13. Use Protection
USE PROTECTION
LIAM
I’d been scrolling through Twitter for the past hour, watching my life become a meme in real-time.
@SportsDaily: Olympic swimmer Liam James proposed at a DINER? This man has millions and chose a booth with sticky menus?
@DeiamShipper: THE ENEMIES TO LOVERS PIPELINE IS REAL AND I’M SCREAMING CRYING AND THROWING UP
@RomanceReader99: They literally tried to drown each other with cupcakes and now they’re ENGAGED I can’t breathe
@ConspiracyQueen: Y’all really think this is real? They staged the whole thing. Cupcake fight was PR. Wake up!
Deiam hashtag was trending worldwide and beating out actual world news, a presidential scandal, and a surprise album drop.
There were fan accounts and edits set to Taylor Swift songs. Someone had already written fanfiction, which my friends had sent to me. I hadn’t clicked, but I saw it.
The enemies-to-lovers narrative was, apparently, solid gold.
My phone rang, and Dad’s face filled the screen. I propped it against the bathroom mirror and went back to wrestling with my bow tie.
“Saw the news,” he said without any greeting and grinning that grin that meant he was about to enjoy himself at my expense. Shit. “This is the same girl who gave you a black eye with a water balloon when you were twelve?”
“That’s the one,” I said, yanking the tie loose and started over. These things were a fucking nightmare.
“Are you sure about this?”
“It’s fake, Dad,” I said, groaning because the tie was fighting me and I was losing. “Just PR stuff.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, sipping his coffee and watching me struggle. “You know your mother wants to meet her, right? She’s already planning a family dinner.”
What the fuck.
“Dad, you should—”
“I’m just saying. If this is fake, you might want to mention that before your mother starts picking out names for your children.”
Kill me now.
“It’s just three months! We’re breaking up after Ethan’s wedding.”
“Sure you are,” he said, his smile widening. “Do you need help with that tie?”
He was miles away in San Francisco.
“I’ve got it.”
I did not have it.
He walked me through it anyway, the same way he had before my first Olympic trials, and we talked about the business, about his latest acquisition, about Mom’s book club drama.
“Be careful, son,” he said before we hung up. “Fake or not, that girl’s always gotten under your skin.”
I sighed and looked at my reflection. Sure, she has.
I pulled up outside Deepika’s apartment building in my red Audi R8, because if I had to endure a pool party with cameras and fake smiles, I was at least going to drive something that made me happy.
The building looked worse in daylight, with peeling paint, cracked concrete, and a window AC unit that was held in place by what appeared to be duct tape and prayer.
I need to get her out of here.
I leaned against the car, scrolling through more #Liamika content (I was aware I had a problem.), when Deepika stepped out of the elevator doors.
I stopped mid-scroll.
She was wearing a black dress that should have been illegal in at least twelve states. It hugged every curve, and she had curves for days that made my mouth go dry. Her hair was pinned up in this complicated bun thing with a few curls framing her face, and I couldn’t look away.
Actually, could not. My brain had short-circuited.
“CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, JAMES!”
I jerked my head up. A girl, maybe her friend, was hanging out of the window, grinning at us as if she had won the lottery.
Deepika shook her head, mortified. “Ignore her.”
“USE PROTECTION, KIDS!” she yelled.
I was going to die of embarrassment standing outside a building that probably violated housing codes.
Deepika walked toward me, and I tried to reassemble my brain into something functional. She ran her hand along the car’s hood, appreciating the lines, and I had to physically remind myself that we were in public, and I needed to behave like an adult.
Bet we could do it over the car. I can just bend her over the hood like that night—
Behave.
“Nice car,” she said, and there was genuine appreciation in her voice.
I recovered from the shock of seeing her and said, “You clean up… adequately.”
Her expression shifted immediately, and defensive walls slammed into place. “You look like you’re trying too hard.”
“That’s literally a compliment, and you turned it into—”
“I take it back. You’re still an ass.”
“I was being nice!”
“You called me adequate. That’s not nice, that’s—that’s a participation trophy of compliments.”
She had a point, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
I opened the passenger door for her because my mother had raised me right, even if I was an ass. She slid in, the dress riding up just enough that I had to look away before I did something stupid like stare.
Or spank her and get murdered by her bare hands.
The drive was pure torture, and I wish I had sent a driver for her instead, because sitting so close was making me feel weird.
Her perfume filled the small space. It was jasmine and vanilla, the same scent that had driven me insane at the hotel, the same scent that I tasted on her skin when I—
I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles went white.
My pants felt tight and every fucking thing felt tight.
Focus. I needed to focus on literally anything else.
“Kiara and Ethan are going to be there tonight,” Deepika said, adjusting her dress. “We need some ground rules.”
“Agreed.”
“Don’t contradict me in public.”
“Don’t tell embarrassing childhood stories.”
“Don’t let your hands wander.”
I glanced at her and lied, “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good.”
“Fucking great.”
Silence stretched between us, and it was thick and uncomfortable.
The perfume was killing me, so I cracked the window.
“You look stunning, by the way,” I said, my tone rougher and deeper. I cleared my throat. “The thing with your hair and dress—yeah. It’s nice.”
She turned, caught off guard, and touched her hair self-consciously.
A nervous laugh escaped her. “Oh. My friend Priya helped me with this. We found the dress at a thrift shop, actually. It was like fifteen dollars. Can you believe that? She said I needed to look—” She stopped, realizing she was rambling. “Thanks.”
I nodded and pursed my lips. She made the fifteen-dollar dress look like a million bucks.
Fuck.
The pool party was at the Beverly Hilton, and Olympic elites were invited with their plus-ones, influencers with perfectly curated feeds, and a few celebrities. It was a black-tie event despite the pool and enough cameras to film a small movie.
After helping her out of the car, I immediately placed my hand on her lower back. The fabric of her dress was thin enough that I could feel the warmth of her skin underneath, and she stiffened slightly at the contact.
As the cameras started flashing, we plastered smiles on our faces, pretending to be the couple in love.
My hand drifted lower, settling on the curve of her ass because it was right there, and I was apparently seventeen and had no self-control.
Deepika kept smiling, turning her head to hiss at me through clenched teeth.
“Move. Your fucking hand.”
I leaned in, keeping my expression soft for the cameras, and cooed, “But it’s so comfy and perfect.” I kissed her forehead, lingering just long enough to make it look genuine. “Can I spank it next time?”
Her eyes went wide. “You pervert—”
She pinched my side, hard, and right below my ribs where it hurt like hell.
I covered it with a laugh, pulling her closer, and she pinched even harder.
Fuck, she’s going to kill me.
The photographers ate it up, snapping away, probably thinking we were being cute and flirty instead of engaged in a very specific form of mutual torture.
“You’re dead,” she mumbled while smiling.
“You’re gorgeous when you’re threatening me,” I replied.
“I will drown you in that pool.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you tried.”
We made it through the entrance, still pressed together, still smiling, and the moment we were out of sight of the cameras, she shoved me away.
“What is wrong with you?”
“You pinched me!”
“Because you grabbed my ass!”
“You have a very grab-able ass!”
She stared at me, and I stared back.
“Did you just—” she started, tilting her head.
“I stand by it.”
Her face flushed—from anger or something else, I wasn’t sure—and she turned on her heel, stalking toward the party.
I followed, adjusting my bow tie and trying not to think about how good she looked walking away from me. Especially that ass.
Fuck me. I was whipped.