Chapter Three #2
“Now, wait a minute,” Drach tries, but he’s nothing. The only thing that matters is Alexo.
Who’s looking at me the way he did last night, studying me, and I wonder what he’s seeing play across my face. I’m not doing a very good job of hiding myself from him, but instead of running for the hills, he smiles.
There they are. Those dimples.
“Yeah?” he says. It’s a question. “Yeah. I think I do. This is crazy, though. Right?”
It is. Certifiable. Downright demented.
I am in all kinds of trouble.
“If he’s in,” I tell Roesia, “so am I.”
Alexo and I sign our lives away. It certainly feels like that; the moment we verbally agree, Roesia calls in a few people from legal, who begin going over the NDA and contracts.
When someone from HR hands us each a list of PDA options and gently asks us to circle which acts we’d be comfortable doing for cameras, I swear to all the gods that a blood vessel pops in my brain.
The list is … extensive. From handholding all the way to things no one should do for cameras unless they’re signing up for a whole other type of financial endeavor, and I stare at the list, stupefied.
Alexo doesn’t hesitate. He circles three things and declares, “Handholding, hugging, and kissing, no tongue,” with a tone that brooks no room for arguing.
He follows that up by looking at me, a challenge burning the side of my face before I can peel my focus away from the sheet of PDA options.
My gods, does that really say dry humping?
I nod at him. “Yeah. That’s fine. Sure.” I think I repeat that a second time. Yeah. Fine. Sure.
You’re going to let me touch you?
Kissing, no tongue.
There go a few more blood vessels.
Alexo’s brows pop up. Surprise, again. I seem to keep surprising him, but I have no extra mental space to unpick that knot.
Not when I woke up this morning intending to separate from my patron god and ended up his poster boy for heroic deeds and also tied to a fake relationship with a guy who’d been more fantasy than reality just hours ago.
Am I still asleep? Maybe I didn’t wake up this morning. Maybe this is what happens when you self-medicate with champagne.
More signatures, a few legalese speeches I only half hear. Roesia assures me my agent will get copies of everything I’m signing—yeah, that’s fine, sure, my motto right now—and Alexo and I are both sent links to a calendar of events throughout the season.
“We’ll get started today, to ride the interest from last night,” a publicist says. The room’s swelled to about a dozen people, and they all stand now, so I guess we’re done—
Wait.
“Today?” I manage, feeling like I’m emerging from underwater. No, water would be easy to get out from. I’m emerging from under honey, sticky and tacky, and it’s all over my nose and eyes, can’t really breathe or see.
“Today with your first date,” the publicist clarifies and nods at my phone.
“It’s on the calendar. We’re starting you simple, a coffee in the café downstairs.
We’ll get a few shots of you two together, no video or sound recordings, so feel free to talk about whatever you’d like.
It’s all for show, remember; make it look good. ”
Make it look good.
All for show.
Coffee downstairs.
I do understand English, I think.
Oh gods, am I having a panic attack? It’s a real possibility.
A hand closes over mine where I’m gripping the leather couch cushion. The muscles in my arm jump, recognizing his touch already, the soft flex of his hand.
I look down at him, and his expression is encouraging but cautious. The way I got when Seb used to go on an angry tear and I’d have to talk him down.
“Come on,” Alexo prods. “Just coffee.”
I let him pull me to stand. Which is objectively hilarious, because if I really did need him to get me to my feet, he’d probably snap in half.
But as I teeter upright, it hits me that maybe he’s being cautious because he doesn’t know me.
I could be some psycho aggressive Urzoth worshipper, and he’s relegated to having to soothe me.
In a parade of PR people, we’re shepherded down two floors to the Hellhounds HQ café off the main lobby.
It hasn’t hit the midafternoon pick-me-up time yet, so we have the place to ourselves, and as we cross the threshold, the publicity folks hang outside, leaving us to our own make it look good devices.
Alexo knots his hands in the sleeves of his jacket, but he’s still got his defiant, chin-up stance, facing down the world and daring it to turn on him. He starts to take charge, heading for the counter to order, when I put my hand on his forearm.
“What do you want?” I ask.
His eyelashes are dark and curled, and closer now, there’s a light gloss over his lips. Shimmery gold-pink. It matches his hair.
Those eyes narrow. Curious. Cautious. “Large iced oat milk latte.”
“I’ll get it. You pick the seat.”
I head off, not waiting to see his reaction. I order his drink, get a bottle of water for me—caffeine would be a bad addition to my body chemistry right now—and a few pastries.
When the barista pushes the order across the counter, I scoop it up and turn to see Alexo’s chosen a high table right by the glass window that looks into the lobby. The publicists will have a perfect shot of us, and something clenches in my stomach, a pang of discomfort.
This shouldn’t be fake.
I’d have asked him out for real.
I could call it off and sponsor Alexo on the cheerleading team myself.
Wouldn’t be the weirdest anonymous donation I’ve told my money managers to make, but it seems like Alexo could have tried out for the cheerleading team on his own, without Urzoth’s sponsorship, and he didn’t. Why did this work for him?
I can find out. We’ll be spending a lot of time together over the next few months. Fake relationship or not, our conversations can be real.
Determined, I head to the table and slide Alexo his drink. Along with a blueberry muffin. And a chocolate donut. And a Danish. And a yellow cake pop.
Wow. Really?
Alexo looks at the spread of pastries before cocking a bemused grin up at me. “Hungry?”
“Uh—no, actually.” While Seb was right, my half-giant metabolism is impressive, I’ll hate myself tonight at practice if I eat any more crap. “I just—maybe you are?”
Alexo takes the muffin and tears off part of the top, but hesitates. “I guess I need to think about an athlete’s diet now. I’ve seen how the cheerleaders eat, and my gods, no one should be physically able to consume that amount of celery per day.”
I finally take the tall chair across from him instead of lurking by the table.
“There’s always room for sweets. I ate my weight in pancakes this morning to counteract an equally absurd amount of alcohol last night, so I’ll pass.
But you should eat. Your body’s perfect.
” Heat burns my cheeks. “I mean—” No, nope.
I physically squish my lips together to keep from overcorrecting and making what I said worse.
Alexo, muffin piece still lifted, watches me, eyes sparkling.
He takes mercy on me and pops the bite into his mouth. I let my lips relax.
After a beat, his smile dims. “I need to thank you again for what you did last night.”
“No, you don’t. In fact, I—” My gaze moves to the window, where out in the lobby, the publicists are taking our picture, and I clench the water bottle as I face Alexo, putting my shoulder to the glass. “I need to apologize to you. I shouldn’t have lifted you up. I’m sorry.”
With another bit of muffin halfway to his mouth, Alexo gawks at me.
He drops the muffin, dusts off his hands, and bends over the table. His jacket parts as he moves, showing the text on his shirt. Black type says, THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IS THAT BOTH TEAMS HAVE FUN.
I grin.
But Alexo shakes his head at me. “Okay, I do not get you. You’re Urzoth’s golden boy. Star defensive tank. Big, bad rawball player. Brings down a corrupt arcane training camp. And you’re—you’re—” he stammers, waving at me, seemingly encompassing, well, everything.
“I’m what?” I ask, honestly curious. “You expected me to be violent and domineering? I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, but I promise, that’s not me.”
That seems to derail him. He winces and looks down at his muffin.
When his gaze swings back up to me, it’s from under his dark lashes, and I don’t think he necessarily means it to be coquettish, but it is. That look spears through me and I go rigid at the table, jostling it enough that his latte sloshes.
“You’re right,” Alexo says softly. “I don’t know you. I was making assumptions.” His lips curve up. “Now I’m sorry.”
“Aw.” My smile stretches. “Was that our first fight?”
His eyes bulge in a stifled chuckle and he resumes picking at the muffin. “You think that was a fight?”
“Well, an issue, at least. Look at us, tackling conflict resolution like champs. We’re such good fake boyfriends.”
He laughs. Bright and tinkling, showing his dimples, and it injects liquid fire straight into my veins.
“And as your fake boyfriend,” I continue, liking too much how that word feels in my mouth, “I want to know: What about this arrangement was so appealing to you?”
Alexo sobers. Almost instantaneously. Smiling to a stationary look of shock. I hadn’t expected the question to hit him like that, but he tugs his jacket over his chest and folds his arms.
I see the moment he realizes that isn’t a posture that’ll look good for the cameras. He straightens, lays his hands on the table, shifts to lean more casually in his chair.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I amend. “I just thought, if we’re going to be spending all this time together, that I could get to know you.” I clear my throat and amend even further with, “I want to get to know you.”
Alexo’s gaze narrows. “Do you? Why?”
His question is cutting. Accusatory.
My mouth drops open. “Why?” I echo.
“Yeah. Why? Because I was some manic pixie dream guy you helped last night? Or because your god has an interest in me?”