Chapter 5
Harper
The next afternoonI’m in my painting clothes, yoga shorts, and an old, oversized T-shirt, teetering on a ladder to reach the far upper corner of the wall. I’m still living in the house Drew and I own together. It’s a shell of what it once was. Most of the furniture and decor left with Drew because “he bought it” and I didn’t argue for it in the divorce. Frankly, I’m fine with all of that bad energy leaving with him, and I’m grateful to have a place to stay for a while longer that doesn’t require rent.
In the meantime, we’re getting ready to put the place on the market. So I’m having to do all the updates by myself to get the house show worthy, which is less than fun and not exactly how I love to spend every weekend. Hopefully though, we’ll get a good offer on the house when it’s all said and done. Then I’ll have enough to be able to afford my own place—for a while at least. For now though, I’m stuck spending my Saturdays at home supply stores and my afternoons ascending steep ladders I have no business climbing.
On the upside, a little pop of color on this wall would go a long way, and once I arranged a few more plants around the window again it could almost pass for livable. Might make my remaining time in this dreary house a little less sad.
I bite my lip as I reach for the last corner, trying to steady my hand to get the edge without overpainting it when a loud knock comes at the door. I jump, practically falling off the ladder and dropping the brush to the floor in the process. Thankfully it lands on the drop cloth I’d put down, but it doesn’t stop the spray of color that splatters the white wall across from it.
“Shit!” I curse, steadying myself before I climb down the ladder.
I have no idea who could be knocking. Probably someone wanting to sell something and I’m trying to remember whether it’s Girl Scout season or not. Very few people know I still live here and I’m not expecting any deliveries. I walk to the door and peer through the peephole, shocked when I see the form on the other side.
It’s Alex.
I jump back away from the door and press against the wall like he can see me through it. I have no idea what he’s doing here. Who the hell just shows up at someone’s house? This is what text messages are for. Maybe a call if it’s urgent. You don’t just show up.
I stare down at my clothes and the paint I have splattered over my hands. I can’t answer, but I can’t not answer. Damn him.
There’s another knock, softer this time.
“You gonna open the door, Saint? Because I heard something fall and I could see the light change behind the peephole. So you might as well tell me to go fuck myself to my face rather than hide.”
I glare at him through the door. He’s the last person I want to see after last night. After I almost did the stupidest thing imaginable and kissed him. I’m blaming it on some sort of post-rescue haze. There has to be some psychological term for it. White knight adoration syndrome maybe? Except Alex is no fucking white knight. He’s the villain in just about everyone’s story, even his own.
“Your neighbors are staring at me. I’m pretty sure they recognize me, and I’m not in the mood for autographs right now. So tell me to fuck off or open the door, Saint.”
I take a deep breath and lean forward, swatting at the deadbolt and unlocking the door while trying not to smear paint everywhere. I open it and take him in. And fucking hell, he looks good, again. And I look like… I’ve just been painting and nearly fell off a ladder. Excellent.
He steps inside and closes the door behind him without asking.
“What do you want?” I don’t move from my spot because the last thing I want is him in my space. His giant ass frame taking up all the room and oxygen. I need to get a grip on whatever this is where I’m all heart palpitations and stomach flips when I see him. I’m a grown-ass woman.
“Can I come in?” He gives me an impatient look.
“You’re already in. Have you heard of something called texting? Or even calling?” I ask grumpily, madder at myself than him.
“Because you were going to answer me if I did?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.” His eyes narrow on me.
“How did you even know I still live here?”
“Violet and Ben told me.”
“Wow. I guess I need to have a discussion with my friend about boundaries.”
“She knew I was desperate.”
“For what?”
“We need to talk about last night.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Stupid decisions were made all around. It’s over now.”
“Except it’s not, because the asshole decided to run to management this morning. Now they and everyone else are breathing down my neck about what happened, including my agent.” He gives me a meaningful look when he mentions the last bit because we both know that spells trouble.
“I don’t see how Drew is my problem anymore.”
“He doesn’t know who the woman was, but when he finds out… You can guess how that’s going to go over. Especially when I tell him we’re dating now. So I thought you might want to have a discussion first and get some early planning in on this?”
“I’m sorry… We’re dating now?” I blink at him.
“Can we have this discussion somewhere other than your entryway?”
“Not really. I’m in the middle of painting. That’s why you should text first.”
“Painting what?” He looks curiously over my outfit.
“The walls. I’m trying to get the house ready to sell.”
He sidesteps me and makes his way out of the entry into the house despite my reluctance, taking a look around. His brow furrowing as his eyes land on the sparse furniture in the house. It’s a shell of what it once was, especially the last time he saw it.
“What the fuck happened? You selling soon? Where’s all the furniture?” He glares at the couch, the last remaining piece of furniture besides the TV and the overturned box that serves as a coffee table.
“Drew took it when he moved out.”
“Why are you still living here like this?” His eyes drift over the wall I’m painting.
“Because it’s what I can afford. I’m saving up for an apartment. I have a nonprofit salary, remember?”
“What about the money from the divorce? The alimony. I know how much he fucking makes.” Alex’s eyes come off the wall to meet mine.
“We weren’t married that long, and I didn’t want his money. I’m fine on my own.”
“Living like this? Like you’re a college student squatting in an old house?”
Wow.
“Okay. Did you just stop by to insult me or is there a purpose to this visit?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him.
The furrow in his brow relaxes a little as his eyes drift over me once more. He looks up at the ceiling and runs a hand through his hair before his eyes find me again.
“I need to know if you can… If we can pretend for a while. At least until this blows over.”
“Pretend what?” I’m fairly certain I know what he’s referring to, but I want to make sure that I’m understanding the insane thing he’s suggesting.
“That we’re together.”
I blink at him rapidly.
“Just until this blows over. I assume you know I’m on a short leash as it is for the off-field shit. Beating my teammate”s ass is going to land hard on the record I already have.”
“I don’t see how us dating gets you out of that.”
“If I kicked his ass because he touched my girlfriend inappropriately, that’s gonna look one way. If we were fighting over some random woman at a party, that’s another.”
“How’s it going to look when they think you’re dating your best friend’s ex-wife?”
“He doesn’t play on the team.”
“He’s your agent.”
“That’s my problem. Not theirs. And I can handle Drew.”
“Like you handled the guy last night?”
“Drew is half my size. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to try.”
I stare at him for a minute, pondering the idea he’s suggesting. I don’t even know what us fake dating looks like in practice. I’m a recently divorced middle-class suburban woman working at a nonprofit for pennies. He’s the all-pro defensive end who lives in a high-rise with a view who signed a record-setting deal. I scroll dating apps for divorced accountants with dad bods, and he dates celebrities with personal trainers. We do not mesh, and I can only imagine how amused Drew would be by the idea.
“No. The last thing I want in my life is for my ex-husband to think I’m so desperate I’m fake dating his best friend. No thank you. Let alone the world wondering how the hell we ended up together. Also, no thank you.”
He shrugs, “Having the world believe you moved on to his best friend will probably get under his skin more than you think. I mean we could not tell him it’s fake.”
“He didn’t even tell you he was divorced. How’s he going to think this happened?”
“I ran into you at an event at Violet’s place. Found out you were single. We’d been drinking. One thing led to another.” Another half-hearted shrug.
“How much was I drinking that I lost all sight of reason, not to mention moral and ethical boundaries?” I snipe at the idea of being some drunken hookup of his.
“I don’t know. How much did you have to drink last night? Cause I’d guess only another glass or so more than whatever that was given the way you were looking at me.”
I scoff. “I’d need to be half a bottle deep to want to give someone as arrogant as you any more punches for his frequent fuck card.”
“You remember I’m here because I was trying to help you, right?” His eyes blaze a warning at me. “I could lose my starting spot. Fuck, I could lose my spot here period.”
I slide my eyes across the room because it’s too hard to hold his gaze. He’s right. He’d had good intentions last night. Really, he’d been nothing but kind to me, which is part of what has me so rattled. Because he’s been all I could think about since, and the last thing I need is to be nursing a crush on my ex’s best friend. That only ends one way. So the last thing I want is to help him through this, forced to pretend we’re together. I just don’t have a good excuse not to. Especially if it’s the difference in his career.
“I understand that, but it was also the last straw in a long line of offenses if that’s the case. You can’t put that all at my feet. I was married to your agent, remember?”
“Good to know he takes the NDAs seriously.”
“He didn’t tell me details. And it’s not like you don’t make the tabloids.”
“All the fucking same. But good to know you’re so riveted to the details of my personal life.”
We stare at each other for a minute before I finally sigh, realizing I’m going to cave because however much he gets under my skin I’m fairly certain he usually means well, and I know he’s a good person underneath it all. Plus he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have to be, asking me for a favor when he could be anywhere else.
“I’ll do it. But it’s going to be a disaster. We can’t last ten minutes alone without ending like this.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“How do you suppose we do that?”
“Same as everything. Practice.”
“I guess we’ll find out.” I shrug. “We’ll have to tell Drew though. I don’t want the fallout of him thinking this is real, and we’ll probably need his help and your publicist’s in order to make this seem plausible.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs his agreement.
“Okay…” I say, waiting for him to make the next move. Hopefully out the door so I can try to process this whole idea.
“Do you want to go get dinner?”
Oh. We were starting this now. I’m not remotely prepared for that.
“I’m painting.” I point at the wall and then at my appearance, but it’s not a great excuse because except for the top bit I haven’t finished yet, it’s mostly done.
He eyes the little strip of white at the top skeptically and looks back at me.
“I’ll finish it while you get cleaned up.”
“You’re not dressed to paint.” I return the skepticism in kind.
He smirks for half a second and reaches a hand back to his collar, tugging the shirt off in one quick move and tossing it on my dining room chair.
And fuck.
“Problem solved. Go get ready.” He nods to my bathroom.
I bite the side of my tongue and remind myself that I absolutely one hundred percent do not actually want this man. Some parts of me just think I do. I can’t help but let myself have one little peek though, one quick downward drift of my eyes. Because now I can see everything I’d only gotten a glimpse of last night—a mess of muscles and tattoos, ones that cross over his chest and shoulders and wind their way down his arms. I want to study them closer. Except, before I can get past his neck, I notice the chain he has around it. Something that I can’t possibly be seeing right.
I reach forward and grab it, turning it over between my fingers and then glance up at him. I’m dangerously close when I shouldn’t be, but I need to be sure I’m not hallucinating.
“How do you still have this?” I stare at it.
It’s a saint’s medallion that I’d gotten for him in Italy. We’d been getting presents for everyone to bring back on our honeymoon, and when I saw that Saint Sebastian was the patron saint of athletes and warded off the plague, I couldn’t stop myself from getting it for him. He’d been equally amused when he opened it. But that was years ago.
“Uh…” There’s an uncharacteristic pause in his voice. “Oh. I forgot that you gave it to me. I wore it for a game once and it’s been lucky, so I keep it on.”
I turn it over before I release it and let it fall back against his chest.
“Well, I’m glad it’s working.” I put distance back between us. “I dropped the brush when you knocked so it’s on the floor underneath the ladder. And there’s a mess on the wall. I really probably should finish it first.”
“I’ll take care of it. Just go.” His eyes slide over me and my messy appearance one last time and then he turns to the task at hand.
Ten minuteslater and I’m trying to get my hair and makeup in some semblance of order while I ponder the fact that Seattle Phantom’s star defensive end is now shirtless in my house painting my wall while I get ready for our first fake date. Because literally what the fuck has happened to my life in the course of the last twenty-four hours. Too much. That’s what.
I’m not sure I can do this. It’d be difficult with anyone, but with him, it’s asking for a whole host of things I don’t have much of at the moment; patience, self-control, perspective. I’m finding life in the post-divorce world to have a pretty short supply of any of them. Plus, he tests every nerve I have like he knows where the pain points are and wants to see how tight he can string them. I’m as likely to punch him as I am to fuck him most days. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Another fifteen minutes and I’ve managed to make myself mostly presentable. Now I just need to figure out where we’re going so I can pick something to wear. I step out of the bathroom and he’s in the process of putting the painting stuff away. I glance up at the wall and he’s managed to finish it. It looks almost perfect, and he even succeeded in getting a lot of the spray off the white paint.
“Thanks,” I say, still keeping my eyes fixed on the wall because I don’t trust them not to wander.
“No problem. You ready?” He turns his back to wash the brush out, and I steal a glance.
I wonder where he’s wanting to go and hoping it’s nowhere fancy. He’s dressed pretty casually in dark jeans and what I remember of the shirt he had on. I frown at his back because I really need it back on.
“Where are we going? Somewhere I can just throw on jeans and a top?”
“Wherever you wanna go, Saint.”
“Somewhere quick and casual is fine with me.” The less time we spend together while I get my head around this fake-dating-the-hot-football-star-thing, the better.
“All right. I know a place down by the waterfront.”
“Of course, you do,” I mutter under my breath as I walk back into the bedroom and to the closet to grab some clothes.
I hear him crumple up some paper and toss it in the trash as he’s cleaning up.
“So step one of us getting along is probably you not reacting to everything I say and do as though it”s revolting…” he calls out through the wall.
My hands pause on the first shirt in the drawer, and I stare down at the pile. I guess he has a point. But trying to find as much about him as revolting as possible has been a self-defense mechanism I’ve used since the day we met. It’s going to be difficult to undo all that hard work.
“I’ll work on it!” I call back.