Charlotte
“I really am sorry for making you come to this,” I yell to Callan from outside his door. “I know you’re exhausted after the game.”
The Stallions have won all three of their preseason games, which makes it an ideal time to attend a charity gala with a number of business owners and CEOs who might be potential sponsors for the team.
Unfortunately, Callan rushed in from the stadium ten minutes ago, and we have to leave within the next ten minutes if we have any hope of making it before everyone is seated at their tables.
And since there are four potential sponsors Chris and I identified who are not at our table, I need to be there. Soon.
Having Callan on my arm is going to make the whole night go much easier. Not because he makes me feel relaxed and happy. It’s the great start of the Stallions’ season that has been doing that. But because people love him.
“It’s really okay,” Callan responds, our conversation muffled by the door. “I barely played again today, anyway.”
I rest my back against the wall next to his closed door, one heel-shoed foot crossed over the other as I wait for him to be ready.
Finally, the door opens, and holy crap. Callan looks like he popped out of an advertisement for tuxedos.
I slowly scan him from head to toe, my eyes mapping every sharp line of his suit, his jaw, his eyes.
The dark pants trace the muscular curve of his thighs before hugging his defined waist. The light blue shirt he’s wearing highlights his pecs, barely noticeable under his dark jacket that fits him perfectly.
Our gazes connect, and shit. I pull in a deep breath and remind myself that no matter how good-looking he is, that is not what we’re doing here.
I cannot run my hands over his shoulders or my fingers through his perfectly tousled hair.
Unable to resist, I step closer to him and adjust his already straight bowtie. “You’re a little crooked.”
His deep green eyes meet my gaze, and I can’t fight the butterflies that come to life inside my rib cage. “Thanks, Princess.”
There is a subtle shift in his focus, almost so slight I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been fully focused on him. He’s no longer looking at me, but at my mouth. My lips.
He coughs, breaking the moment. “You look beautiful tonight.”
I twirl, showing off the one-shoulder navy-blue dress that perfectly kisses the floor when I’m in these heels. The benefit of a good seamstress. “Thank you. And you look handsome as well.”
Callan jerks his gaze from my bare shoulder to my face, and I can’t seem to suppress the grin—or tightening in my chest.
“Isn’t that my job as the arm candy?” he teases.
“It is. But you know I’m with you for so much more than your looks.”
“Oh yeah?” His voice is husky, his eyes glued to my mouth. Almost as if he wants to kiss me.
The spark that has started dancing between us pulses to life, and I bite my lip, afraid of what it might mean. So I deflect, “Of course. Your throwing arm is very important to me as well.”
“Come on, Princess, we’d better go.” Callan starts toward the garage, his cologne hitting me as he brushes by. I trip slightly from the shock that the contact and sandalwood send coursing through me, a double whammy of lust.
Callan turns back, reaching to support me as I right myself.
“I’m okay.”
His gaze traces me, as if he has to make sure of that on his own, rather than taking my word for it.
Instead of walking ahead of me this time, he falls into step next to me, our arms and fingers grazing with every other step.
The irrational part of me wants to reach out and grab his hand.
Lace my fingers in his. It’s distracting.
And amazing. And the walk ends far too soon.
When we enter the garage, I pause. “Which of your many carriages are we taking tonight, sir?” One of the things I’ve learned after living with Callan for a month is that he is obsessed with his vehicles.
Not so much in having the nicest or fanciest ones, though his collection is worth millions of dollars, but in having the one that matches whatever vibe he’s going for.
Which means he takes his G-Wagon or souped-up Ford pickup to the practice arena almost every day, but the G-Wagon is the only one he’s taken to his preseason games.
“The Range Rover.” The look he gives me says this is an obvious answer, but as someone who would prefer to always be a passenger princess, I really don’t care about car vibes.
My car has barely moved from the space in the garage that Callan cleared out for me.
I have no idea where he sent his seventh car, but apparently, it was either too special to stay here or not special enough.
I only drive myself to work on the days when he’s going to visit his grandma afterward, something I’ve been trying very hard not to take offense at.
I’ve offered to go with him, but he always politely declines.
I get that we’re not really dating, and we both know there’s an expiration date on us, but I’m still a pretty cool person. He could tell his grandma we’re friends or something.
Callan opens the door for me and makes sure the skirt of my dress is fully inside the car before closing me in. I feel taken care of.
“What’s the game plan, Princess?” he asks as soon as he’s pulled out of the garage, and I appreciate that he’s invested. Tonight is very important to me. While I know it’s important to him too because he plays for the team, it also feels like more. Like we’re in this together.
“There are six men I want to talk to tonight to start laying the groundwork with to become potential sponsors.” I rattle off the names of the businessmen I’ve been researching for the past few weeks.
“You’re my in. If they don’t come over to introduce themselves to you, which I think all but maybe one or two will, we’re going to have to strike up a conversation.
If all else fails, Sage Sinclair will be there, and she can make the introduction to the two I’m worried about. ”
“Are they sponsors for the Miners already?” While the Denver Miners are the professional baseball team in town, and there may be synergies between being associated with both, I would never poach a sponsor from Sage. That said, you never know when someone wants to expand their reach.
I shake my head. “Not those two. A couple of the others are. They’re just baseball fans.”
Callan taps on the steering wheel, and I can’t tear my gaze away from the strength in his hands, his fingers. He could do so much with—
“So, my job is to look interesting enough for someone to come over and say hi?”
I clear my throat, forcing myself to look at the road.
“Exactly! Which won’t take too much effort.
People love you. Everyone wants to talk to you.
Honestly, I’m surprised you don’t have more issues with stalkers.
Men and women.” Now would be a great time to stop talking, Charlotte.
“Probably more men than women, though you really shouldn’t take that as a comment about your attractiveness.
Men are obsessed with football. And when people think football, they think Callan Devine. ”
Callan’s hand is hot through the thin fabric of my dress as he places it gently on my thigh reassuringly. “It’s going to go great, Charlotte. I’ve done about a million of these events in my life, and so have you.”
I let my shoulders drop from where they’ve inched up next to my ears, as the stress of the night, as well as my growing attraction to my fake boyfriend, settles at his words.
“You want to talk about the entertainment business or even general business metrics, I’m your guy.
But all this football management is too new to me.
I’m trying so hard to understand it all, but I feel with everything I learn, there’s a new level hidden beneath that shows me how far I’ve got to go.
Which isn’t actually important today. Because I understand needing a new sponsor to replace Ultra Bank.
I know that our cash flow is going to get tight, or have to be back-flowed by Langford Enterprises, if I don’t find someone to replace Ultra.
But it feels like Dad already thinks I’m incompetent when it comes to the team. And then once he finds out about this…”
His fingers move gently over my knee. “But this wasn’t your fault.
And you have a plan. And I know football shit.
Yes, the plays and all that, but also some of the business aspects, too.
I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve made it my job to understand every facet of it.
As you said, when people think football, they think Callan Devine.
” His tone is teasing as he says the last sentence.
I snort. “So, you’ll stick around after the introduction to be part of the pitch? You’ll help me?”
His focus doesn’t shift from the road as he murmurs, “Don’t I always?”
“You do. And it’s… been better than I expected,” I admit to him.
I tilt my head, studying him. I never expected him to agree to being part of the business conversations so easily, but then again, he’s not what I expected.
The Callan Devine I thought I knew was cocky.
Confident. A little too preoccupied with what people think about him.
But the version of Callan I’ve seen this last month?
He would cut off his throwing arm if you told him you needed it, no questions asked.
It’s almost worrying how willing he is to bend over backward for others, even if I’m the one currently taking advantage of his kindness.
With guilt gnawing at my stomach at the thought that I’m using him, I ask, “Why did you agree to do this?”
His fists tighten on the steering wheel as he takes the turn into downtown Denver. “The financial health of the football team is as important to me as it is to you.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I spot the valet outside the Four Seasons and point Callan to it. “Why did you agree to fake date me?”