Chapter 2
JAKE
Idon’t mean to listen in to the new girl’s phone call.
Okay, well, maybe I do, but only because the conversation is juicy as hell. And anyone who knows me knows that I can’t keep my nose out of other people’s business. It’s gotten me in more trouble than I like to admit, but learning my lesson has never been my strong suit.
Case in point: me being ten minutes late to practice despite coach yelling at me for it every single time. I promised to score enough goals in our first playoff round next month to make it up to him, though.
“I’m still bringing a plus one,” a frustrated, strong female voice insists from inside the small office.
That’s another reason I can’t stop myself from listening in: her voice is like the first sip of coffee on a hangover. See, she’s got me turning into a damn poet already, and I haven’t even met her yet.
She sounds damn stressed, though, and that intrigues me more.
I know she’s got her work cut out for her trying to manage my Playboy reputation, but surely I can’t be the cause of her worry so soon.
No, whoever’s on the other side of that phone, and whatever event she’s apparently bringing a plus-one to has to be the cause.
The urge to fix whatever is bothering her surprises me with its strength.
I sneak forward, catching my first glimpse of her as she mutters, “I’m so fucked,” to herself.
“That’s not the tone I’m used to hearing women say that in,” I muse, shooting her a smirk.
She lets out a sound of surprise and whirls around to face me, her eyes wide and her lips parted. She may as well have punched me in the gut, given the way my whole body reacts.
Holy fucking shit.
She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my damn life.
Most of her blonde locks are piled up in a wavy ponytail, but a few strands frame her face.
Big green eyes lock onto mine, her lips pink and plush as she mouths oh.
She’s wearing a tight black top and high-waisted, sleek gray pants with low black heels, looking both hot as fuck and far too sophisticated to be dealing with my antics.
But deal with me, she shall. Because even if she wasn’t our new social media manager, there’s no way I could stay away from her.
One thing is immediately clear to me, clearer than anything else has ever been in my life:
This girl will be mine.
“Oh my God, you scared me,” the woman gasps, hand over her heart.
I watch as she tries to wipe the stress and worry from her face, though it lingers in her eyes.
Whatever that phone call was about is really weighing on her.
“I didn’t realize you were there. Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to overhear my problems. Wildly unprofessional of me on day one. ”
She laughs a little, but the humor falls flat. I raise a brow, leaning against the doorway.
“I’d say I didn’t mean to listen in, but that would be a lie,” I say, grinning wide at the way she blinks, trying to hide the way her lips quirk up in an amused smile. “You look stressed as all hell—”
“Gee, thanks,” she snarks.
“Beautiful, but stressed,” I correct graciously. “Can I do anything to help?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t even know me, and you want to help?”
I step into her office and hold out my hand expectantly. “I’m Jake, Jake Jones, center for the BlueHawks,” I introduce.
She laughs, and it sounds like music. “I know who you are,” she says, “With the amount of gossip articles you have based on you, it’d be pretty damn hard not to.”
I bow and give her a wink, making her laugh again. Fuck, that’s my new favorite sound. “I live to entertain,” I joke. “But if I’m honest, I only introduced myself so you’d tell me your name. Or if you’d rather, I could just keep calling you mine in my head.”
She blinks at me, mouth dropping open at my boldness. “God, everyone was right,” she says with a giggle. “You’re trouble.”
“And you are…” I prompt, leaning in a little closer.
After making me sweat for a few more seconds, she slips her hand into mine and shakes. “Cara,” she introduces.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” I comment, eating up the way she grins and tries to pretend she’s not blushing. “So, now we know each other. Can I help?”
She grins and starts to shake her head, then pauses, going still as though she’s having an epiphany. I can almost see the lightbulb above her head blink on.
“Actually…” she murmurs, tapping her bottom lip with a pink nail. Then she scrunches her brows and shakes her head, as though she’s talking herself out of whatever she was about to say. “Never mind. That would be crazy.”
My grin grows wider. “Crazy’s my specialty,” I tell her. “Go on, tell me.” When she doesn’t immediately open up, I put on my best puppy dog expression and say, “Pleeeeease.”
She laughs, and all my needling works, because after a small sigh, she gives in.
“What are you doing on Saturday night?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at me. Assessing me.
I blink, not expecting that. “Uhh…nothing,” I say, having no idea if I already have plans but knowing that even if I do, I’ll be canceling them in a heartbeat to join in with whatever scheme Cara’s got going on.
“Are you up for something that might sound a little crazy?”
I scoff. “Always.”
“Okay so I may or may not have told my whole family I have a date for my sister’s wedding when in actual fact I haven’t had a boyfriend in an embarrassing amount of time and now it’s too late to admit that I’ve been lying my butt off so," clearing her throat, and taking a deep breath, "will you be my fake boyfriend?” she says in a rush.
I crinkle my face, and her arms shoot out in panic. Her jaw drops open, leaving her momentarily speechless.
"No, I mean my fake plus one accompanying me to my sister's wedding. But, yes, you'd have to pretend to be my boyfriend... but only for like a coupla days."
I step closer to her, so we’re barely a breath apart. I watch her breath stutter and her throat bob with a swallow, but she holds my gaze, unblinking. There’s a strength to her, a sense of challenge in her eyes, that I’m insanely drawn to.
She’s asking me to be her fake boyfriend, but the feelings she’s sparking in me are anything but fake.
And I’m determined to prove that we could have something real. It would probably make me sound insane if I said it out loud five minutes after meeting her, but I swear I just know. This girl is meant to be mine.
“I would be honored,” I tell her, my grin widening as I add, “on one condition.”
The relief on Cara’s face morphs into suspicion. “And what’s that?” she asks, craning her neck to narrow her eyes at me.
“After the wedding’s over…you owe me a taste of what it would be like if you were really mine,” I propose, “Of what it would be like if this wasn’t fake.”
I watch her digest my offer, her lips parting as she thinks for a second.
It takes her much less time than I’d feared to decisively nod her head, stick her hand out, and say, “Deal.”
We shake on it, and as much as I want to stay here and revel in my new weekend plans, I’m already late as hell to training.
I grab a notebook off her desk, one she’s clearly just unpacked, and scrawl my number on the page. “Text me,” I tell her, “We should do lunch tomorrow, get to know each other. Can’t be a convincing boyfriend if I don’t even know your favorite color or your biggest traumas, can I?”
She laughs, shaking her head at me. “Good plan,” she says. “I’ll text you when you’re done with practice. As a reward.”
Is she flirting with me? I’m pretty damn sure she’s flirting with me.
I give her another grin and a wink for good measure, then drag myself away to actually do my job.
For perhaps the first time in my entire adult life, I’m early.
I’m so unaccustomed to it that I think she’s stood me up until I realize there are still fifteen minutes until the time we agreed on.
I choose a corner seat in a booth as out of sight as possible while still providing a decent view of the cafe so I can keep an eye out for her.
It’s the BlueHawks ‘ first year in the playoffs, and as a new team, we’ve earned a fair amount of media attention.
And by a fair amount, I mean we’ve taken the hockey world by storm.
And by we, I mean mainly me. I’ve been the subject of more than a few gossip magazine headlines, and I can’t say it’s always been for good things.
I’ve earned myself a reputation as the Playboy of hockey, and with the title comes attention. Sometimes, I love it. Other times, I just want to be able to buy groceries in peace.
I hope that nobody interrupts our lunch for a photo or to try to give me their number. It used to thrill me, but now the idea just settles in my stomach like bad coffee.
Mercifully, this place has excellent coffee, and I order a black coffee while I wait and pretend to read the menu, though I can’t concentrate long enough to really take the options in.
I sit up straighter the second Cara walks in. Even if someone came up demanding a photo, I’m not sure I’d even notice their existence. Nobody else exists except her. Everybody else can fuck right off.
I watch her look around for me and practically preen when she spots me and smiles wide as our eyes meet.
My eyes are glued to her as she walks over, her hips sway, and the low heels of her boots click on the floor.
She’s got her hair down today, pinned back from her face with two little clips.
The tight pants she wears cling to her curves, and I find myself shifting in my seat as my cock perks up.
“Damn, I thought I was early. Is my watch running behind?” Cara asks as she draws closer, frowning at the watch on her wrist as though it’s betrayed her.
I get the sense she prides herself on being put together, from her timeliness to her outfits, even the predicament she found herself in, not wanting to go to her sister’s wedding alone.
I’m far from put together, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to make her a little…messy.
“You’ve got the right time. I just beat you at your own game, princess,” I tease.
“You, early? Damn, you must be really excited to drink free wine and sway on a dancefloor,” she says, raising her brows.
I snort. “Something like that,” I murmur, pushing the menu across the table to her as she sits down.
She browses the options for a minute, and I manage to hold my tongue long enough to let her decide what she wants. The waitress comes over and I order whatever comes into my head first, a chicken bacon avocado club sandwich and a black coffee.
“I’ll have a Caesar salad and a large iced maple hazelnut latte with cinnamon cold foam, please,” Cara asks, giving the waitress a friendly smile as she notes down our requests, repeating those final words, dragging them out aloud with her eyebrows raised, cinnamon —pause—cold—pause—foam, then walks away.
All the questions I had prepared in my mind escape me as I try to process her coffee order. “An iced maple nut cinnamon what?” I parrot, looking at her with utter confusion.
Cara just pins me with a smile almost as sweet as her drink must be.
“An iced maple hazelnut latte with cinnamon cold foam,” she repeats, emphasizing every word.
When she takes in the scrunch of my nose, she rolls her eyes.
“Just because I like drinks that actually taste good and not a bland and bitter black coffee—”
“You’re talking about ordering things because they taste good, and yet you ordered a salad,” I point out, already addicted to teasing her like this. She’s so expressive, so responsive, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s just as responsive in bed.
Shit, Jake, don’t think about her in bed!
I try to subtly adjust myself beneath the table, my cock fully hard at that image in my mind.
“Salad is delicious,” she counters, shaking her head. “Besides, you ordered chicken and avocado in your sandwich, the same ingredients that are in my salad.”
I incline my head towards her. “That’s because I’m on a very strict diet to be in the best shape possible for playoffs and the team’s Doc might actually have my head if I ordered whatever I wanted,” I tell her. “That’s what off-season’s for.”
The waitress returns with our order, placing our drinks and food down on the table. Cara pulls her glass towards her and takes a long sip through the straw, her cheeks hollowing. I shift in my seat and take a far too hot sip of dark coffee to distract myself.
Cara’s lips quirk up on one side. “Tell you what,” she says, leaning closer to me over the table top. “When we go out for lunch in the off-season, I’ll try your real order, and you have to try my much superior coffee.”
“Oh, so there’ll be another date?” I grin, loving the way she blushes when she realizes what she’s said. “I see my plan is going well already.”
“Plan?” she questions.
I nod. “To make you realize that whatever we have, whatever this thing is between us that I know you can feel, is far from fake.”
Cara swallows. “This is just a convenient arrangement,” she stammers out, looking down at her salad as she aggressively stabs lettuce with her fork. “That’s all.”
I watch as she takes a bite, raising a brow when she finally looks up at me again.
“Sure, princess,” I murmur. “Whatever you want to think.”
But I see it in her eyes, the truth I’ve already accepted.
This is far from fake.
And one night together at her sister’s wedding will never be enough.