Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Kaden
When You’re Outplayed by Cake
It’s seven-oh-five when I pull up to the restaurant. I’m not in a hurry to get inside. Why would I be? Fake dinner with my fake girlfriend? Hard pass on the enthusiasm.
The valet strolls up to my car, and the second he sees me, his eyes pop wide like I’ve just descended from a fucking spaceship.
“Whoa, Kaden Crawford,” he says.
“Yeah, hi. Let’s just make sure you don’t scratch the car, kid.” I hand over the keys.
His hand hesitates mid-reach. “Oh, for sure, man. Absolutely—uh . . .” He shifts awkwardly, scratching the back of his head, and I already know what’s coming. Either he’s angling for an autograph or a selfie. Probably both.
I sigh, slumping back against the car. “Pic?”
His face splits into a grin so wide, I half-expect his jaw to fall off. “Yes. Please.” He’s practically bouncing as he digs out his phone, hands fumbling like it’s Christmas morning.
See? I’m not a total asshole. I’m nice to the fans. Sometimes. Okay, most of the time. But there’s a line, you know? A point where I’m a little short—or okay, a lot short.
It’s not because I’m a jerk; it’s because I have anxiety. Like, actual anxiety, not the kind people slap on a hashtag. When I was eight, Pop was coaching one of the teams that made it to the Super Bowl. Huge game. The team won, and it was a massive moment. At some point, I got separated from my family when a crowd of fans swarmed, shoving pens and memorabilia in his face.
I don’t remember much except being small and terrified. Lost in a sea of giants. Some asshole knocked me over, and I hit the ground hard—scraped knees, busted elbow, the works. Crying didn’t help. No one noticed. Not a single fucking soul stopped.
So, I did the only thing an eight-year-old could think of—I hid. Found a tiny gap under the bleachers, crawled in, and curled up tight. The damp smell of metal and spilled soda made my stomach turn, but at least it was quiet. Safe. Or as safe as hiding in a shadowy corner beneath stomping feet could feel.
It was hours before security found me, curled up in that space like a scared animal. By then, I was shaking so bad I could barely breathe.
That day? It killed any dream of following in his cleats. Football? No, thanks. I’d rather play hockey where I feel a lot safer.
The valet boy scrambles into position, shoves his phone in the air, and snaps the quickest selfie ever. “Thank you, Mr. Crawford. You’re the best.”
“No big deal,” I mutter, waving him off. “Just take care of the car. I mean it.”
Inside the restaurant, it’s quiet. Blessedly quiet. Crowds and me? We’re not exactly close. I head straight for the hostess stand, ignoring the faint murmur of recognition behind me. It’s not that I mind being noticed—I just don’t have the patience tonight.
“Valentina Holiday,” I say to the hostess, hands stuffed in my pockets. “Where is she?”
Her eyes widen slightly, darting over me like she’s confirming I’m real, before she manages to blink herself back to functioning. “Uh, right this way.”
She leads me through the half-empty dining room, and the moment I spot Valentina, my eye twitches. Literally. It fucking twitches.
There she is, sitting at a corner table, oblivious to everything around her. Her dark hair is in some kind of haphazard bun with—not one, not two—but three pencils sticking out of it like she’s auditioning for a Clue remake. Her computer bag is parked on the table, its guts spilling everywhere—papers scattered across the tabletop, dangling off chairs, and maybe even the floor. It’s chaos personified, and I fucking hate chaos.
“Kaden,” she exclaims brightly, looking up with a smile so blinding it makes my twitch worse. “I was starting to think you were going to stand me up.”
Her cheerfulness is an assault on my senses. What the hell does she have to be so happy about?
I glance at the mess around her, then back at her grin. “Stand you up?” I snort, pulling out a chair. “Trust me, if I’d planned to skip, you wouldn’t have had to wonder. I would’ve sent a text.”
Her laugh is annoyingly soft, like she finds me charming. I’d almost prefer sarcasm; at least that makes sense.
And yet . . . I can’t help the way my gaze flickers to her lips when she takes a sip of water. Or how the hint of skin peeking from her collar draws my attention, completely uninvited. Damn her for looking like this—disheveled and sexy, like a goddess of academic disasters.
This is the woman I chose to be my fake girlfriend? I have no one to blame but myself. Well, no one except my cock, which clearly thought this was a brilliant idea.
And judging by the way it’s reacting now, it’s still fully on board. Traitor.
“Let’s get this over with,” I grumble, leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms like a shield against her endless cheer. Her smile doesn’t waver—if anything, it brightens—and for some reason, that pisses me off even more.
“May I start by asking: what are you so happy about?” I say, my voice low, watching her with a mix of irritation and intrigue. There’s something infuriatingly captivating about the way she glows—like she’s daring the world to dim her light.
She tilts her head, batting her lashes with exaggerated sweetness, mocking me without an ounce of shame. “You should always act like you’re happy to see someone. Like an old friend you haven’t seen in forever. Who wants to have dinner with someone staring at them like you’re staring at me right now? It’s off-putting and irritating as hell.”
I arch a brow, trying not to let her words dig under my skin. There’s a spark in her gaze, playful and challenging, and it makes her impossible to ignore. “So, what? You’re telling me I need a marching band to announce I’m thrilled to see you?” I shoot back, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a laugh, and damn if it doesn’t do something to me. “No, I couldn’t care less. But if you want the media to think you’re less of a asshole, it might work in your favor to act like . . . you know . . . less assholish.”
I lean forward, the space between us shrinking as I lock eyes with her. Her confidence doesn’t falter, not even a little, and it’s maddening in the most fascinating way. “You know, I could have you fired,” I say casually, testing her resolve, though the thought feels hollow even as I say it.
Her laugh is soft but laced with defiance, a sound that’s unexpectedly addictive. “You could,” she replies, her tone breezy, as if we’re discussing the weather. “But then you’d be up shit’s creek. Who’d work with you after that? Most publicists won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. And let’s not forget those sponsors threatening to drop you. So, sure, fire me. No skin off my teeth.”
She leans back, victorious, her grin infuriating and magnetic all at once. I should be livid, but instead, I find myself wondering what it’d take to knock that smug smile off her face—not out of spite, but because I’m starting to think she’d enjoy the challenge as much as I would.
My mouth opens, but the words don’t come. Nothing does. She’s right, and we both know it.
I lean back, crossing my arms tighter over my chest, trying to regain some sense of control. “Let’s just eat,” I mutter.
She raises her hand, signaling the waitress with a bright smile, and I feel my irritation spike again. It’s not just the smile—it’s the way it lights her up, like she’s having the best time in the world while I’m stuck here in the middle of . . . this.
“I’ll have grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and a glass of sparkling water,” I say, not bothering to look at the menu. It’s my go-to order. Simple. Predictable. No surprises.
“Grilled chicken? Really?” Valentina scrunches her nose.
“What’s wrong with grilled chicken?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend, but fuck it, I’m already on edge.
“Nothing,” she says, dragging the word out with exaggerated patience. “Except you can get grilled chicken at home. Restaurants are for trying something new, exciting your taste buds, not . . . playing it safe.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to ignore the way her teasing grin makes something spark in my chest. “You go ahead and excite your taste buds. Mine are perfectly fine as they are,” I mutter, turning my gaze to the table as if the pattern on the wood grain is suddenly fascinating.
But then my thoughts betray me. My eyes flick back to her lips—soft, curved, like she’s holding back a laugh or maybe another jab. And now I’m imagining what those lips might feel like under mine. Fuck.
No. Stop. Get it together, Kaden. She’s not cute. She’s . . . irritating. Infuriating. Too much.
Then she orders, and whatever resolve I thought I had evaporates. “I’ll have the triple-layer devil’s food cake, please.”
My head whips toward her. “Did you just order dessert before your entrée?”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “I don’t intend to be here that long, Kaden. Why not start with the best part of the meal? I need something to get me through this riveting dinner.”
I narrow my eyes, trying not to smile. “Are you implying my company is that bad?”
She tilts her head, her expression a mix of innocence and mischief. “You tell me. You’re the one who has to sit with yourself all day. How much fun is that?”
“Plenty, actually,” I deadpan. “I’m great company.”
Her eyes light up with faux amazement. “Wow, really? And here I was thinking you might scowl your reflection into submission.”
“I’m not scowling,” I say, my voice louder than I intend, though I can feel my mouth twitch, betraying me.
She gestures vaguely to my face. “Sure, that’s not a scowl. It’s just your natural ‘I hate the world’ resting expression.”
“Do you always talk this much?” I retort, fighting the growing urge to kiss her—that will probably is a no for so many reasons, but I’m so tempted.
I’ve been tempted to kiss her since trivia night. Someone give me a medal for not acting out of . . . desperation, desire, I’m not sure what, but I’ve behaved, and no one is acknowledging it.
“Only when I’m with someone who clearly needs my sparkling personality to lighten the mood.” She leans in slightly, her tone lowering just enough to feel conspiratorial. “And by the way, you’re totally a stick in the mud.”
I scoff, louder than I mean to. “I’m not a stick in the mud.”
“Oh, no, of course not.” She bites back a laugh. “You’re the life of the party, obviously. I bet you bring Twister to family reunions.”
“Now who’s being abrasive?”
“And now who’s proving my point?” she shoots back, her smile growing as she picks up her glass of water and takes a slow sip, savoring her little victory.
I squint at her, wondering if she’s enjoying this way too much—or if I might be. “You’re impossible.”
She grins, completely unfazed. “And yet, here you are, stuck with me. Let’s call it fate.”
The banter shifts as the waiter sets our plates in front of us, the smell of grilled chicken rising between us. She doesn’t miss a beat, immediately diving into her cake like she’s won some great prize.
“Here’s the deal,” she says between bites, her voice softer but still laced with confidence. “We let the media see us together. Laughing, smiling. Looking like we don’t completely hate each other.”
“I’m not pretending to laugh at your jokes,” I grumble, poking at my chicken. “You’d probably take it as an ego boost.”
“You’re right.” She points her fork at me. “And I’d milk it for all it’s worth. So, your other option is to lean into the bad-boy angle. But be ready for the backlash: hate mail, public shaming, family drama.” She takes another bite of cake, savoring it like she’s got all the time in the world. “So, what’ll it be?”
Her words settle in as I glance at my plate, and the gravity of her point starts to sink in. She’s not wrong—again. My dads worked too damn hard to build their careers, their lives, for me to tarnish our family’s name. That’s not happening.
“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d want to do that.” Valentina nods.
My mouth waters as I watch the decadent pastry crumble, each delicate piece sliding onto her fork.
Her lips curl around the fork, and for a second, I lose track of the conversation. She moans softly, savoring the bite, and my grip on my glass tightens. God help me—no dessert should look that good.
I’m trying to keep all the blood in my brain and out of my cock, but then she moans. A soft, throaty sound that makes my gut clench and my pants feel a little tighter. Her eyes flutter closed like she’s in goddamn ecstasy.
Is this cake or porn?
It’s infuriating. How the hell can she make eating a dessert look this . . . sexual? I’m ninety percent sure this can’t be professional. Publicists aren’t supposed to seduce their clients—especially not with chocolate.
A part of me—probably the dumb part—is pissed off that she can rile me up just by eating. But the other part? The part that’s currently imagining her tongue doing other things? Yeah, that part is thinking about how it would look if it wasn’t cake on that fork.
What if it was me? My cock, thick and hard, sliding past her lips as she sucked, slow and deep, taking me all the way into her throat.
Fuck. I shift in my seat, suddenly too hot and too uncomfortable for this dinner. The thought alone is enough to send me spiraling into dangerous territory.
No. Stop it. Bad idea, Kaden. She’s not someone you want to fuck.
Except she moans again, and I want to bury myself in her mouth just to see if she makes that sound for me.
I grind my teeth and force myself to look anywhere but at her lips. Or her tongue. Or the way she licks chocolate off the corner of her mouth like she has no idea what she’s doing to me.
“Are you okay?” she asks suddenly, her voice sweet but with a teasing edge that makes me want to throttle her—or kiss her.
“Could you eat that a little less . . . enthusiastically?” I mutter, shifting again and adjusting my napkin to cover the evidence of my rapidly deteriorating composure.
She raises an eyebrow and smirks, taking another exaggerated bite. “What’s the matter, Kaden? Cake too exciting for you?”
I glare at her, hoping to God she doesn’t notice the tension in my jaw or the very obvious issue happening under the table. “Just eat your damn cake.”
Her laugh is soft, victorious, and it pisses me off even more. “Aren’t you going to eat your chicken?”
I glance down at my plate: sad, pale-looking chicken and broccoli that’s probably steamed into oblivion. It looks as miserable as I feel. But all I can think about is how much I don’t want this bland crap.
What I do want? Her. Bent over this fucking table. My mouth on her pussy, making her scream and moan until she’s shaking. I want to taste her, have her legs trembling while she begs for more, to feel her nails digging into my shoulders as she comes again and again because I don’t know how to stop once I start.
Fuck the chicken.
Still, I’m not about to let her know any of that. She’s already smug enough. The last thing I need is for her to realize she’s completely under my skin—and in my head.
Gripping my fork tighter than necessary, I stab the chicken and shove a bite into my mouth. It’s as dry and flavorless as I expected, but I chew and swallow, keeping my expression neutral.
“Happy?” I mutter, shooting her a glare.
Her grin spreads wider, like I’ve handed her a trophy. “Ecstatic. Watching you eat that makes me feel better about my cake decision.”
“Good for you,” I bite out, taking another joyless bite of chicken. But my eyes betray me, flickering to her lips again as she licks a smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth.
“Something wrong?” she asks, the mockery in her tone so subtle I almost miss it.
“No,” I snap, shoving broccoli into my mouth with all the enthusiasm of someone chewing cardboard. “Everything’s fucking perfect.”
She hums, clearly unconvinced, and takes another bite of her cake, closing her eyes like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck with this chicken. And a raging hard-on.