Hard to Fake

1. Brooke

Fake it till you make it. Isn’t that what they say?

Because if we’re not beautiful enough, smart enough, kind enough, capable enough, faceless people will judge us.

We try to be better.

It’s easier to pretend.

”More beautiful. More natural. Just… more, dammit.” The photographermoves across the wooden planks, his narrowed eyes focused on the camera screen.

I push up the sleeves of my cashmere sweater and follow him.

”This isn”t working,” Giovanni mutters.A white man with a narrow face, it’s impossible to tell if he’s forty or sixty.

“What about like this?” One of the models, Aliya, tilts her head an inch in a pose that’s virtually identical to her last one.

We”re shooting at the Denver Botanic Gardens. The lily pond is set with stones like gems studding the cold water. In October, many of the blooms have finished for the season, but the green vegetation pops even more against the gray sky.

The models pose at the water’s edge, the photographer catching reflections as they sway like flowers in the fall breeze.

Beautiful people in beautiful places doing beautiful things.

“No.” Giovanni exhales. “It’s the lighting.” He gestures to the sun as if he can manipulate it with his hand alone.

We’ve been trying to make progress for hours, with nothing but dissatisfaction from the photographer. This shoot is for a national magazine, and he’s going to be in trouble if he can’t produce a killer result.

My eyes latch onto the male model at the front of the group—Chad, or Brad, or Thad. It’s been so long since the intros we did this morning, I honestly can’t remember.

He’s pretty. Harmless.

Boring.

This shoot is going to waste time and money and fall flat if it doesn’t have a hook.

The thought sparks something in my brain.

“Movement,” I say under my breath.

“What?” Aliya demands. A high-fashion model whose star is on the rise, she has the impatience of someone who’s always been told exactly how beautiful she is and thinks she can coast on her razor-sharp cheekbones and flawless skin.

“This place is too peaceful,” I say. “Move bigger.”

I pass my light reflector to another assistant and adjust my shoes. Then I step out in front of the camera onto the first of the rocks.

“Hey! Get back from…” Giovanni trails off.

I tune him out and go farther.

One of my gloves slips out of my pocket, hitting the water”s surface. I bend to retrieve it, wobbling as I stick it in my pocket.

I swoop one hand up in the air at a bold angle.Then straddle two stones.

I can’t paint the perfect picture, but I trust my body, my movement.

The photographer watches.

Then starts to click.

The models are giving me curious and affronted looks, as if it’s better to sit around not getting the shots the client needs rather than try something new.

“Aliya, can you do that?” the photographer asks, intrigued.

I hear something that sounds like a snort. “You want me to hop on stones like a cracked out rabbit?”

“What’s your name?” Giovanni asks, staring straight at me.

“Brooke.”

Aliya’s cold look can’t kill my buzz.

I”m triumphant, basking in my moment of satisfaction. This shoot is saved, the client will be happy, and we can all move on with our lives.

A shrill screech goes up from one of the set assistants stationed near the entrance.

It’s a closed set, but a man just entered and is striding over as if he owns it, his height and broad shoulders saying he’s used to getting exactly what he wants.

He’s big enough to block out part of the sky and attractive enough no one would mind.

The models get in on the excitement, anticipation sweeping the set like wildfire.

“Is that…?”

“No.”

“Oh my God, he’s so gorgeous in person.”

“And tall. Damn.”

Security watches him but with envious smiles rather than suspicion.

What the hell is he doing here?

My weight shifts too far to the right.

Damn it.

I tighten my abs on the opposite side trying to regain my balance.

My foot swipes for the stone but misses.

My arms windmill.

My toe tips into the icy water.

When I dressed for today in my Prada cashmere sweater and pencil skirt and suede Stuart Weitzman ankle booties, I wasn’t expecting to pull a Michael Phelps.

Swimming is not in my zone of genius. I look my best dry.

But no matter what prayers I send up to the fashion gods, the water rushes up at me like wall.

The pond is knee deep, but that’s hardly a consolation when I land ass first.

It’s shockingly cold, soaking through my tights and bra. I try to swallow my screech but not fast enough.

At the edge of the pond, the models are pointing and gasping.

This time it’s at me.

The heat of embarrassment clashes with the numbing cold of the pond.

I wouldn’t have fallen in if someone hadn’t shown up and pulled focus from the entire editorial shoot.

The water ripples in front of me, and a hand appears. I grab it, desperate, and pull myself upright, spitting out a piece of lily pad that got plastered to my mouth.

The hand is attached to a man. One who towers over me now that I’m standing, his athlete’s body hard and powerful in jeans and a bomber jacket.

Topping it all off is the most regrettably attractive face I”ve ever seen. Medium-brown hair with thick brows. A square, smooth-shaven jaw. A wide mouth tipped up at one corner. Eyes that have no business being so goddamned blue.

Excited murmurs go up from the models and crew. Every person here knows he’s world champion Denver Kodiaks shooting guard Miles Garrett. The sexiest man in sports, possibly the world.

Women want him. Guys want to be him.

Sure, he’s objectively bangable, with a killer grin, huge hands, and a body that makes you want things you can’t say in front of your grandmother.

But he’s also Jayden Ellis’s righthand man, an extension of the basketball world I’ve been trying to escape from for years.

”C”mon.” His voice is low and amused as he turns, motioning toward his broad back.

He must be joking.

“I’m not riding you like a horse,” I scoff, picking a leaf out of my hair.

He grins, the smile of a person who enjoys it and knows he looks good doing it.

I crouch and feel for the bottom of the pond, biting my lip to hold in a whimper as the soggy, frozen cashmere plasters itself to my body.

“What are you doing?” Water soaks up to the knees of his faded-wash jeans.

“I need to find my phone.” It was in my skirt pocket, and now it’s not.

I bite my lip, swallowing the panic that wells up.

My life is on that. My work. My world.

The water is dark and opaque, and my foot slips. I keep searching.

On the shore, Giovanni paces. Aliya folds her arms, tapping a toe impatiently.

I take another step, feeling the bottom, and slip on something on the liner of the pool.

“Hurry up. I need to finish this shoot!” the photographer calls.

My would-be rescuer grabs me to keep me from falling. “We stay here any longer, we’re going to turn into frogs.”

“Only princes turn into frogs, so looks like we’re both safe.”

My teeth clack together from a sudden shiver that rips through me as the cold water settles into my flesh, my bones.

“Brooke Tamara Ellis.” He’s suddenly serious. “Your brother’s going to kill me if I watch you freeze to death. Get the fuck out of this pond.”

I blink at his commanding tone, my chin lifting. “Or else what?”

Before I can respond, he’s hoisting me up over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold.

He grabs my legs, locking them against his chest as he straightens to carry me back to shore.

My fingers dig into the muscles of his back.

It’s easy to forget how freaking huge he is. Six-four and all of it muscled.

Most of the men I grew up with and went to school with liked to control women with their family name or their trust fund.

This guy literally picked me up and is carrying me through the water as if I weigh nothing.

I don’t know what kind of Princess Bride shit this is, but I was not prepared. There’s a heat starting somewhere deep in my stomach.

Stupid pro athlete.

“Miles!” Aliya rushes up to him when he sets me down on the shore on my feet, her dark hair swinging in a shiny curtain. “I can’t believe you did that. What a hero!”

“Do you have a sweater? A blanket?” he asks her, his attention still on me.

“I’m fine,” I protest.

“Brock says she’s fine, Miles.”

“It’s Brooke,” I start, but I’m distracted by his hands on my upper arms.

“We’re almost done here, then I’ll be ready to go…” Aliya continues as if I hadn’t spoken. There’s impatience now and a distracted smile.

I look between them and realize the truth.

He’s here for her.

Because he’s a massive basketball star and she’s a model.

Beautiful people doing beautiful people things.

“It was her own fault,” Aliya continues. “She was supposed to be a shoot assistant.”

The embarrassment dials up to humiliation.

On my own social media, I’m in front of a camera, contributing to the fantasy life of being a twenty-something without a care in the world except for curating an enviable designer shoe collection and snapping pics of the latest appetizer at a hot new restaurant with my friends.

Today, I was carrying cameras and checking lighting.

My teeth chatter again. “I need to get back to work.” I pull out of Miles’s grasp and look around for some equipment that needs wrangling.

“You’re fired,” Giovanni declares. “I cannot have assistants disrupting my shoot.”

I wring out the bottom of my sweater, water hitting the deck with a stream of plinks. Indignation edges into my despair.

“Aliya, I need to drive Brooke home,” Miles says before I can respond.

“You what?!” We blurt it at the same time.

Aliya’s penciled brows drag together as though she’s calculating whether she could shove me back in the water and drown me.

I trail him to the parking lot.

“I have a car,” I call after him.

“I’ll have it dropped off later. Give me your keys.”

“No way.”

Miles hits the locks and opens the passenger door. “You can drip all over your leather or all over mine.”

He’s tall enough to easily rest an elbow along the top. His other hand opens, waiting.

I turn it over.

Getting my car detailed was not in my plans for the week.

I drop my keys into his open palm and get in the passenger side.

“You wanted to swim, you could’ve done it in July rather than the end of October,” he suggests as he shifts into the driver’s seat.

I pry a piece of curling hair off my forehead. “I had a plan.”

“A wet plan?”

So much for the straightening job that took me an hour.

I’m tempted to toss my hair out of pettiness and watch the droplets spatter his interior, but it would be a crime against the beautiful leather.

“It was going perfectly until you showed up,” I inform him.

He snorts and reaches for the vents in front of me, angling them so warm air blows at me.

“Why were you working behind the camera?” he asks.

“Thought I’d broaden my horizons. Learn more about the other side of the industry.” I shift in my seat. “What’s up with you and Aliya? I didn’t know you were dating.”

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

“Ahh, the truth comes out. So, she DM’d you a pic of her topless and you agreed to dinner.”

“Or I sent her a pic of me bottomless.” He winks and starts to whistle along with the radio.

Miles is the chillest guy I’ve ever met.Everyone loves him: his teammates, his competition, and every female basketball fan in the country.

But he’s not larger than life to me like he is to the rest of the basketball world.

So what if once in a while when his grin lasts too long, it makes my stomach flip?

It’s a natural reaction to a hot-AF man. Nothing personal.

“You’re not whistling to Kendrick right now,” I say.

“The ladies love it.”

When he hits the chorus, I can’t stop the eye roll.

The heating system starts to send warm air in earnest, and it feels good. I groan and stretch my fingers toward the heat.

Without looking over, Miles turns it up more.

At a light, he reaches into the back seat and retrieves a sweatshirt, dropping it in my lap.

“What size is this, Sasquatch?” I hoist an arm of the giant cotton form into the air.

“I’ll find you something else to wear if you tell me why you were really working on that shoot.”

My mouth falls open.

Miles’s popsicle-chill vibe can lull you into thinking he’s safe, but when he cares about something, he’ll dig in with a stubbornness even my mom would admire.

Being the only daughter of a United States senator sounds like a good deal, especially for someone who enjoys being in the spotlight. What you don’t realize is that it comes with strings. A lot of them.

Especially in our family.

Be intelligent, but not edgy.

Be polite, but not a pushover.

Be presentable, but conservatively so.

Which, according to my mother, was the cause of her voicemail last week that changed everything.

It’s my dirty secret, and I’m not about to share it with anyone, least of all my brother’s gorgeous, rich, popular teammate.

I’m already embarrassed, but confessing why I was there would dial that up to off-the-charts humiliation.

“Don’t look,” I say. I’m not usually self-conscious, but this day has thrown me for a loop.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

With a glance toward Miles to ensure he’s watching the road, I peel off the sweater. The warm air feels like heaven on my bare skin as I tug the sweatshirt over my head. It smells clean and a little like Miles. Once I’ve tugged it down, leaving a pool of fabric around my body, I reach inside to work off my bra.

Who invented these things? I’m half an inch from to dislocating my shoulder.

A few grunts later, I drop the bra in a soggy pile in my lap.

“You want a medal for that performance?” Miles drawls, navigating traffic.

“It’s the least you can do,” I retort.

It’s not though.

He dragged me out of the pond, got himself soaked in the process, and blew off his date to drive me home.

Miles is one of the good guys.

I shove the shirt sleeves up my arms, feeling like the Michelin man from all the wrinkles.

Miles’s gaze flicks over and lands on the stack, my teal lace bra on top. “Lace, huh?”

“Stop it.”

He grins, but his attention stays where it is.

“Um. Miles, the light?—”

“Shit.” He hits the brakes as the yellow switches to red.

I’m tossed forward, the seatbelt lock engaging with a snap across my shoulders.

The last few blocks of the drive pass in silence. Miles pulls up in front of my building without asking for the address.

“Need me to come up to wring your hair out and tuck you in?”

“No, thank you. You’re not the only one with a date tonight,” I announce.

I get the briefest satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow in a very un-Miles way before I get out of the car and slam the door.

* * *

“What happened to you?!” Nova gasps as I trip into the café.

I drop into the seat opposite her and fluff my still-damp hair. “A little outdoor swim.”

“In October?”

“The pool at the Four Seasons is closed for renovations.”

It’s Sunday night, and the place is full of decaf-drinking hipsters in mountain chic. This café became Nova’s favorite and mine when she lived with me, and it’s still not too far from the art studio she rents downtown.

I told Miles I had a date tonight. I didn’t say whom it was with.

“This seems like an act of rebellion.” My friend pushes a coffee cup matching hers across the table.

Nova is petite and wearing leggings, her hair tugged up in a ponytail that brushes her shoulders. We’re the same age but she seems younger, probably thanks to the big blue eyes that reveal exactly what she’s feeling at any moment.

“Not even. I was assisting on this editorial shoot, but they were too narrow-minded for my ideas.”

She frowns. “Assisting,” she echoes. “You were helping with a shoot instead of being at the center of it? What’s going on?”

When Miles asked me, I couldn’t imagine sharing the truth with him, especially because he’d turn around and tell my brother.

But Nova’s discreet and the kind of friend who makes you want to let your guard down. I’ve never once felt judged or less than.

“I’m broke,” I say bluntly.

Her gaze drops to my designer outfit before lifting again. “Back up. Explain.”

“My mom’s always helped with… you know.”

“Money,” she supplies with a nod.

“Yup. It made sense. After high school, I would have been happy to go to a junior college, but she wanted me to go to this expensive private school, pledge a traditional sorority, fit the image of a senator’s daughter. I told her I didn’t need all of that or the debt that went with it. So, to convince me, she said she’d help.”

“Okay.”

“Well, after graduation, I guess she decided my image was important to her politically and didn’t want me living on ramen with four roommates. So, she kept helping.” I inspect my nails for damage. No casualties from my little Swan Lake impression earlier. “For the last three years, she’s helped… until last week. She decided to stop.”

“Why?”

I lift a shoulder. “Her polling team saw a post on my social that showed nine percent too much side boob for her constituents.”

As one of a handful of Black female senators, my mom feels a lot of pressure to lead by example. She’s nearing the end of her second term and coming up on reelection.

The thing is, if Mom had asked me herself to take down a picture, I would have done it.

Probably.

Maybe.

I started building my social media back in college with what society would now call fashion and lifestyle content, though I never thought of it that way. To me, it was just me living my life.

A styled, curated life.

It was as genuine as it could be with the addition of thoughtful outfits, lighting, and captions. But lately, my mom has been more concerned about what I post and say, which might not be a problem except that I’ve gotten less concerned.

I post hiking pics, moments on the street that make me pause and think, blurry nights out with my friends.

When someone comes at me on the internet, I stick up for myself. I used to turn a blind eye, but over the past year, the level of nitpicking has gone through the roof—on everything from my appearance to my activities to the people I spend my time with.

If it was confined to me, I could take it. But strangers pick at other women for how they look or act and it makes me angry.

Not everyone can handle the weight of that criticism.

They shouldn’t have to.

In my head, I play back the voicemail from my mom. Phrases like “can’t afford mistakes” and “I won’t be covering for you again” come to mind.

It’s less a stinging hurt than a constant twinge, like when I pulled a muscle the first day of dance camp as a kid and ignored it for the rest of the week.

My friend twists a piece of blond-and-pink hair around her finger. “Are you going to be okay?”

Nova’s parents died when she was in school, and she had to figure things out on her own. She’s resourceful, and I’m determined to be too.

My brother would laugh if I told him I’m broke. We’re two years and six months apart in age, and he’s a professional basketball player who makes an insane amount of money—the kind that means you could buy a different house every season.

“Totally. Though I do need a new phone.” I reach into my bag and pull out the geriatric one I found in a drawer. It won’t update, and I can barely log in to my socials. It’s going to be a nightmare to post until I can get a new one, but I never appreciated how much they cost before.

“What are you going to do?” Nova prods.

That is the question.

I have a handful of brand partnerships, though those mostly provide me merch in exchange for promotions rather than cash.

I briefly scanned job openings online, but everything required a specific degree or technical skills I don’t have. The ones I qualify for don’t pay what I need.

A new post pops up at the top of my feed from an account that I follow.

“One of the alums from my sorority runs this big fashion brand,” I explain to Nova. “She’s crushing it, and she’s always built her brand by supporting other women.” I swipe through the posts, impressed.

They have a new collection launching soon. It’s a different vibe than the last one, emphasizing natural fabrics in bold colors.

Nova reads the post with me. “Does she need spokesmodels or brand partners? You should put your name in.”

I turn the idea over, tapping a finger against my lip. My friend is right that it could be a perfect fit for me. “She’s a big deal.”

“So are you,” Nova says loyally. “Have you seen how many followers you have? Plus, you’re smart, warm, and people want to be around you.”

My chest squeezes as I reach for my drink. “You’re the best. You know that, right?”

She beams. “Okay, speaking of fashion… please tell me you’re still going to the Kodiaks Halloween party this week.”

“I need to make sure my brother is a good host.”

Last year, the annual Halloween party was hosted by an ex-player who was the cause of endless team grief and drama. I told Jay he needed to host this year’s party to erase that from everyone”s mind.

“What are you going as?”

I navigate my phone, grimacing as I wait for it to load my reference picture.

”That”s wholesome,” she comments once I show her.

“Not the way I’m doing it.”

She laughs appreciatively. “I heard the prize is a thousand dollars.”

My interest perks up. If I won, that would get me a new phone.

My old one buzzes with a notification.

Miles: Wanted to make sure you didn’t fall into the bathtub before your date.

Brooke: Why are you texting me? I lost my phone.

Miles: But you’re responding so… ;)

My lips curve.

On my way over here, I passed a bus stop with a picture of the starting lineup of the World Champion Denver Kodiaks.

Standing in the middle was Miles, a basketball gripped between his massive palms, his purple jersey revealing muscled arms. He was facing down the camera with a smirk that could melt a woman’s panties off.

He was always a fan favorite, but after the playoffs, he became even more popular. Now that their season has officially started, excitement and expectations are off the charts.

The whole city, the entire state, has had a collective hard-on for the Kodiaks since they won the championship last year.

”Who’s that?” Nova asks, curious.

“Miles drove me home after the shoot. He was there to pick up one of the models. He left with me instead.”

“Fascinating.” Nova shifts forward, her dark lashes fluttering. “Why would he do that?”

“Because my brother would have Miles’s ass if he let me drown?” I supply. “Hint all you want, but we are never getting together.” I set down the phone firmly.

“But you have chemistry.”

“I don’t date basketball players.”

“Who do you date? Because as long as we’ve known each other, I haven’t seen you date anyone for more than a few weeks.”

I kick her lightly with my toe under the table in retaliation.

“Shacking up with some baller from my brother’s team is the last thing I need.”

I grew up under my mom’s public persona, and now I have to deal with my brother’s. He’s one of the top point guards in the NBA, and even when I try to live on my own terms, existing in the same city means his world collides with mine more often than not.

“I hooked up with one of the guys on my brother-in-law’s team. It worked out pretty well,” Nova says with an innocent smile.

”And he’s the lucky one, Mrs. Wade,” I say, my attention falling to her gigantic diamond ring, now with a matching wedding band thanks to Clayton Wade, the Kodiaks’ all-star forward and Nova”s husband.

She didn’t know who Clay was when they met. It was a very sexy case of mistaken identity, and I was here for it.

“So, Miles doesn’t even get a chance?” she pleads.

The way he carried me out of the water comes back, coupled with the lingering look in the car after I changed in the passenger seat.

I don’t think about him like that.

Okay, sometimes I think about him like that.

But even if Miles decided tomorrow that chasing Kodashians is inferior to dating a woman who actually sees who he is and challenges him, hooking up with the most popular player in the NBA who’s also my brother’s teammate would be a kind of complicated I avoid.

“I will never date the golden boy.” I click into my social account, relieved to see the number of comments piling up on my latest post. “There’s only so much sun to go around, and I die in the shadows.”