8. Brooke
My knock is casual. Three raps.
Miles’s door is painted cream like all the others in this high-end condo building, but standing in front of it feels different.
There’s nothing unusual about me showing up at his place on the weekend. His place, where he eats and sleeps and probably bangs anything that moves.
Except I’ve never been here before. Miles has been on the team as long as my brother, and since I graduated college, across the dozen Kodiaks parties and events I’ve been to, I never wound up here.
Come to think of it, I’m not sure he’s ever hosted one. For a guy who’s so outgoing and popular, it’s surprising.
I’m dressed in heeled boots and a short skirt over black tights. If I spent extra time getting ready, it was only to prove to him or the world that what you wear matters.
I’m not my mother—I don’t have constituents imposing all their opinions on me—but it’s still important to present yourself to the world intentionally. I’m here to make sure he has appropriate clothing for the reunion. No matter how hot he is, there’s no point bringing him if he can’t walk the walk.
Everything is about appearances.
”Miles, it”s me,” I call, my voice echoing down the hallway.
Barking sounds through the door. Waffles.
There”s a moment of silence before the door opens. The Frenchie barrels toward me, but it’s Miles, shirtless and still damp from a shower, that hijacks my attention.
His massive frame fills the doorway, blocking out the light at his back.
Gray sweatpants cling to muscled legs and hips. His ridiculously cut pecs and abs are on full display. Sleepy blue eyes are fringed with dark lashes.
He smells clean and fresh and addictive. His jaw is razor-sharp and smooth shaven, and I ignore the itch to stretch up a hand and run a finger along it.
I”ve been around athletes my entire life. Through my brother”s friends in school, I”ve seen the gross things they pull, the ways they smell, the jokes they tell. I decided years ago that I’m immune to whatever charms they think they have.
But as I soak in all six-four of Miles, I’m weak.
”Hey.” His voice is low and easy, reminding me why he’s the coolest fucker in the entire Western Conference.
I force myself to tear my gaze away from his body and look him in the eyes. “Glad you didn’t dress up.”
He shrugs a muscled shoulder with an easy grace. “Figured you were dressing me up, so it didn”t matter what I started in.”
“Whatever you say, debate team captain.” I walk past him, trying to ignore the way his scent lingers in the air.
“Do I sense sarcasm?” He lets the door swing shut after me. “I was very book smart in college.”
“Long as they’re picture books. With boobs.”
“I love all books equally. Even the ones with boobs.”
His apartment is modern and minimalistic, and there are no dirty dishes or clothes lying around. It”s as though he actually takes care of himself.
I slip off my boots and follow him into the kitchen. The place is immaculate, everything in its place and not a speck of dust in sight. I always imagined him living in an expensive bachelor pad with beer cans and pizza boxes strewn about. But this place looks as if it belongs in a magazine.
Probably his housekeeper.
Miles gestures to the kitchen. “Almond milk latte?”
“Sure.” I’m surprised he remembers as I follow him to the counter. Waffles whines at my feet, and I bend to pick him up. “You’re heavier than you look.”
Miles shoots me a perplexed look. “He doesn’t like it when I pick him up.”
“You clearly don’t have the right touch.”
“Never had any complaints.”
His easy response strokes along my skin like a promise.
He’s used to women falling at his feet. Even if I’m a little wobbly on mine, I’d die before I let on.
“Let’s get something straight before we go any further,” I start. “We might be committing to the act next weekend, but nothing is real.”
Miles opens his cupboard and retrieves a bag of espresso beans as if he hasn’t heard me.
“Got it?” I call over the whirring of the grinder as he gets to work.
No idea how he doesn’t burn himself, being half naked while he steams milk, but he manages.
More than manages.
I never thought a guy making coffee was hot before, but this is some serious competence porn.
He pours the coffee, and I set the dog back down. The heat emanating from his body is too much to ignore, and I find myself leaning closer.
“It smells good,” I say.
He glances down at me. “So do you.”
My throat dries.
Didn’t have “add ‘hot guy making coffee’ to my fantasy list” on my bingo card for today.
I’m here because I need a date who will make it easier for me to land this contract so I can pay my bills. It’s not a chill day off for me like it is for him.
“I mean it.” My voice is higher than it was a moment ago. “Next weekend, there will be a lot of acting involved, but no matter how method things get, it’s not real.”
“Did you get a new phone yet?”
I shake my head and set mine on the counter.
He traces a finger along the cracked screen. “You’re not the type to make do, Princess.”
I shrug a shoulder. “I hear suffering builds character. That reminds me…”
I reach into my purse and pull out five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Waffles’s management’s share from the costume contest.”
I hold them toward him, though what I want to do is shove them back in my pocket.
“Keep it. He told me he had a good time.”
I arch a brow, gratitude rushing up as I put the bills back in my bag.
The money is nothing to him. This week, it means a lot to me.
Miles slides over the drink and waits for me to take a sip.“Tell me that’s not the best thing you’ve had in your mouth.”
I sip my coffee, the complex flavors dancing on my tongue.
”It”s good,” I admit.
”Fuck yeah, it is.” His grin is pure male satisfaction, as if I just conceded that he rocked my world.
I take another sip. God, the contrast between the bitterness of the coffee and the sweetness from the milk makes my taste buds do a happy dance.
Focus.
”We need to make sure you look like the perfect Kappa boyfriend,” I say, steepling my fingers. “That means new clothes.”
”I have clothes.”
He heads down the hall, motioning with a hand for me to follow as Waffles trots after him.
Following isn’t a hardship.
The way those sweatpants cling to Miles’s hips has my fingers tightening on my mug.
His room is as clean and tidy as the rest of his apartment. The bed is neatly made. I can”t help but glance around, taking in the details of his personal space. There”s a guitar propped up against the wall and a set of weights in the corner. On the bedside table sits a photo of him and the guys from the team after winning the championship.
”After you.” He holds open the door of the walk-in closet, and I go in first.
I take in the side that”s been converted entirely into basketball shoe storage.“Of course you have this many shoes.”
Miles joins me in the closet, leaning an elbow on my shoulder. ”Gotta have options on the court.”
“This is a weird question, but did you see my shoes from the other night?”
“Not sure. You left them on the balcony. Weren’t they broken?” He says it with the casualness of someone who could replace them fifty times over on a single day’s salary.
“Right.”
They were also some of my favorites, but I push the grief aside.
I ask about formal wear, and he points to some jackets at one end.
”That”s all the formal wear you have?”
”Don”t make my money in a tux, Princess.”
I run my hand over a navy suit, feeling the rough material.“These are too small.”
He strips down to his shorts, and I catch my lip between my teeth as I turn away. He pulls on the pants, and I swivel back to take him in.
“Huh. You’re right,” he says, tugging for a millimeter of spare fabric in his pants. “Coach figured I could put on ten pounds of muscle this summer.”
“And did you?”
“Nah, I put on twenty.”
It’s fake, I remind myself.
But I can ogle my fake boyfriend a little, right? Just to get into the proper headspace.
”Well, we need to find you something that fits,” I say, glancing up at him. “Time to go shopping.”
* * *
We take Miles’s Range Rover.
On the way, I admit I haven’t eaten, and he insists on stopping at a Mexican fast-food place. He orders six tortillas, and I get two and a Diet Coke.
“So, you and Jay, you’re three years apart.”
“Two and a half,” I correct. “He was a winter baby. I was summer.”
“Your family’s a pretty big deal.”
“My mom got into politics when I was young. Never looked back.”
“A lot of cameras.”
“Less than being in the NBA,” I quip.
“Yeah, but at least we know when we’re on camera.”
I turn that over. “Society holds women to impossible standards. Jay can do whatever he wants, as long as he’s employed and stays on the right side of the law, and he’s golden. For me, I can’t wear a skirt too short or swear or express opinions different from my mom’s. People have an opinion on how much I work and who my friends are.”
“Sounds rough.”
I unwrap my lunch, aware of his gaze resting on me. I don’t want to harp on it and I’m grateful for what I have. “You know my family, but I don’t know much about yours,” I say as I bite into my food.
“Not much to know. I was an only child. My parents split up when I was young. My grandma is my biggest fan, always telling me how proud she is, and she’s been doing it since high school.”
His eyes light up when he mentions her. It”s sweet, and it makes me feel warm and soft inside.
“You guys are close.”
“She raised me herself. Took me in after… well, after a lot of shit went down.”
He doesn’t talk much about his life before basketball. He’s always seemed like the carefree guy who makes it look easy. I never stopped to think he might have as many problems as anyone else behind the quick grin and the flirting.
“So, why don’t you have a real boyfriend to dress up and bring to this thing?”
I arch a brow. “I’ve never met a guy I liked enough to keep.”
“I’m down for this game you’re playing, but you’re doing a helluva dance for people you don’t really like.”
“I never said I didn’t like them. I don’t trust them.”
“What’s the difference? You have to trust the people you like.”
Miles reaches across the table and grabs my Diet Coke. He takes a sip, face contorting. “That is disgusting.”
I grab it back from him, sipping with narrowed eyes until my soda’s gone entirely.
After lunch, we head to a boutique to find Miles some new clothes. The assistant comes over to help. She”s making eyes at Miles, and I tell her we have things under control.
I load him up with clothes, our hands brushing.”Try these on.”
”Say please.” He’s goading me. I think this man gets off on pushing my buttons.
I roll my eyes. ”Do it.”
The employee eyes me from across the room with admiration and envy as Miles disappears into the changing room.
I’ve never spent this much time with him, certainly not just the two of us.
He’s maddening, but our banter is slightly addictive.
I pace outside the changing room, waiting for him to come out. My mind is racing with thoughts of him in those clothes, wondering how they”ll fit.
“What are you wearing?” he asks me through the door.
“I have a few outfits picked out.”
“What about that dress from the party the other night? With the stockings.”
“It was a Halloween costume,” I say.
“So… no Dorothy role-playing.”
I snort. “Storybook characters do it for you?”
“You say that like it’s a red flag.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Beige at most. Tell me you don’t have any kinks.”
“None you need to know about to take me to the sorority event.”
“More I know about you, the more authentic it will be.”
“The point isn’t to be real. It’s to be convincing.”
“Yeah, and for the next week, we’re on the same team. So, tell me about this sorority thing,” he says. His voice comes from lower than I expect, as if he’s bent over to pull on pants. “Is it all braiding each other’s hair and singing songs?”
“No.” I try to sound indignant, but there is some of that too. “The afternoon we arrive, there are games, followed by dinner. After is sisters-only business, so you have some free time. Your job is to be the perfect date throughout. An attractive accessory.”
“So, a trophy.”
“Exactly. The girls should want to be with you. The guys should want to be you.”
I don’t tell him he probably has a lock on that already just by being himself.
“Right. Any conversation topics to avoid?”
“All of them. In fact, don’t speak. If they speak to you, better if you answer in monosyllables.”
“You could take a mannequin from the store instead. Maybe he’d come with the clothes.”
Miles comes out of the changing room, and I’m not prepared for the sight.
The camel quarter-zip cashmere sweater is a few shades lighter than his hair. The gray chinos cling to his hips.
“How do I look?” A dimple appears, and God, it’s unfair for one person to be so lethally attractive.
He’s so fucking hot I’m a breath from asking the store to turn on the air conditioning even though it’s the end of October.
The sweater and chinos make him preppy, but there’s a rough edge to him. The dark hair and cut jaw and arrogant eyes would set him apart from a million former frat boys. He’s as at home in these clothes as he was in sweatpants answering his door.
“You look okay,” I concede.
“Just okay?” He cocks his head.
“I’m not feeding your ego.”
“Do it, Princess. I’m fucking starved for validation.” His teasing makes my teeth want to bite my lip.
The sales associate comes in and gasps. “You look… wow.”
He turns that grin on her. I can practically see her ovaries melt.
“You need these to fall like this…” I step between them and bend down to adjust the hem of his pants.
“So, who’s the competition?” Miles asks me.
“Hmmm?”
I tip my face up and realize I’m on my knees in front of him.
His lashes are lowered as he peers down at me, lips parted and head cocked.
It’s sexy as hell.
“For this deal you’re trying to land.”
“Right.” I shake off the position we’re in. “Caroline. She was sorority president my junior and senior year.”
“Why would your alum pick her over you?”
“Because Caroline is perfect.”
The grid on her social is full of summer parties in the Hamptons, days by the pool, premieres in LA, nightclub openings in New York. She has more followers than me.
“Good thing you have a secret weapon.”
“What’s that?” I rise, my shirt brushing his sweater.
His slow grin is pure confidence. “Me.”