Chapter 6 The Proposition
The Proposition
brOOKS
Three sharp raps on the front door, and I check my watch—it’s been seven minutes, and Sydney’s already here. “I’ll get it,” I call to Meema.
I open the door to see her, back in that puffy blue coat, her blond hair still tucked under a beanie, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her face twists in fear. “Is Maisie okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Did you get my last text?”
She blows out a huge breath. “No, I was driving.”
“Can we—” I point outside. “Talk out here?”
“Sure.”
I grab my coat from the mudroom hook, slip on my boots, and rush onto the porch so I can close the door and keep the cold air from reaching Meema.
“So, um, I’ll make this quick.” I fold my arms. “Donny just texted me.” I hate saying this, so I blurt out, “He’s getting the sportscaster job at W2. Wanted to warn you.”
“What?” Her face pales.
I also hate seeing her hurt like this, so here comes more blurting. “Sorry. He’s got big backers for the station. Marcus couldn’t turn that down.”
“That’s—they can’t—Marcus practically promised me that position.” She stares into space, rubbing her head. Then she paces. “I’ve been working toward this for three years, Brooks. Three years of standing in blizzards, heat waves and smoke evacuations. I’ve paid my dues.”
“I know you have.” Dammit, this is harder than I thought it would be.
“This is such BS.” She shakes her head, and I can tell it’s taking everything she has to hold it together.
Her voice goes soft when she says, “Well, Marcus is under pressure from the board to boost ratings, and they think Donny’s following will translate to viewers.
So that’s that.” She takes a deep breath.
“Anyway, this was decent of you to tell me, Brooks. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She turns and walks toward her car, head down, and I feel like shit. I stay to make sure she gets out of the driveway safely, but instead of backing all the way out, she stops and pulls forward.
Then she cuts the engine, gets out of the car, and rushes back to the porch.
“Forget something?” I ask.
“Maybe,” she says, stepping onto the porch before she’s pacing again. “I think I have a strange proposition for you.”
“A proposition.”
This ought to be good.
“Yes.” Her exhale is visible in the frigid air. “I think we should fake date.”
I wait for the punchline. When none comes, I realize she’s serious. “You want to do what now?”
“Fake date. Pretend to be a couple.” She says it like she’s explaining it to a child. “For mutual benefit.”
“And what mutual benefit would that be exactly?” I cross my arms, leaning against the porch railing. “Because from where I’m standing, there’s nothing mutually beneficial about spending time with you.”
Dammit.
That was harsh. And not true—but I have to shove her away.
She flinches but recovers quickly. “For our careers. You get the press off your back, improve your playboy image, and when I break up with you, you can be the poor dumpee who gets an improved, wholesome image and lots of sympathy sex. Sponsors will love it. Women will love it.”
Interesting.
“And what do you get out of this arrangement?”
She fidgets with the zipper of her coat. “Visibility. Recognition. Having a high-profile relationship, especially with a local hero and star athlete, would boost my appeal to a broader audience.”
“You need me to get the sportscaster position back from Donny.” It’s not a question.
“Yes. But it helps you and me. A win-win.”
Too bad for her—I don’t give a shit what the press thinks of me.
I’m just fine with my playboy image, and given my injury, I don’t know where my career’s headed, anyway.
I also don’t need Sydney Holt lingering around all the time, annoying the shit out of me and tempting me to do things to her, like give her the kind of orgasms that’d knock the sass right out of her. And then there’s that vow to Jonah.
“Absolutely not.” The words come out colder than I intended.
Sydney blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. Not interested. Not happening.” I push off from the railing, ready to end this conversation and get back to Meema. “Find another way to boost your ratings.”
Her face flushes, but not from the cold this time.
Guilt washes over me, but I can’t tell Sydney the truth—that there’s no relationship for me—not even a fake one—with anybody.
My life’s too complicated, too fucked. And the last thing Meema needs is to get attached to the idea of me and Sydney together, only to break her heart. Because things have to end.
So instead, I lash out. “Sorry. I’d rather walk over fire than pretend to love you.”
Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “Trust me, it’d be no picnic for me either. To watch you remove your dentures at night? Gross.”
“I have all my teeth, thank you very much,” I spit back, offended. “Not that you’ll have to worry about that.”
“And thank God for that. You’re probably horrible in bed anyway—doing what you do best—pleasing yourself.”
I step closer, invading her space. “You have no idea what I’m capable of in bed, Sydney.”
“Oh, I can imagine. Big in the head, small in the bed.” She doesn’t back down, tilting her chin up to maintain eye contact. “Do you still kiss like a rattlesnake? Because Stephanie Berger told everyone about it.”
That one lands harder than it should. “I was in ninth grade, Sydney.” Stephanie was my first girlfriend, and we were both fumbling teenagers with no idea what we were doing.
“I’m quite skilled with my tongue now, thank you very much.
For several purposes.” I let my gaze drop to her lips for just a second. “But you’ll never find out.”
“Good.”
We’re standing toe to toe now, the air between us crackling with tension. She doesn’t deserve my assholery. It’s not her fault I’m in this situation, but I’ve got to push her away.
I’m so focused on our argument, I almost miss the rustling sound from the bushes near the porch steps. Sydney hears it too, her head turning toward the noise.
Two familiar brown shapes waddle into view, their flat tails dragging in the snow.
Sydney’s anger instantly melts away as she crouches down. “What are you two doing here?”
The beavers approach cautiously, their beady eyes fixed on us.
“Floyd and Fiona always come looking for breakfast.” My own irritation fades at the sight of the animals.
“You know their names?” Sydney looks up at me, surprised.
“Of course I do. They’re family.” I kneel beside Fiona, reaching into my coat pocket for the apple slices I’d grabbed earlier for them. “Floyd’s the bigger one with the notch in his tail. Fiona’s his mate.”
“I know who they are. Fiona was pregnant last spring. I helped Maisie set up that den area for them by the south end of the lake.”
The beavers waddle closer to me, their little paws reaching for the apple slices.
“They like me better,” I say, because apparently, I’m five years old.
“Please. I’ve been bringing them treats three times a week since May. Fiona literally sits on my feet when I visit.”
“I’ve known them since they were kits. Floyd used to follow me around the lake when I would skate.”
“Fiona let me pet her stomach last week,” Sydney says smugly. “Maisie said she’s never done that with anyone else.”
We glare at each other over the heads of two oblivious beavers who are happily accepting food, completely unaware of the ridiculousness unfolding above them.
“I should get back to work. I have to prepare for this evening’s segment.” She stands, brushing snow from her knees. “Anyway, our not doing this is a good thing—we’d kill each other within a week, anyway.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Something about this entire interaction has left me off-balance, like a check I didn’t see coming.
As she brushes past me to head to her car, the scent of her… what is that? Shampoo? It’s definitely lavender and maybe vanilla too—and it distracts me again. For a split second, I let myself imagine what it might be like to actually date Sydney Holt. To have someone in my corner.
But I can’t. I wouldn’t involve anyone else in the shitshow that’s my life.
Still, as I watch her walk toward her car, her shoulders squared like she’s heading into battle, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve made the right choice.