doing a pretty damn good job of working the room—ahem, women—yourself. You know, the tight bodied, short-dressed women who I’m sure would be more than happy to screw your ‘girlfriend’ over if you’d have invited them back to your place. Too bad your place is our place and it’s a skank free zone.” My hands are on my hips, and my eyebrows are arched in challenge.
“Like that would stop me.”
I’m not sure why his comment catches me off guard with mental whiplash, but it does. I can’t figure the man out and I need to stop trying to for my own sake.
“You know what? This doesn’t work for me.”
“What doesn’t?” he asks and dismisses it with a laugh.
“Your Jekyll and Hyde crap. The whole be nice in public and then be a jerk in private. It’s total bullshit on your part so decide who you’re going to be so I can figure out how to deal with you.”
The slow smirk that curls up one corner of his lips says he’s enjoying this and fuck if I don’t hate a man who plays games. I’ve been with enough of them to know they leave your heart broken, your pride wounded, and you constantly questioning yourself. “Who would you prefer me to be?”
He takes a step toward me.
“Yourself. Whoever that is.”
Another step.
I won’t move. I won’t be intimidated. I won’t back down to him.
“Be careful what you wish for, Harlow.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
We stand in the garden with the night all around us, our minds trying to figure each other out, and our bodies inches apart.
“Nothing.” He murmurs a chuckle and angles his head to the side as he stares at me. The green of his eyes says things I can’t read and am not sure I want to just yet. “Just make sure you don’t confuse our act with reality is all.”
“Our act?”
“That we’re a couple.”
“I’m not.”
“I can already see it on your face.”
“See what?”
“And your body.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
His tongue darts out to lick his lips and he falls silent a moment before he speaks. “Women fall in love with words, Harlow. Men fall in love with bodies.”
“Would you mind cluing me in on what the ever loving hell you are talking about because I’m confused and you’re overstepping.”
He shakes his head subtly, like you would with a child who isn’t understanding what you’re explaining. “The look on your face tonight during our presentation. The one that said you wonder what this could be like between us if it were real. Don’t mistake our act for reality.”
His words slap me awake in a way I’d never admit because he’s right. I was thinking that tonight. As he spoke sweet words about me and comments about relationships and finding someone new that I knew someone else scripted for him, I still wondered.
For a man who says he doesn’t pay attention, he sure as hell noticed that one slip of my cover.
I won’t let it happen again.
“Just like you, I can play this part perfectly,” I say.
“Uh-huh. You may be able to fool them, but not me.”
“Don’t think so highly of yourself.” I step back, needing space, hating that he can see through me so clearly.
“Why not?”
“You know what? Cut the crap, Zane. You want to be big man on campus, then be him. You want to be the big wig who owns the company. Good for fucking you, but I hate both of them. Can’t you just be the guy who stood in the tour bus this morning and offered me a mulligan? The one who gave me an apology for being an asshole because he was a big enough man to realize he’d been a jerk and wanted to fix it. Why can’t you be that guy all the time?” I run out of breath and I hate that it makes it harder to draw in the next one when he shifts on his feet so that his chest brushes ever so slightly against mine.
“I said be careful what you wish for, Harlow.”
“Why?” I throw my hands up in defeat and frustration, realizing this conversation isn’t going anywhere.
“Because that guy . . .” he says as his hand reaches out, finger tracing the line of my jaw as my breath catches and burns in my lungs. “That guy would walk up to you and do this.”
And before I can think to breathe, he steps into me and brushes his lips against mine. Once. Twice. My lips part. They grant him access so the third time he slips his tongue between them and lights every part of me on fire.
I hesitate and question but before I can even pause, he changes the angle of the kiss and begins all over again. So
ft lips. Rough stubble. Warm tongue. Restrained groans.
Desire.
Something I don’t want to feel.
I lie.
I want to feel it. I want to give in to it.
But not with him. Not this way. Not . . .
Good God the man drags me under with him. In this garden full of fairy lights and dark shadows there’s an underlying hint of restraint beneath his kiss that thrills and warns and hints at what else he wants.
When he breaks it off . . .
This is just an act.
When he steps back and rubs a thumb over my bottom lip as if to let me know, yes that was real. The lips that just drugged me turn up into a roguish smirk., and the wicked gleam in his eyes both scares me and thrills me.
“And that’s not even the half of what that guy you want would do with you . . .” He whispers as he steps back, his hands on my face holding it still, when he glances to the doorway at my back and says a single word. “Finlay.”
Still flustered from the kiss it takes me a second to register what he just said. The name of the guy hitting on me inside. But when I glance over my shoulder, there’s no one there.
Was Finlay there? Watching? Or was this just Zane’s way of staking some kind of invisible claim on me in a ruse that’s getting more confusing by the second, more impossible to separate what is real and what is fake.
He retreats another step, all touch now removed.
“Finlay?” I ask when my thoughts align, only to get a subtle shake of Zane’s head in response. “That’s what this was all about? You want to make sure to get in there and stake your claim before some guy you obviously hate does? You don’t want me but that means no one else can have me either? How dare you.”
My heart races out of control and that small part of me that thought he really meant the kiss—the one I keep telling myself I didn’t want because I won’t be his game to play—deflates a little.
“You’re out of line, Harlow.”
My laugh echoes off the concrete walls around us. “Out of line? First off, you don’t get to tell me how to feel and second? I’m not some trophy, and I sure as hell won’t be yours.”
“For now you are, in the eyes of the world anyway.” His lips purse, and his eyes pin me motionless.