Chapter Sixteen - Henry
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Henry
“ARE YOU SURE you’re fine?” I ask Mirabelle, leaning to speak in her ear so she can hear me over the pounding bass echoing through the club.
She rests her hand on my chest, staying close to me, and I’ll be damned if that touch doesn’t feel electric. “If I wasn’t, I would have said something.” Mirabelle angles her head back to let me see her reassuring smile, but there’s something missing. I noticed it earlier, but between the game and press conferences afterward, I was a little distracted.
Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and for a second, I consider pulling on it to either make her smile or to finally kiss the hell out of her. For practice, of course .
Stacey pulled us aside earlier to tell me how people are starting to notice we’re never seen together outside of the stadium and team functions. Honestly, I’m pretty sure that’s all I was allowed to do, but she heard some of the guys on the team were going out to celebrate our first win of the season, so we were told to go out and make it look like we’re a couple.
I wish we weren’t here.
I wish we were at the beach house, sitting on our surfboards at sunrise talking about anything and everything.
But that’s not where we are.
“I’m fine, Henry.” Mirabelle leans up to press a short kiss to my cheek, flashing me a quick smile as she slips out the VIP section and into the crowd. Her best friend, Emily, makes her way over to me a minute later, her mouth turned downward in a frown.
“Where did Mira go?” Emily asks, standing close enough for me to hear.
“I think to get a drink,” I say, craning my neck to find Mira in the masses. I had a strong drink shortly after arriving to help numb some of my anxiety over the number of people in this place, but it spikes again at the thought of Mirabelle being by herself.
“Dude, you kind of suck as a fake boyfriend. Are you trying to give other guys an opening to hit on her?”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise because I definitely don’t know Emily well enough after for her to say this. “No, I’m not,” I say, but I really hate the fucking idea of other guys going up to Mirabelle.
“Then maybe you should show Mira your caveman declaration wasn’t bullshit,” she says, staring at me with her dark eyes as she pats my arm. I’m not even embarrassed Mirabelle told Emily what I said, because I meant it. Now, I need to prove it.
Quinn is sitting on a couch, making out heavily with a girl who I’m surprised still has clothes on with the way they’re groping each other. Wilson is chatting with a few of his friends from defense, and I make a split-second decision to chase after Mirabelle.
One thing I learned from Thalia and have never forgotten is when a girl says she’s fine, it usually means she isn’t.
I’m careful not to shove anyone over as I make my way to Mirabelle, catching sight of her hot pink strappy top that shows off her cleavage perfectly. I’m not stupid enough to let her get to the bar where she’ll no doubt be hit on like Emily suggested. I catch her wrist loosely, and she turns in surprise.
“You followed me?” she asks, or at least that’s what I think she asks, considering the music is all I can hear.
“You’re hard to resist,” I say, leaning in so I know she can hear me. Her eyes flicker with happiness for the first time all night, and it’s a relief to finally say the right thing.
“If that’s the case, then I’ll let you buy me a drink,” she says, and I grin, leading her to the bar.
Mirabelle orders a vodka cranberry with a splash of lime juice, flashing the bartender a pretty smile before tilting her head my direction. “It’s on his tab,” she says, stirring the drink with the tiny straw before wrapping her lips around it to take a sip. I’d like to know what it feels like having her lips wrapped around something else. Goddamn, I’m a fucking fool for resisting seeing Mirabelle this way for so long.
“It’s under Price,” I add, and the guy nods, ringing it in quickly before moving on to the next customer.
“You don’t want a drink?” she asks.
“I shouldn’t since we’re officially in season,” I say, offering her my arm so we can find a table away from the bustle of the bar. I’m even kind of getting used to the loudness of the music, but it could be that being by Mirabelle makes everything better.
Mirabelle nods, understanding better than anyone. “That’s probably a good idea. You had a great game today.”
“No interceptions,” I say, smiling in relief. My bank account is thanking me, and I hope Owen’s is crying. Suck it, Coach. I threw four touchdowns today, and we won by a thirteen-point lead.
“Not bad for your first game as a starter. Way to go, Price,” she says, smiling happily at me.
“I had to show up and prove you made the right decision agreeing to help me. Maybe next time, I’ll get lucky, and you’ll wear my jersey,” I tease, but I’m not kidding in the slightest. I have the jersey sitting in a bag in my room for her, but I chickened out on giving it to Mirabelle last night. There wasn’t a moment to catch her alone because immediately after JJ’s game finished, Emily and Mirabelle disappeared to the pool with a bottle of wine. The sounds of Mirabelle’s laughter through my window taunted me until they went to her room.
“Maybe,” Mirabelle agrees, taking a drink, and I take the opportunity to check her out. She has these sparkly boots on her feet that she keeps smiling at, and a pair of jeans that are hugging her ass irresistibly. Maybe we should have gone back to the VIP section. There are too many people down here getting to look at her.
Temptation gets the better of me, and I can’t keep my hands to myself. “I don’t think I’d be mad if you showed up to the next game wearing one of these,” I say, slipping my finger under the strap to snap it against her tanned skin.
Her chest hitches in surprise and her lips part as she looks up at me. “A corset?”
“I can’t take my eyes off you,” I say, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m drunk. Drunk words equal sober thoughts, but the only thing I’m drunk on, is Mirabelle.
There’s a tap on my arm interrupting the moment before Mirabelle can respond, and I twist to see a girl from the next table over, gaping at me in awe. “Oh my god. You’re him. You’re Henry Price.”
I blink in surprise, not expecting this when I absolutely should have been. Mirabelle laughs on the other side of me, and I’m glad she’s enjoying this. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I say, finally finding my words.
“I’m so sorry, I promise I never do this, but my boyfriend is obsessed with you. You’re on his fantasy team and everything. He would literally never forgive me if I didn’t ask to take a picture with you. Can you please take a selfie with me?” she asks, looking up at me. Her friends are noticing she’s turned away, and I feel my face flush as they point at me. This is my hell, but I’m willing to try for Mirabelle.
“Sure,” I agree, leaning in as she holds out her phone to take the picture.
“Thank you so much. Seriously, you have no idea how excited he’ll be,” she says, clutching the phone to her chest. I’m just relieved she didn’t ask any questions. This is the kind of stuff I don’t mind, but the shit like my date with Mirabelle, where people feel entitled to put their hands on me while asking if I use steroids, are the reason I normally avoid everyone altogether. You never know what type of person will approach.
“No problem, but I did promise my girlfriend a dance,” I fib, and that’s when she sees Mirabelle behind me.
“No fucking way,” she shrieks, and then all her friends approach.
“Oh my god.”
“I can’t believe I’m in the same bar as Mirabelle Walker. I’m really sorry if we’re bothering you, but holy shit!”
“You’re my idol! I love your outfit.”
Mirabelle looks at me as if asking whether this is okay, but I don’t mind at all. I don’t like the attention, but they’ve been nice.
“I can take a picture of all of you?” I offer, and the amount of screams is an overwhelming response.
Mirabelle poses with them for nearly a dozen pictures as I practice my new career as her personal photographer before she politely tells them we have to go.
Maybe I’ve been looking at all this the wrong way.
I realize after we excuse ourselves that I’ve reached for her hand without realizing it. It feels so natural—everything with her does. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, that was a lot,” she asks, peering up at me, but it wasn’t.
“I didn’t mind, but I do want to dance with you.”
Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “I thought you only said that so she’d go away?”
She’s not wrong, that might be the reason I said it, but I actually want to. “Let’s dance,” I say, pulling her in the direction of the thick crowd of grinding bodies. I stand there awkwardly for a moment, staring at her because I don’t know what to do with my hands, and Mirabelle’s head tips backward as she laughs. She covers her mouth immediately to stifle it, but fails. Her eyes are crinkled, and she looks so damn happy that I’d make a fool of myself any day if it makes Mirabelle laugh.
“What are you laughing at?”
She stands on her tiptoes, her hand resting on my chest for balance. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing, but I can’t imagine you dancing. You’re just . . . you’re not a dancer, Henry.”
Mirabelle absolutely has me there. I’m not a dancer. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I danced. I smile at her, feeling more like myself than I have in a while. Today feels like a day where anything can happen.
“I’m not a dancer, but I’d like to try anyway with you.”
She grabs my hands, entwining them with hers. “Please don’t step on my feet,” Mirabelle requests, moving my hands to trail down her sides, leaving them on her hips as she moves them in a way that short-circuits my brain.
I pull her against me, touching her as her hands drift up my abdomen, and my restraint threatens to snap as my heart beats quickly in my chest.
We’re dancing.
Grinding, actually, but still technically dancing.
Her cheeks are flushed, and then we’re kissing.
I’m not sure who kisses who, and I don’t care, but I give Mirabelle everything I have in me to give. Her mouth moves hungrily against mine, and my only regret is not doing this sooner.
The music pulses in my ears, but the only thing I’m aware of is her. We’re in a room filled with people, but somehow, we’re in our own little world.
My hand slides to grip her ass, squeezing firmly, and the way Mirabelle moans into my mouth only spurs me to kiss her with more intensity. I can taste the cranberry from her drink on her tongue as we devour each other. My lungs are screaming at me to breathe, but I don’t fucking care. I’d sooner die than stop kissing Mirabelle.
Mirabelle turns her head away, breathing heavily, and I move to press my lips against the soft skin of her neck, inhaling the smoky vanilla scent that is as addictive as kissing her. Her hand twists through my hair, pulling on the short strands as she presses her hips up against the bulge in my pants. My entire body reacts, and I nip at her neck before soothing the spot with a gentle kiss.
For the first time since high school, I’m worried I’m going to make a mess in my pants just from making out with a girl.
“ Henry ,” Mirabelle moans my name into my ear, and I reluctantly pull away to see if she’s okay. Her lips are swollen, and damn, if it doesn’t make me feel good knowing I made them that way.
“Do you want to stop?” I ask, trying to catch my breath. I’ll do whatever she tells me to do.
Her whiskey eyes are intense as she looks at me. “No. The opposite, actually.”
“Stacey did say we should practice . . .” I trail off, twisting her ponytail between my fingers. “Think we’re convincing anyone yet?”
Mirabelle bites her bottom lip shyly— which is fucking ironic because shy is the last thing I’d ever describe her as —and shakes her head, her ponytail swishing behind her. “No. In fact, I think we need to try harder to convince them,” she says, tilting her head at me.
Challenge fucking accepted.
I kiss her again, making sure to take my time to fully commit this to memory. “You taste like cranberry,” I mumble against Mirabelle’s lips, feeling her smile. I don’t even like cranberry, but if you asked me right now what my favorite thing in the world is, I’d say cranberry.
Sliding my hand up her side, Mirabelle arches into me again, holding onto my bicep firmly.
I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that it feels as good as the first time, because when this fake relationship is over . . . how are we supposed to go back to normal?
Do I want to?
I shove the thoughts to the back of my head as Mirabelle’s other hand drifts over the front of my pants that are poorly concealing how turned on I am. She freezes, and I turn my head, breaking our kiss to talk in her ear so she can hear me over the music. “Convincing enough?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking. Hell, I want to know what it feels like to have her actually touch me. I want to know what Mirabelle looks like when I’m touching her. I want to know everything that makes her tick. What part of her do I have to touch to make her moan, what part to make her gasp, and how can I worship her to make Mira fall apart because of me?
Mirabelle pulls her hand back and I can see how bright red her face is, even in the dim lighting. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I should have aske—”
“Don’t apologize. You don’t have to ask. You can touch me—feel what you do to me,” I say, biting my tongue to keep from begging Mirabelle to touch me. I’d get on my knees for her, right here, right now. Instead, I stay still, waiting for her to make the next move because I’m not going to ask her to do anything she doesn’t want to.
She says stop, and we stop. There’s nothing more to it.
Mirabelle palms me through the material, and I couldn’t stop the moan from the back of my throat if I wanted to. Her lips curve into a wicked smile, and she leans up to kiss me again. “Pretty convincing.”
I cup her face gently, kissing her like the precious gem she is.
“Henry,” Mirabelle says my name softly, and I press another to the corner of her sweet mouth. She says my name again, but I can’t hear it because the music has somehow been turned up another level. However, I do know what my name looks like coming from her lips.
“Your phone,” she says louder, and I realize my phone is vibrating. I don’t know how I didn’t feel it before, but I hate that she takes a half step back.
I reluctantly reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone to see my mother’s name flashing on the screen. I fucking hate caller ID. I hesitate, knowing that Mirabelle can see the screen from the angle I’m holding it. The smile on Mirabelle’s face has disappeared, and now she won’t meet my eyes. “I think you should take that.” And in a blink, she’s faded into the crowd before I can stop her.
The phone stops ringing before I can decline it. Why does she keep calling?
I shove my phone back in my pocket, making my way toward the VIP section where I’m hoping Mirabelle went. Shit, I never asked her what was wrong. Instead, I made out with her and told her she could touch me. I’m an ass.
I drag a hand through my hair, taking a seat at the table Quinn is at, surprisingly by himself. I thought he would have been long gone by now.
“You’re still here?” I ask, scanning the area for any hint of Mirabelle, but she’s nowhere to be found. Great.
He grunts a short greeting, taking a long drink from his glass while ignoring my question.
What’s his deal?
“You good?” I ask, making sure to keep an eye out for Mirabelle.
He runs a hand over his face, clearly bothered by something. “I don’t know, man. I think I fucked up.”
I sit up straighter, immediately jumping to the worst conclusion. “What the hell did you do to that girl?” I ask, lowering my voice. Have I read Quinn all wrong?
“What? No, it’s not about the girl from earlier. The only thing I didn’t do was leave with her when she asked.” Quinn scratches the back of his neck and avoids making eye contact with me. “I told Mirabelle I have feelings for her at the event yesterday,” he admits.
It feels like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over my head, snapping me back into a reality where Mirabelle and I don’t work. “What?” I ask, hoping I heard him wrong.
“She’s fucking incredible. It’s not like you like her, it’s all fake for you,” he says, taking another drink, shaking his head. “I know she’s young, and you asked me to stay away, but I can’t get her out of my head. She asked me to give her time to think, and it’s driving me crazy not knowing where her head is at.”
My mind is blank. How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? That it might not all be fake between us? I’m finally admitting to myself I have feelings toward Mirabelle, but I’m nowhere near figuring them out.
“See, you think I fucked up too.” Quinn groans, downing the rest of his drink.
I blink, quickly trying to think of anything to say. One thing I do know is that I don’t speak for Mirabelle. “I don’t know if you fucked up or not. Mirabelle’s a wild card and always has been,” I choke out, wishing I had my own drink in front of me.
I don’t know if what happened on the dance floor meant anything to Mirabelle. She makes me feel alive compared to what I can now recognize as sleepwalking through the last few years. I know I don’t trust people, and I struggle to let them close to me, but I don’t have to worry about that with Mirabelle. When I’m around her I feel like myself—not the version everyone expects me to be.
I know it’s complicated because of who we are, and our goddamn age difference that everyone else is fixated on, but I’m almost past the point of giving a shit.
“Are you cool that I made a move?” Quinn asks, now eyeing me.
No. I’m not fucking cool with it, but I also can’t blame him. She’s been in front of me all along, and it’s my own damn fault for trying to suppress any attraction toward her because of how wrong or right it would have been.
“It’s Mirabelle’s decision. I hope you keep in mind that if you hurt her, she has a lot of men in her life that will be coming for your head,” I say, deciding that is the best answer because I don’t have a claim on her. Mirabelle’s her own person. Regardless of how it makes me feel, this is about how she feels.
That doesn’t mean I’m happy about the situation, but if she needs to think about it, then I’m not going to stand in Quinn’s way.
Fake .
Mirabelle and I are fake, even if tonight didn’t feel fake.
I finally catch sight of her chatting with Wilson and his friends, using her hands animatedly to get her point across as Emily laughs next to her. The sense of relief I feel at knowing she’s safe is overwhelming. I smile at the sight of her fitting into my world when she looks over at me, making eye contact. She smiles in return, winking at me from across the area, not missing a beat in the conversation.
That’s my girl.
Quinn regains my attention when he speaks again. “I know, but that doesn’t scare me. She’s worth it.”
He’s right.
She is worth it.