Chapter 3 Nicholas #2
Her departure leaves Nicholas alone at the table with nothing but his thoughts and an overly pink eyesore.
Pushing away from the table, he makes his way into the open living room, throwing himself on the couch to wait.
Though the sofa is too small for his frame and a lot harder than his own sofa, it’s still better than the uncomfortable dining chairs.
Closing his eyes, he shuts out everything else.
Why should he care about stupid Andrew fucking King?
* * *
Nicholas yawns, frowning when he realizes he fell asleep on Amanda and Denise’s couch. Between their rigorous playing schedule and his rare night off last night, he feels like he could sleep for a week.
He’s just about to roll off the couch when the conversation in the dining room catches his attention.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.”
That’s definitely Denise.
“I know.” Another voice, male. Andrew then. “You and Amanda need help though, and I want to help you.”
“Despite what I said about calling in the favor, you know I wouldn’t push you. Not like that. If you’re not comfortable—”
“It’ll be fine,” Andrew interrupts. “I just needed a few minutes alone outside to calm down and think things through. Now that I’m better regulated, I can do this.”
“I know you, Doll. He’s a lot.”
“And you know I can handle a lot.” Nicholas tilts his head to the side, cracking his eyes open just enough to watch them but hopefully not alert them to his awakened state just yet.
“If anyone can handle Nicholas Whitmore, it’s you,” Denise agrees.
“Exactly.” Only Andrew’s back is visible as he slides his hands into his pockets. “I’ve spent a lifetime dealing with my brothers’ shit. How difficult can he be?”
“Difficult,” Denise snarks, making Nicholas frown. “You don’t know him like I do. Hell, I don’t even know him. I only know what Amanda has told me and that’s not much. Between her NDA as his agent and her dislike of talking about her childhood, she hasn’t shared much. All I know is that Nicholas—”
“Is awake and eavesdropping,” Amanda interrupts, stalking into the room from the bedroom and immediately shoving his legs off the arm of the couch so he falls on the floor.
“Fuck you, Amanda.”
“Right back at you, Nicki.”
“Nicki,” Nicholas gapes. No one has called him that since, well—since Amanda’s mom divorced his Uncle Sebastian, and they fucked off across the country.
They’d been the only family he even remotely liked but the second the divorce was final they’d disappeared and forgotten about Nicholas because family—blood or not—was all bullshit. “Don’t call me that.”
“You called me Gumby, it’s fair game.”
“Fine, I won’t call you that again then.”
“Too late. I’m calling you Nicki from now on.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m going to call you that too,” Denise says, smiling for the first time tonight.
“Fuck both of you.”
“Did you have a bad nap, Nicki?” Andrew asks, jumping in on the nickname bandwagon.
“Fuck you very much, you—”
“Finish that sentence and kiss your plan goodbye,” Amanda interjects, looking far sweeter than she really is. Maybe that’s why she’s such a good agent. She looks so dainty and delicate, but she’s a fucking bulldog.
“I wasn’t going to say anything rude,” Nicholas lies.
“Maybe he needs a snack,” Andrew says, like he’s some kind of toddler.
“Fuck you,” Nicholas snaps from the floor, feeling closer to ten than almost thirty.
He’s a grown man for fucks sake. A world famous hockey player and heir to more money than he could need in a million lifetimes.
He’s better than everyone in here. He doesn’t need them talking down to him. He doesn’t need any of them.
“You’re rude,” Andrew says, seemingly recovered from his earlier shock.
“Aren’t you observant,” Nicholas frowns, climbing up from the floor and smoothing down his shirt.
“You’re also entitled.”
“Anything else?” Nicholas asks, noticing for the first time what a pretty brown Andrew’s eyes are. The color is so warm and rich, like the color of his skin—so much darker than Nicholas’s own pasty complexion. He’d be quite handsome if he wasn’t dressed like a god damn accountant or a banker.
“Yes. You engage in salacious behavior and have a pathological need for attention. You’re reckless, self-centered and I wouldn’t date or fuck you either.”
Nicholas throws his hands in the air. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Andrew grins.
“The fuck are you smiling at?”
“I just figured you out is all.”
“Well good for you. I’m getting out of here. I don’t need to be insulted for nothing,” Nicholas says, turning on his heels ready to leave and not come back.
“It’s not for nothing.”
Nicholas stops, refusing to turn and look at Andrew. “Explain.”
“Come sit down at the table and have dinner, then I’ll explain.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Nicholas argues, unable to stop himself from turning to look at Andrew who for reasons unknown is smiling serenely.
“Of course not. You’re a big boy who is the boss of himself, aren’t you?”
Unsure if that’s insulting or something he’s supposed to agree with, Nicholas levels Andrew with what he hopes is a glare sufficient enough to convey his feelings either way.
“Listen here you boring beige fucker.”
“Nicholas,” Amanda shouts, but Andrew squeezes her shoulder before striding towards Nicki.
“No, you listen here you overgrown manchild.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, thank you. I’m not interested.”
“I wasn’t—oh, fuck you.”
“I’m not intimidated by you, Nicki.”
The name sounds different coming from Andrew, equal parts taunting and familiar.
Strangely, it makes Nicholas want to goad him even more just to get Andrew to push back at him.
People rarely challenge Nicholas. Dismiss him, physically fight with him, but not challenge him.
At least, not unless he’s on the ice. It’s exactly why he’s always loved hockey.
He was nothing more and nothing less the version of himself that made it onto the ice that day.
“You want a fucking medal?” Nicholas snaps.
“No. What I want is to sit down and eat. I’m hungry, it’s thirty minutes past my dinner time, and I would much rather be at home reading than listening to you have a tantrum.”
“A tantrum. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
“A grown man who acts like a child,” Andrew surmises. “A man who thinks his money and infamy can excuse his rude behavior. You don’t have to want to fuck or date me, I don’t care either way. You do need to respect me if you want my help.”
“Maybe I don’t want your help anymore,” Nicholas snarks.
“Fine, then I can eat my dinner.” He turns to walk away, and Nicholas acts without thinking, grabbing his arm.
“I don’t like being touched without permission,” Andrew says, pushing away Nicholas’s hand.
Guilt is another emotion he normally doesn’t experience but looking at the discomfort on Andrew’s face has him feeling some kind of way.
“I’m sorry,” Nicholas forces out, pretty sure this is the first time he’s ever apologized of his own volition without being forced by a parent, teacher or coach.
“Apology accepted.”
The ease with which Andrew forgives him catches him off guard, as does the way Andrew schools his features into a congenial smile, the discomfort that was written so plainly there only seconds before nowhere to be seen.
“Does this mean you’ll help me?”
“There will be rules.”
“Rules,” Nicholas frowns. “Who the fuck needs rules for fake dating?”
“I do. Plenty of them. Give me a few days to draw up a contract and—”
“Are you a lawyer?” Nicholas interrupts.
“Andrew is a financial advisor, for your team,” Amanda offers, looking smug as shit.
“Why haven’t I seen you around?” Nicholas questions.
“Well, they don’t really let us boring types out of our office.”
Nicholas blinks, unsure what to make of this perfectly pressed man who is as bland as they come in appearance, yet anything but boring in personality.
“So you’re an accountant?”
“Financial advisor,” Andrew corrects.
“What’s the difference?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner next week.”
“I don’t have time for dinner next week. We have a three-game home stand. That means we’re playing three games in a row at home and—”
“I might not be the world’s biggest hockey fan, but I have picked up enough working for the league to know what that is. I also know that even when you play, you have to eat after.”
“I’m tired after,” Nicholas says, but it’s a weak protest even to him.
“Surely you have time to ingest a meal. Unless you’re planning to exist solely on the blood of your enemies on the ice and sexual gratification.”
“I eat,” Nicholas grumbles, unsure if he’s annoyed at being insulted or amused at how imaginative the insult was, especially for being pretty damn close to the truth.
“Good then once I’ve drawn up the contract we’ll have dinner. If, and only if, you agree to the terms then we can move forward.”
“I didn’t know dating could be this boring.”
“Fake dating,” Andrew corrects.
“Fake dating,” Nicholas copies. “You’re still taking all the fun out of it.”
“That’s me, no fun Andrew King,” he deadpans in a way that makes Nicholas unsure if he’s being sarcastic or serious. “So?”
“What?”
“Are you in, or do you want to think it over?”
There’s nothing for Nicholas to think over.
Amanda is his sole friend—pretty pathetic since she’s also his agent and cousin—but at this point Nicholas has either shunned or burned all his other bridges.
Andrew is his only choice unless he wants to enlist a stranger to help him, and even with an NDA the potential blowback is more than he is willing to risk.
It’s Andrew or nothing, and Nicholas is not backing down.
Lifting his gaze to look at Andrew, he’s surprised to find the other man already staring, their gazes locked. There’s something about this man with his perfect hair and unassuming outfit that has Nicholas curious. It’s that curiosity, and more than a fair bit of desperation, that has him answering.
“I’m in.”