Pucked Up Hearts (The Complete 3-Book Series)

Chapter One

Bella

I've always believed that confidence is like a good push-up bra—it can lift you up and make everything look better, even when you're falling apart underneath.

And right now, sitting in this cramped corner booth of Victrola Coffee on Capitol Hill, watching my crush laugh at another girl's joke, I feel like my metaphorical bra has just snapped in half.

"Earth to Bella," my best friend Riley says, waving a hand in front of my face. "You're doing that thing again where you stare at Tanner like he's the last croissant at Le Panier."

I drag my gaze away from Tanner Williams, who's currently charming the yoga pants off some blonde pre-med student near the espresso machine. "I don't stare. I observe. With purpose."

"You stare. With desperation." Riley sips her oat milk latte and grimaces. "God, why do I keep ordering this? It tastes like someone blended cardboard with false hope."

"Because you're lactose intolerant and stubborn." I slump in my seat, my own untouched americano growing cold. "Just like I'm romantically challenged and stubborn."

"You're not romantically challenged. You're just..." Riley pauses, clearly searching for a diplomatic way to say 'hopeless.' "Selective."

"Selective." I snort. "Is that what we're calling a complete inability to flirt without breaking out in hives?"

It's not entirely true. I can negotiate multimillion-dollar deals for my internship at a tech startup, give presentations to rooms full of venture capitalists, and once talked my way out of a parking ticket using only charm and a well-timed smile.

But put me in front of a guy I actually like?

I turn into a human version of Windows 2010—lots of potential, but prone to crashing at the worst possible moments.

"Maybe you just need practice," Riley suggests. "Like a romantic training montage, but with less sweating and more... I don't know, eye contact?"

Before I can respond to that particular brand of helpful insanity, a commotion erupts near the coffee counter. Someone has apparently knocked over a display of local pottery, sending ceramic mugs crashing to the floor like a very expensive percussion section.

"Shit, sorry!" The voice is deep, slightly panicked, and unmistakably familiar.

I look up to see Ryan O'Sullivan crouched on the floor, trying to gather the remains of what looks like very artistic—and very broken—mugs.

His dark hair is disheveled (probably from his helmet, since he's clearly come straight from hockey practice), and his Emerald City University jersey is stretched across shoulders that look like they've been carved by someone who takes their job very seriously.

Ryan O'Sullivan. Captain of the hockey team. Campus legend. And, according to Riley's extensive research (read: Instagram stalking), the proud owner of a GPA that's apparently circling the drain faster than Seattle's chances of seeing the sun in January.

"That's going to cost you at least fifty bucks," the barista says, not unkindly but with the weary tone of someone who's seen too many college students destroy property.

Ryan winces and pulls out his wallet, which appears to contain approximately three dollars and what looks like a grocery store receipt. "Right. Fifty bucks. Of course."

I watch him fumble through his pockets, clearly coming up short, and feel something stir in my chest. Not attraction—well, not just attraction—but opportunity. Sweet, caffeinated opportunity.

"I have an idea," I murmur to Riley.

"Oh no." Her eyes widen in alarm. "You have that look. The same look you had before you decided to 'help' your neighbor by reorganizing his entire kitchen while he was out of town."

"That was a good deed! His spice rack was a disaster.

" I stand up, smoothing down my sweater—the one that Riley insists brings out my eyes but that I secretly suspect makes me look like a very attractive librarian.

Which, honestly, isn't the worst thing. "Besides, this is different. This is strategic."

"This is insane."

But I'm already walking toward the coffee counter, my heart pounding like I'm about to give the presentation of my life. Which, in a way, I am.

Ryan is still crouched on the floor, looking like a very large, very confused golden retriever who's accidentally knocked over the Christmas tree.

When I clear my throat, he looks up, and I get the full force of those ridiculously green eyes that have made at least half the female population of ECU forget how to form coherent sentences.

"Need some help?" I ask, gesturing to the ceramic carnage.

He blinks. "Do I know you?"

"Bella Lawson. We had Economics with Professor Liu last semester.

" We also had exactly zero interactions beyond the time I borrowed a pen from him and spent the rest of the class period wondering if using said pen counted as a first date.

"You sat two rows behind me and spent most of the time drawing hockey plays in the margins of your notebook. "

A slow smile spreads across his face, the kind that probably gets him out of speeding tickets and into exclusive parties. "Right. You're the one who actually understood the supply and demand curves."

"Among other things." I pull out my wallet and hand fifty dollars to the increasingly impatient barista. "Consider it a loan."

Ryan stands up, towering over me by at least six inches. This close, I can smell his cologne—something that reminds me of a pine tree forest. "You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I have a proposition for you."

His eyebrows shoot up, and I realize how that sounds. Heat creeps up my neck like it's trying to escape through my ears.

"Not that kind of proposition," I say quickly. "A business proposition. Mutually beneficial."

"O-kay." He draws out the word like he's talking to someone who might be slightly unhinged. Which, fair enough. "What did you have in mind?"

I take a deep breath, channeling every ounce of boardroom confidence I possess. "I need a date. You need tutoring. I'm thinking we can help each other out."

Ryan stares at me for a long moment, and I wonder if this is how business deals usually go—with one party wanting to crawl under the nearest table and hide until graduation.

"Let me get this straight," he says finally. "You want to tutor me in exchange for me pretending to be your boyfriend?"

"One date," I correct. "And not pretending. I mean, not a real date, but a convincing one. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Absolutely. Real dates involve actual romantic interest and the possibility of a second date. This would be more like... performance art. With dinner."

Ryan laughs, and the sound sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. "Performance art. Right." He studies my face, and I try not to fidget under his scrutiny. "What subject?"

"Economics. Your GPA suggests you could use the help, and I happen to be very good at explaining why the invisible hand of the market is, in fact, not actually invisible."

"And this fake date? What's that about?"

I glance back at Riley, who's watching the entire interaction with the kind of fascination usually reserved for reality TV and car accidents. Then I look at Tanner, still chatting with the blonde pre-med student like I don't exist.

"Let's just say I need to remind someone that I have options."

Ryan follows my gaze and nods slowly. "Ah. Making someone jealous. Classic."

"Is that a yes?"

He's quiet for a moment, considering. Then he holds out his hand. "Deal. But I have one condition."

I shake his hand, trying to ignore the way his callused fingers feel against my palm. "What's that?"

"If we're doing this, we're doing it right. I don't do anything half-assed, even fake dating."

The flutter in my chest turns into a full-blown butterfly migration. "Define 'doing it right.'"

Ryan's smile turns wicked, and I realize I might have just made a deal with the devil. A very attractive, hockey-playing devil who smells like pine trees and looks like he knows exactly how much trouble he's about to cause.

"You'll see," he says. "When do we start?"

I pull out my phone, surprised by my own boldness. "Give me your number. We should probably coordinate schedules."

He rattles off his digits, and I type them in, my fingers only slightly trembling. "There. I'll text you so you have mine."

"Perfect." His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles like that. "Looking forward to working with you, partner."

And that, I think as I walk back to Riley on slightly unsteady legs, is how I accidentally sign up for the most dangerous tutorial of my life.

"What," Riley says the moment I sit down, "in the actual hell was that?"

I pick up my cold americano and take a sip, wincing at the bitter taste. "That was me taking control of my romantic destiny."

"That was you making a deal with Satan's hockey-playing nephew." Riley leans forward, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Do you have any idea what you just agreed to?"

"Tutoring and fake dating. Pretty straightforward."

"Bella." Riley grabs my hands across the small table, and I notice her nails are painted the same shade of emerald green as the ECU team colors.

"Ryan O'Sullivan doesn't do anything straightforward.

Last semester, he convinced Professor Martinez to let the entire class retake their midterm because he argued that the questions were 'culturally biased against hockey players. '"

"That's... actually kind of brilliant."

"He once talked his way into the Dean's private parking spot by claiming he was 'spiritually connected' to that particular piece of asphalt." Riley's eyes are wide with the fervor of someone delivering crucial intel. "The man could probably convince a fish it needs swimming lessons."

I glance back toward the counter, where Ryan is now charming the barista into giving him a free pastry to go with what I suspect is also a free coffee. The same barista who just made him pay fifty dollars for broken mugs. "Your point?"

"My point is that you're playing in the major leagues now, and you're still using little league rules."

Before I can ask her what that's supposed to mean, Ryan walks past me with a wink, the door swings behind him. And he’s gone. Then a minute later, my phone buzzes with a text.

Ryan: Economics tutoring starts tomorrow. 7 PM. Your place or mine?

I stare at the screen, remembering how bold I felt giving him my number just minutes ago. Now the reality of what I've agreed to is sinking in.

"He's already texting you?" Riley peers over my shoulder and grins. "Fast mover. I like him already."

Me: My place works. 4594 Benton St. Apt 3B. If you behave, I’ll bake cookies.

Ryan: I’ll behave. Maybe.

Riley pulls out her own phone and starts typing furiously. “I’m texting Jason about the party this weekend. If you're doing this fake dating thing, you need an audience."

My stomach does a little flip. "What party? And where?"

"Jason's place in Fremont. You know, Jason from our International Business class?

The one with the trust fund and the inexplicable obsession with craft beer?

" Riley continues typing without looking up.

"It's perfect. Casual enough that you won't look like you're trying too hard, but public enough that word will get back to Tanner. "

My phone buzzes again.

Ryan: Fremont party this weekend, right? Perfect first public appearance. We'll need to coordinate our story.

Ryan: And chocolate chip, if you're taking requests.

I stare at the messages, wondering how he managed to get information about the party. "How does he know about the party?"

"Small campus, big mouths." Riley finally looks up from her phone. "Besides, hockey players are like social GPS systems. They always know where the parties are."

Me: Chocolate chip it is. And yes, Jason's party.

Ryan: Because I have a feeling you're going to be doing a lot of baking over the next few weeks.

Ryan: Fair warning - I'm a very hands-on learner.

The flutter in my chest turns into something that feels suspiciously like panic mixed with excitement. I set my phone down and look at Riley, who's watching me with the expression of someone who's just lit a very attractive firework and is waiting to see if it explodes.

"I think I'm in over my head," I admit.

"Girl, you're not in over your head. You're in over your head, underwater, in the middle of the ocean, during a storm." Riley grins. "It's going to be amazing."

Across the coffee shop, I catch Tanner glancing in my direction for the first time all afternoon.

I see something that might be curiosity flicker across his features.

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine that this crazy plan might actually work.

That maybe, just maybe, I can convince Tanner Williams that Bella Lawson is worth a second look.

My phone buzzes one more time.

Ryan: One more thing - when we're 'together,' call me something other than Ryan. Makes it more convincing.

Me: Like what?

Ryan: Surprise me.

I stare at the message until the words blur together, wondering what I've gotten myself into. Because if there's one thing I've learned from my disastrous romantic history, it's that I'm terrible at surprises. Especially the kind that involve devastatingly attractive hockey players.

"Ready to go?" Riley asks, gathering her purse and the remainder of her cardboard-flavored latte.

"As ready as someone can be for impending romantic doom," I say, standing up and slinging my bag over my shoulder.

"That's the spirit!" Riley loops her arm through mine as we head toward the door. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"

And as we step out into the quintessentially Seattle drizzle, I realize that's exactly the question I'm afraid to answer.