Chapter 16
Gray
“Can you put the other dress back on?” Celena asks as I twirl around in front of the laptop sitting on my bed.
I look down at the red dress I’m modeling for her through our Zoom call. “Not feeling this one?” I ask. “Too…red?”
“Too red,” she says. “That’s more for a third date when the paparazzi have lost interest, but you need to tell him you’re ready to be fucked.”
I roll my eyes hard at the camera. “There’s not going to be a third date,” I tell her. “This one’s only for show to save both our careers, and then we’ll quietly ‘break up.’”
“Gray,” she says, her tone dripping disappointment. “You have to fake date one of the hottest pro hockey players – no, hottest pro athletes – in the world right now. You need to milk this situation for all it’s worth, if only so I can live vicariously through you.”
I shake my head. “Not a good idea. You know my track record with men. Today we’re only fake dating, but by next week I’ll be checking my phone every few minutes, wondering why he hasn’t texted, or checking his social media to see if he’s posted anything lately.
I’ll drive by his office to see if his car is really still there when he says he has to work late-”
“We’re not talking about Ash anymore, are we,” she interrupts.
I don’t answer, and my face burns with shame as I think how I went full stalker with Drew toward the end. I consider myself a relatively stable person, but I still cringe at how I acted.
It wasn’t even that I wanted to be with him by that time. It just enraged me that he’d make plans with me, then come up with some lie to get out of them. I resented that he thought I’d believe the lies, and I was determined to catch him each time, just to show him I wasn’t stupid.
I could’ve let him go if he’d just let me go.
“Put the other dress back on,” Celena says gently.
I look at the pile of clothes sitting next to the laptop on my bed.
“Which other one?” I ask. “I tried on half my closet.”
“The navy blue one,” she says. “You look amazing in navy.”
I fish in the pile and pull out the navy sheath dress she’s talking about. The dress covers me up to the neck, has long sleeves, and goes just past my knees, so on the surface it seems conservative, but like the dress I wore to the club, it fits me like a second skin and shows off my figure.
My body isn’t perfect. I have a few soft spots, and there are parts that are ‘too this’ or ‘not enough that,’ but overall I have a decent figure. Enough that, even with my confidence issues, I can wear a dress like this.
I slip off the red dress, toss it onto the pile, then shimmy the sheath dress up my body. I hear Celena whistle, and I look at her questioningly as I contort myself to pull up the zipper.
“You move like that for him, and the two of you won’t make it to dessert,” she says.
“You’re not helping,” I say.
“I’m your best friend. It’s not my job to help. It’s my job to talk you into buying fun stuff for yourself, urge you to do slightly crazy but not wholly dangerous things, and to be here to pick you up when the men you date inevitably let you down.”
I give her a frustrated look. “How comforting.”
She shrugs. “I don’t make the rules.”
I spin around in the dress. “Does this work?”
“Perfect!”
“Alright, I have to finish getting ready. I’ll text you when I get home.”
“You’ll text me halfway through dinner from the restroom.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“Have fun!” she says and hangs up the call.
I close the laptop, then work on finishing my look. I add a gold chain around my neck and slip into a pair of gold heels, then get to work on my hair and makeup. I took too long figuring out what to wear, and Ash will be here in twenty minutes.
I shouldn’t be nervous – this isn’t a real date – but there’s a steady tremor in my chest that borders on giddiness.
Actually, fuck that. I have every right to be nervous. Every shade in my house is drawn right now because reporters have been camped out on my front lawn all day. Thankfully I was able to pull right into the garage and close the door on them when I got home.
I’m just barely done getting ready when my phone pings with a text from Ash telling me he just pulled up and is on his way to the front door.
My stomach drops, and I wonder if I have time for a shot of vodka.
No such luck. The doorbell rings, and I grab my clutch and shove my cell phone inside it before opening the front door.
Cameras flash, backlighting the tall figure filling the doorway and making me blink. When I can see again, I find Ash’s eyes traveling back up my body.
“You look incredible,” he breathes, and he sounds sincere.
I let my eyes run over him quickly. He wears a black suit with a royal blue shirt, and I decide the color was made for him. I hope I don’t look too matchy in my navy dress, and it only occurs to me now that I’m wearing one of the Hydra’s colors. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
I’m about to return his compliment when he leans down, cups my face with one hand and kisses me. His lips move against mine tenderly, and the tip of his tongue flicks into my mouth before he pulls back. My body tingles, and I stop myself from falling forward to chase the kiss.
“Ready?” he asks, and I know he’s not asking if I’m ready to go. He’s asking if I’m ready to face the firing squad.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings, but I nod, and we turn to the group of reporters standing at the edge of my lawn. There’s a steel-colored sports car in my driveway, but I know next to nothing about cars, so if it’s not a Lamborghini or a Corvette, I’m clueless.
“I’ll take three questions, and then you all need to leave my girlfriend alone from here on out,” Ash says to the reporters as we head toward them. He slips an arm around my waist so his hand rests on my hip, and for several seconds my world narrows to that hand.
I highly doubt the reporters will honor his request, but they start shouting questions all at once.
“Is Gray working with you on your trash talk problem?” one shouts.
“Dr. Mackey,” Ash says, emphasizing my title, “isn’t a sports psychologist. And my problem isn’t with trash talk. It’s with no-talent jerks who need to chirp at others to make up for their inadequacies.”
The reporters murmur at that, and I try not to react. He didn’t directly answer the question about me, but the reporters seem more focused on Ash’s own attempt at trash talk.
“How long have you and Gr-, uh, Dr. Mackey been dating?” another reporter asks.
“Six weeks, five hours, and…,” Ash checks his watch, “forty-seven minutes. Not that I’ve been counting.”
I give him an incredulous look, but he just grins at me and kisses my forehead. I do some quick math in my head, and while I’m not sure about the hours and minutes, six weeks ago sounds about the time Ash showed up at my office.
“Last question,” Ash says, “then you all get lost.”
“How do you feel about dating an older woman?” one of them shouts before anyone else can voice a question.
Both Ash and I go rigid. My stomach drops into my shoes, although I have no idea why I should care. It doesn’t matter if I’m older than him because we’re not actually dating.
I look up at Ash and pull back unconsciously at the expression on his face. I’ve seen it before. He’s pissed, and he tightens his arm around me.
“That’s a stupid question,” Ash snaps. “She’s barely three years older than me, and you’re making her out to be some kind of cougar.
But for the record, she could be twenty years older, and I’d still think she was one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met.
” He steers me toward his car, then calls back to the reporters, “Now clear out.”
Ash opens the passenger side, and I slip into the seat as he shuts the door after me. The interior of the car is just as beautiful as the exterior, and I lean over to look at the logo on the steering wheel. It’s a pair of wings with the words “Aston Martin” on them. Holy shit.
I sit up again as Ash opens the door and gets in. The car is already running, and he throws it in gear before backing down the driveway. I expect him to peel out faster than he should, but he backs out carefully and accelerates down the street like a normal human being.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says.
I shrug. “Just reporters being reporters.” I’m not entirely sure which part he’s apologizing for.
“Yeah, well, fuck them. We’re going to have fun tonight.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Chef Avery’s new restaurant just got a Michelin Star,” he says, “so we’re going to go see if it was earned.”
Sweet Jesus.
“You know you can take me to Outback Steakhouse and call it a day, right?” I tell him.
He side-eyes me. “No, I can’t.”
My phone dings with an incoming text, and I give him a small smile as I pull it out of my clutch.
“Sorry, it’s probably my friend Celena checking in already,” I say.
I swipe open the phone and pull up the message app, but my stomach bottoms out when I see who the text is from.
Drew
Hey.
Before I can react, another text comes through.
Drew
I’ve been thinking about you since the other night. I miss you.
My mouth hangs open, and I’m not sure I’m breathing. Months ago, texts like this from Drew would’ve sent me into a tailspin. I would’ve responded immediately, telling him I missed him too, and a dozen texts later I’d be asking to see him again.
Now, I can barely hold the phone, and the sight of the texts makes me queasy.
“Gray? You okay?”
Ash’s voice jolts me back to reality, and I turn off the screen and shove the phone back into my clutch.
“Fine. It’s just my mother. She drives me a little nuts sometimes.”
“Who else do you have for family?” he asks. “Any siblings?”
“Just me,” I say. “Only child. My dad is still around too.”
“Did they see the news?”
“My mother’s friend saw it and told her, and I got a call wondering how I could be such a neglectful daughter and not tell her about my famous new boyfriend.”
“And you said?”
I shrug. “I was busy with classes and just didn’t have time to tell her.”
“And that worked?”
“Of course not. I owe her dinner and a full accounting of our relationship thus far.”
He chuckles. “I haven’t heard from my parents and sisters yet, but they’re used to me forgetting to tell them things like who I’m dating. It’s not the first time they’ll learn about my love life online.”
“Or your fake love life?” I offer with a half-smile.
He doesn’t speak right away. “Right,” he says finally, but his smile seems strangely forced.
The rest of the ride is comfortable enough. I learn that one of Ash’s sisters is older and the other is younger. The older one works in corporate law, while the younger is finishing up an MBA, and according to Ash, they taught him everything he knows about feminism.
Someone had. People sometimes think I’m being pretentious when they call me “Miss” and I correct them with “Dr.,” but women faculty members are far more likely to be misaddressed than our male counterparts.
None of my male colleagues get called “Mr.” They all get addressed as “Dr.” or at least “Professor,” but my female colleagues are frequently addressed as “Miss,” “Ms.,” or “Mrs.,” even if they aren’t married.
It’s just disheartening when you’ve gone through the same schooling as everyone else and published a dissertation to not have that achievement acknowledged based on gender.
It meant a lot that Ash insisted the reporters refer to me by my title, and I add yet another item to the pile of reasons it would be entirely too easy for me to fall in love with him.
They’re starting to overshadow the myriad reasons I can’t.