Chapter 4
Hunter
I dangle my keys in front of the face of the one woman that I truly loathe, just because I know it will make her cheeks grow pink with anger. Juliet screws up her face, her dark chocolate eyes flashing with something dangerous.
“Don’t push me, Huxley.”
“You’re awfully self-righteous for someone who just hitched her wagon to my star.”
“I did no such thing!” Her mouth bunches up, and she looks like she’s about to explode. “You know what? This was a bad idea. I’ll call Jimbo and tell him I’m not interested because you’re a douche.”
Like hell she will. I roll my eyes. “Calm down.”
She points at me, serious as a concussion. “Don’t tell me to calm down. I won’t stand here and have you make sexist remarks to me.”
“Sexist remarks?” I put my hands up. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s back up. Can we just go somewhere to talk about this like we’re fucking human?”
“You know what?” Juliet puts a hand on her hip, grinding her teeth. “I need a drink. And you’re buying. Consider it your thank you for not destroying your career.”
I snort. “Please. I would’ve been fine.”
It’s half a joke, but also not really. I’m still running hot from that meeting, adrenaline tightening every muscle in my body like I just finished a fight.
“Do me a favor and just don’t talk until you get me a drink.”
I drive while she stares out the passenger window like she wants to break it with her mind. I tell myself to focus on the road, not on the tension rolling off her like heat waves. Not on her crossed arms or her clenched jaw or those ridiculous heels that are so impractical it’s almost offensive.
Those same heels she always wore in college.
Those dresses, pretty little floral wrap dresses that emphasized her innocence somehow, made her dark hair and olive skin pop.
She’s too polished, too composed, too everything.
It pisses me off how tightly she keeps herself wound, like she’s afraid of what might happen if she lets go for even a second.
I don’t know either, but I bet it’d be entertaining.
I drive us to The Secret History, a noisy bar that’s in my building.
Living in the Sinclair, the team-owned luxury apartment building, puts me only a few minutes from the arena.
I like The Secret History because not only is it close to home, but it has an excellent selection on tap and they highly discourage looky-loos by providing the Seattle Havoc players with a private back room.
Juliet strides inside like she owns the place and orders a gin and tonic with four limes. I get whatever’s on tap and then lead her to a booth in the back room. It’s almost empty, as it’s a Wednesday night. Perfect for working out the terms of the ridiculous agreement that she’s backed me into.
We sit across from each other, sipping our drinks, and it feels like a standoff. Her arms folded on the table, my jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
She shrugs out of her blazer, and my eyes practically bug out of my head.
That dress underneath is a fucking landmine.
Tight across her chest, hugging every curve.
I’ve been trying not to look at her mouth all night, but now I can’t stop picturing the rest of her under me.
I’m not even a tits guy, but suddenly I want to live and die by that neckline.
She catches me looking and turns red. “Really? That’s where your brain goes?”
“What, it’s my fault for noticing?” I mutter, taking a long drink of beer. “You’re the one who wore the damn dress.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone, then writes on cocktail napkins. Fast and aggressive, like she’s solving a hostage negotiation instead of planning a fake relationship.
“Do you think we should be one of those couples that are saving themselves for marriage? Would that fly?”
I snort. “No way. Who would believe that?”
Juliet’s mouth drops open. “What are you implying? That people think I’m a slut?”
“Jesus! No.” I shake my head. “Honestly? I thought people would think that I’m too much of a slut.”
“Oh.” She sits back, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Hm.”
“You know what will make this conversation go more smoothly? If you just assume that I’m not trying to slut-shame you with every comment I make. I may be an asshole, but I’m not that kind of asshole. I have never thought you were easy. If anything, I think the opposite.”
She sniffs and adjusts the neckline of her dress so that I can see less of her cleavage. “I think it would be better if you keep your mouth shut about how you see me.”
“Done.” I sip my beer, trying to give myself a moment to collect my thoughts.
“So, about my apartment–” She pokes out her bottom lip, drawing my attention. Damn her and her bright red lipstick. “Frankly, I can’t afford to split rent on a fancy condo when I’m already stretched thin financially.”
Flipping my hand out, I brush off her concern.
“I’m paying the mortgage upstairs. I’ll pay yours, too. For the next five months, I’m paying for everything and a fat fucking stipend on top of that.”
She presses her lips together. “I don’t own my apartment. Jessa and I pay rent. But… thanks. It’ll help me get the rent taken care of for the next five months.”
I don’t want her to know that I have monitored her whereabouts since college.
I checked on her every six months when she was living in Houston with that arrogant asshole Patrick Delacroix.
And when she moved back to Seattle… I follow her Instagram through a Finsta, so I knew as soon as she moved back.
Why do I follow her? That much is unclear. Something about hating her fuckhole boyfriend, I guess.
Juliet takes a long sip of her drink, squeezing one lime into her glass and then nibbling on the leftover bits of lime clinging to the rind. Then she draws a deep breath and reaches for a stack of cocktail napkins.
“We’re going to need house rules.”
I’m not stupid. I know exactly what this is. Juliet doesn’t trust me to behave like a normal human being. She’s setting rules like I’m a rabid dog that needs a muzzle, and she’s the handler making sure I don’t bite anyone.
I feel like I’m being managed instead of respected. The worst part is I probably deserve it after last night. But that doesn’t mean I have to like her rules or the way she looks at me like I’m a loaded gun someone forgot to lock up.
I’m not sure what to say, so I shrug a shoulder. “Yeah, maybe rules could be good.”
She clears her throat. “First rule. Five-month engagement. Ends after the playoffs.”
I grunt. “Agreed.”
She purses her lips, tapping the end of the pen on the napkin. “I keep the ring until the end. You’ll need to buy me one. Something big.”
She says it with a straight face, but I catch the way she fiddles with the edge of her napkin. Like she’s pretending this is all a joke. Like she’s not a little curious about what a ring from me would look like on her hand.
My brain short-circuits at the image. Juliet in my jersey, bare legs tucked under her, that diamond flashing while she flips through papers and bosses me around like she owns me.
Ungh.
I shoot her a look. “Do you want diamonds or cubic zirconia?”
Juliet doesn’t want just a ring. She wants proof. A trophy. Something that screams he’s mine and you don’t get to question it. And hell, maybe she deserves that.
Not with me, of course. But I have absolutely no doubt that some guy will buy her the biggest rock possible and love making her wear it. Some extremely lucky guy.
Her lips twitch. “Depends. Are you trying to look like you make the league minimum?”
I flip her off. She scribbles down the rule.
“Tons of content,” she says. “We need Instagram posts. Couple-y, cute, believable stuff. I’ll run the account. You’ll act like you care.”
“It already sounds fake as hell.”
“Good. It is.”
I lean in. “No touching my gear, my blender, my gym bag, my sticks, whatever.”
“Gladly. I want nothing to do with your… stuff.”
Thinking for a moment, I add:
“No hookups. Not with me, not with anyone. Don’t make headlines. Don’t embarrass me.”
She stares at me. “Same to you.”
“Never said I wouldn’t be classy.” I say it with a hint of a tease.
“Yeah, right.” She snorts. “You’ve got the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.”
It’s weird, because we know each other. There’s a history between us. Or at least, we know each other’s reputations. Which is a toss-up.
I smirk at her. “I’m still hot, though.”
Juliet looks away, biting back something. Could be a smile. Could be anger.
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I parry. “You’ll move in tomorrow.”
Juliet stares at me across the table as she stacks up the cocktail napkins and jogs them. Her second drink arrives, and she doesn’t break eye contact while she takes a sip. I barely touch my beer. My stomach’s too tight, too twisted up with whatever this feeling is.
“This is going to be hellish,” I finally mutter. “And we haven’t even been fake engaged for three hours.”
She drinks, her throat bobbing gracefully. Doesn’t say a word.
When Juliet disappears down the hall toward the bathroom, I finally exhale.
The teasing scent of whatever perfume she wears lingers after she’s gone. It’s citrus and heat and something that makes my whole body tense up. Like a memory I can’t quite place but know I’d kill to relive. It makes my brain stall.
I can still feel her waist under my hand from earlier. Still remember the way she leaned into me when she slipped, like she trusted I’d catch her. Even if it was just for a second.
She’s so small. I always forget how small she is until I see her and wonder how the world hasn’t devoured her completely.
I shouldn’t care. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about how good she felt pressed up against me. How easy it would be to press her harder. Pin her down. Slide my hand up that tempting little dress and see what else she’s hiding behind that perfect mouth and terrifying brain.
I take a long drink of my beer and force myself to think about hockey. About press obligations. About anything that isn’t the way she looked at me like she didn’t hate me for once.
This is going to be hell.
Once she returns with the loud click of her expensive heels on the concrete floor, I say, “Are you planning on driving yourself home?”
“Yes.” She crosses her arms. “Why?”
I flag down the waitress and hand her Juliet’s unfinished drink. “She’s done.”
Juliet’s eyes flash dangerously. “Excuse me?”
“You’re five feet tall and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet,” I tell her. “You’ve had enough. We have a big day tomorrow. I’m not risking it.”
She takes a long, deliberately defiant sip of her drink, then flashes me a sugar-sweet smile. “Get fucked.”
I stand up and toss cash on the table. “I’m leaving.”
“So leave. I’ll get an Uber.”
I lean in close, lowering my voice. “Like hell I’m leaving you here alone. Look around. You think people haven’t noticed us sitting together? They’ve been gossiping about us, no doubt. So act like you actually like me and let’s go.”
I thrust Juliet’s blazer at her while she glares at me. Her spine straightens and some of the fight goes out of her. She doesn’t argue. That tells me everything I need to know about how much this job opportunity really means to her.
Outside, she walks stiffly beside me. No words, just her heels clicking on the sidewalk and her jaw tight with suppressed anger.
“What’s your address?” I ask.
She grinds her teeth. “Just take me to my car, Huxley.”
“No. Stop being a brat and give me your damn address.”
She blows out a breath like I’m the one being difficult. Me.
“11532 Rainier Place, Unit 112.”
I key the address into my car’s navigation system, pulling away from the curb. “Put your seatbelt on, future Mrs. Huxley.”
“You’re the worst,” she bites back. But she pulls the belt across her body and fastens it with a click. “Now I’m going to have to get up early and go get my car from the arena.”
“I’ll take you.”
“You’re going to take me? Do you know how out of your way that is?”
“Just let me fucking take you, okay?”
“So damn bossy.” She tsks.
“Pick a lane,” I mutter as I start the engine. “Do you want to act like you’re my fiancée or not?”
The idea of getting close to her feels like walking straight into a trap. She’s too sharp, too smart, too everything I’ve never been good at dealing with.
The drive to her apartment is silent except for my navigation system reading the directions aloud.
Her apartment is in Capitol Hill, a few blocks off Broadway.
When I pull up to her building, I study it with a frown.
It’s not terrible, but it’s not great either.
A place where the locks might not work and the security cameras are just for show.
She gets out and I watch her summon that fake breezy confidence, the mask she wears when she wants people to think everything’s under control. She struts to her door as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. But when she thinks I’m not looking, her shoulders curl in. Just for a second.
I stare at her legs as she goes. She’s tiny, but her bare legs below that short black dress are killer. That she can walk with as much sass as she does is honestly pretty impressive.
“What time tomorrow?” I call out the window.
She doesn’t even look back. “We’ll get it after we move.”
Then she slams the door as though it insulted her mother.
I sit there for a minute, just breathing. My hands are tight on the steering wheel. Pushing out a breath, I shake my head.
Five months. One fake relationship. One tiny woman with ridiculous red lipstick that she wears like armor.
I’ve made a deal with the devil… and she wears red lipstick and heels sharp enough to sever a carotid artery.