2. The First Date
Chapter two
The First Date
T he next few days are a whirlwind of activity. Press releases, social media posts, carefully staged photo ops. We’re everywhere, Jaxon and I, smiling and holding hands like the perfect couple. It’s exhausting, but I can’t deny the thrill of watching our plan unfold.
Jaxon, for his part, seems to be enjoying himself a little too much. He’s always finding excuses to touch me, to lean in close and whisper something in my ear. It’s all for show, of course, but I can’t help the way my heart races every time he’s near.
“You’re a natural at this,” he tells me one Friday morning, after a particularly successful interview. “I almost believe it myself.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t hide my smile. “That’s the point, isn’t it? To make everyone believe?”
He grins, that infuriatingly charming grin that makes my knees go weak. “Everyone but us, right?”
I nod, but I’m not so sure anymore. The lines between real and fake are blurring more every day, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be able to untangle them when this is all over.
When he leans closer, I catch the faint scent of his aftershave—clean, sharp, and entirely too intoxicating. His eyes flick to my mouth.
“You really think you can handle me, Tori?” he whispers.
“I can handle anything,” I whisper back, even as my throat dries.
His smirk deepens. “We’ll see.”
But for now, I push those thoughts aside. I have a job to do, and I’ll be damned if I let anything get in the way.
The rest of that day passes in a blur of phone calls and emails, setting the stage for our grand charade. By the time I collapse onto my couch that evening, I’m physically and emotionally drained.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen, expecting another work emergency. Instead, Jaxon’s name lights up the display, along with a message that makes my heart stumble.
Couldn’t stop thinking about you tonight.
I stare at the words. It’s just part of the act, I remind myself sternly. But a traitorous part of my brain whispers that maybe, just maybe, there’s a glimmer of truth behind his playful facade.
I type out a response, my fingers hovering over the send button.
Careful, Reid. Remember the rules.
My thumb taps the screen before I can second-guess myself. I toss my phone aside, determined to put Jaxon Reid and his too-charming smile out of my mind.
But as I drift off to sleep, my dreams are filled with piercing blue eyes and the feeling of his hand in mine. And I realize, with a sinking sensation, that the line between fake and real is already starting to blur.
The next morning, the memory of Jaxon’s text still lingering in my mind. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, I kept reminding myself that this is just a job. A high-stakes game of pretend, nothing more.
I go through my morning routine with laser focus, channeling my energy into the tasks ahead. As I step out of my apartment, I prepare myself for the day to come.
The office is already buzzing when I arrive and I barely have a moment to settle in before my phone rings. Of course, it’s him.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls, his voice warm with mischief. “Ready to take on the world?”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see me. “I’m ready to tackle this PR strategy, if that’s what you mean.”
“All work and no play, huh?” He chuckles. “We’ll have to work on that.”
“Jaxon...” I warn, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“Relax, Michaels. I’m just keeping you on your toes,” he replies. “You sure you can handle being my girlfriend?”
“Again, it’s fake.”
“Right, and yet I know you enjoy every minute of it.”
We dive into the details of our next upcoming appearance, the banter flowing easily between us. It’s almost frightening how natural it feels, like we’ve been doing this dance for years.
“So, it’s a date then,” he speaks.
“It’s a gala.”
“So…. a date!,” he replies. “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Make sure it’s sleek…and red.”
***
I shimmy into the dress, contorting myself to zip it up. It’s a miracle I don’t dislocate a shoulder. Makeup is next, a task that takes precision and focus—two things my rattled brain is struggling to summon.
I line my eyes and layer on mascara, wondering if I’ll make it through the night without crying it all off. My hands tremble slightly as I smooth the sleek navy fabric over my hips, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The elegant gown hugs my curves in all the right places, but even the exquisite craftsmanship can’t calm the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach.
At least it isn’t red…and sleek.
The damn charity gala isn’t for another hour, but anxiety is an early guest, seizing my stomach with enough force to send a seasoned PR pro packing. If I didn’t have to take his cocky ass by the hand—and maybe the ego—I’d be gleefully burning this ticket. Instead, I slip into my battle armor and brace for the unpredictable.
His unpredictability sets my teeth on edge. Will he behave himself tonight? Stick to the script we’ve so carefully crafted? Or will he go off-book, leaving me to clean up the mess?
A million things that could go wrong parade through my mind, each one worse than the last. The spectacular unraveling of the scheme to rehabilitate Jaxon’s image leads the parade. Oh, the glamorous drama of being publicly dumped by my pretend quarterback boyfriend before dessert. Wouldn’t that make the headlines sing? If I wasn’t convinced that putting on this show with Jaxon was my professional duty, I’d be on the couch with a glass of wine and some less murderous clothing.
Tonight is our official debut. I wish I could trust him to behave like a decent human.
This is the kind of mess I usually avoid. My career thrives on stability, order, and an unwavering grip on every situation. But now here I am, diving headlong into chaos, like the thrill of saving Jaxon’s sinking reputation is worth the risk of drowning. Why did I agree to this again? The allure of transforming a cocky athlete into a humble sweetheart is hard to resist.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. It’s just another event, Tori. You’ve done this a million times. But this night feels different. Because this night, I’ll be on the arm of Jaxon Reid—star quarterback, notorious playboy, and my biggest PR challenge yet.
A knock at the door jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. I take one last look in the mirror, steeling myself. Game face on. I’ve got this.
I open the door and my breath catches. Jaxon stands before me, all six-foot-something of pure masculine perfection in a tailored black tuxedo. His dark hair is artfully astray, his piercing blue eyes dancing with mischief as they rake over me appreciatively.
“No red?” he asks.
Not tonight, Jaxon. I’m Teflon.
“Damn, Michaels,” he drawls, a slow grin spreading across his chiseled features. “You clean up nice.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the way my heart stutters at his teasing compliment. “Don’t get used to it. This,” I gesture between us, “is strictly business.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” His tone is playful, but there’s a glint in his eye that says he sees right through me. Sees the way my pulse is jumping at the hollow of my throat.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter, grabbing my clutch and stepping into the hallway.
He chuckles, falling into step beside me. “Oh, it’s gonna be a long night, Michaels. A long, interesting night.”
I swallow hard, my nerves kicking into overdrive. Lord help me, I have a feeling he’s right.
***
By the time I reach the hotel where the gala is set to unfold, my head is a kaleidoscope of nerves. Reporters are already swarming outside, and I swallow down the taste of panic. My hands smooth the front of my dress for the twentieth time, but the fabric can’t absorb my unease.
We step out of the limo, and I’m immediately blinded by a barrage of camera flashes. Jaxon, of course, is completely unfazed. He is a devastating mix of polish and rebellion in that sleek black tuxedo. His hair is doing its signature tousled thing, defying gravity and good sense. Confidence radiates off him like he’s in a stadium instead of a hotel lobby. When his blue eyes lock onto mine, the rest of the room blurs out like an afterthought.
He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me close as he greets the reporters with his signature megawatt smile.
“Jaxon! Jaxon! Over here!” they shout, vying for his attention.
He obliges them, turning this way and that, while I try my best not to blink like a deer in headlights. Smile, Tori. Just smile and don’t trip.
We make our way down the red carpet, Jaxon’s arm never leaving my waist. His touch is warm, steady, and I find myself leaning into him despite my best intentions.
Every brush of his fingers sends heat curling through me.
“Relax,” he whispers, lips brushing my ear. “We’re supposed to be in love.”
I roll my eyes, mostly to stop from blushing. “Try not to get carried away, Jaxon. We’re here to convince them, remember?”
“Right. That part. But…is it, really?” His thumb strokes just above the curve of my hip. I nearly stumble.
“You really do look amazing,” he says, his voice dipping low enough to make me question every sane thought I’ve ever had.
I straighten my spine and try to channel some professionalism into my bloodstream. “Not so bad yourself. Almost didn’t recognize you in grown-up clothes.”
As we near the entrance, a particularly persistent reporter thrusts a microphone in our faces. “Jaxon, Tori! Can you tell us, just how serious is this relationship?”
My mouth goes dry. Serious? We’ve barely begun this charade and they’re already throwing around words like ‘serious’? I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.
Jaxon, however, doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s very serious,” he says, his voice deep and sincere. He pulls me closer, his hand splaying possessively across my hip. “Tori’s special. I’m a lucky man.”
I nearly choke on my own tongue. Special? Lucky? What happened to ‘strictly business’? I glance up at him, ready to protest, but the look in his eyes stops me cold.
The reporter coos, clearly eating up every word. “And Tori, how does it feel to be the woman who finally tamed the notorious Jaxon Reid?”
Tamed? I nearly snort. If only they knew. But I force a coy smile, leaning into Jaxon’s embrace. “Oh, I don’t know about tamed,” I drawl. “Let’s just say he keeps me on my toes.”
Jaxon laughs, the sound rich and warm. “That’s my girl.” He presses a kiss to my temple.
My breath catches, my skin tingling where his lips touched. This is all for show, I remind myself sternly. None of it is real.
He offers his arm like it’s an inside joke, like he’s daring me to find him irresistible. “Shall we?”
We shall. Apparently.
His hand warm and solid at the small of my back, I can’t help but wonder...How much of this is just an act? And how much trouble am I really in?
We make our entrance and it’s like walking onto the field at the Super Bowl—chaos, lights, and the deafening roar of a hundred camera flashes. He takes it all in stride, while I hold onto my fake smile like a life preserver. The man could thrive in a hurricane. I just hope I don’t end up its casualty.
The gala is as high-end as it gets. Crystal chandeliers dripping with opulence, tables groaning under the weight of their centerpieces. A string quartet plays in the background, nearly drowned out by the symphony of noise. My anxiety spikes, imagining the headlines if this turns into a PR disaster. We can’t get tangled up. Not in each other. Not in his reputation.
Jaxon takes the lead, talking to reporters like he’s on the set of a GQ shoot. He’s charming, relaxed, every inch the polished superstar. I watch him, amazed at how effortless he makes it all seem. Maybe there’s hope for this plan after all.
But then it happens, the first big test of the night. A reporter with the persistence of a terrier pushes through the crowd, camera poised. “How serious is it between you two?”
I freeze. My brain short-circuits, flickering through possible answers but landing on nothing. Silence stretches painfully. I can almost feel the headlines writing themselves: TORI FAILS TO HANDLE HER OWN CLIENT.
Then Jaxon slides an arm around my waist, pulling me against him, answering like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “As I told the previous reporter, it’s very serious.”
A breathless second. Maybe ten. The flashbulbs go off again like a firing squad. My heart does a swan dive, while panic and confusion take the medals. I’m drowning in a hundred mixed signals, my body betraying me by shivering with excitement at his touch.
“Let’s dance,” he suggests, rescuing me from the onslaught of questions with an infuriatingly cool demeanor.
I nod, desperate to escape. He guides me to the dance floor, where the music is slow, the lights dim. Too intimate, too much like a real date. Panic flutters in my chest. Dancing wasn’t part of the deal. I’m about to protest when the first strains of a slow, sultry number float through the air.
Oh no.
He pulls me in tight, and I’m overwhelmed by how much I feel, how wrong and right it is all at once.
“You’re a little stiff,” he teases, his breath warm against my cheek. “I thought you PR types were supposed to be good at this stuff.”
“I’m stiff because you’re stepping on my foot,” I lie, snapping back with more edge than I intend. “And I’m good at my job. Dancing just isn’t part of my usual repertoire.”
“You need to relax,” he says.
Relax, he says. Riiiiight. His hand slides to my lower back, his touch igniting a trail of fire along my spine. I force a breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
Our movements are more tangled than graceful. The distance between us is almost nothing. His touch is scorching, and my thoughts are a tangled mess of disbelief and desire. How does he make this fake relationship feel so real?
His face is mere inches from mine, his gaze dropping to my lips. For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. My pulse pounds in my ears, anticipation coiling in my belly.
The rest of the room fades, guests watching but distant, like they’re on another planet. For a moment, it’s just the two of us, suspended in a universe of our own. I try to remember the stakes, what we could lose if this falls apart.
Focus, Tori. This is a job, not a confession.
I’m playing with fire, and I know it.
The song ends, leaving me more confused than ever. I try to catch my breath, but it’s like trying to catch smoke. How much longer can I keep pretending this doesn’t affect me?
He guides me back to mingle with the guests, his hand lingering on my waist, like it belongs there. My mind spins in dizzying circles as we pose for more photos, a carefully constructed smile hiding my turmoil.
The evening stretches like a tension wire. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up, how long before it snaps and takes me down with it. This plan is working too well. Maybe it’s working too well on me.
I excuse myself, needing a moment to breathe, to regain my composure away from his overwhelming presence. I retreat to the restroom, a tactical withdrawal from the battlefield of emotion and camera flashes.
The restroom is blessedly empty, and I grip the sink, reminding my reflection of everything it’s conveniently forgotten. My career, for starters. The importance of not letting one cocky quarterback turn it into a spectacular disaster. This job was supposed to be straightforward. Like an episode of Jersey Shore, Jaxon’s thrown in some unexpected twists. And a lot more intensity.
His arm around me, his hands pulling me close—I exhale sharply, pushing the thought aside. I didn’t sign up for that. I signed up to fix a reckless athlete’s reputation. An athlete who is anything but simple.
I’ve handled clients with far worse reputations, the kind that leave PR specialists twitching. Compared to those hot messes, Jaxon should be a walk in the park. So why do I feel like I’m on a tightrope, blindfolded, in heels?
I head back into the chaos, resolve bolstered but still as fragile as glass. I can get through this. The night will end, the headlines will be stellar, and I will have a triumphant glass of wine.
But then I spot him.
He’s leaning casually against the bar, deep in conversation with a stunning blonde. I recognize her, some soap opera star, the kind that eats attention for breakfast. She’s all perfect angles and megawatt smiles, and the sight of them together ignites a jealousy I didn’t expect.
I pause, watching their easy interaction, the way she leans in with familiarity. There’s chemistry, and it stings. Has he moved on already, while we’re still mid-act one of this charade? I’m the idiot who’s getting swept up while he’s having a laugh and a half.
Ridiculous, Tori. This isn’t a real relationship. I chant it like a mantra, but it does nothing to quell the storm inside me. Jaxon glances up, catches me watching. His grin is lethal, like he’s just won a game of chicken.
I pretend it doesn’t bother me. Walk over slowly, like I haven’t got a care in the world. Internally, I’m a mess of mixed signals and emotions I shouldn’t be having. I remind myself to stay professional, calm, but Jaxon Reid makes even that impossible.
He leaves her with a charming nod and saunters my way, way too amused for my liking. “Someone looks a little jealous,” he says, teasing and all too perceptive.
“Please. Jealousy requires caring,” I shoot back, too quickly, the defensive edge betraying me.
The banter snaps like a live wire between us. He sees right through my attempt to be cool, a smirk tugging at his lips, a blue-eyed X-ray into my chaos. My heart does another sprint as I try to downplay what he’s doing to me.
“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he says, still riding the high of my irritation.
I snap, frustration boiling over. “I’m just doing my job. Making sure you don’t say anything that could damage your image.”
He steps closer, his gaze intense. “Is that all this is to you? A job?”
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Of course. What else would it be?”
He shakes his head, his smile turning rueful. “You’re a terrible liar, Tori Michaels.”
Hours later and we find ourselves posing again. The cameras flash, blinding and relentless, as Jaxon’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. His touch ignites a flurry of sensations I refuse to acknowledge.
“Smile for the cameras, babe.”
Again, I plaster on my best paparazzi grin, praying it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. As the photographers shout for more, Jaxon leans in closer, his lips grazing my temple. “Again, relax,” he whispers, his deep voice sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “You’re safe with me.”
Safe? The man is a walking danger zone, and not just for my carefully constructed professional facade.
Finally, mercifully, the cameras stop flashing. Jaxon releases me, and I step back, desperate to put some distance between us. But even as I move away, I can still feel the imprint of his touch, the ghost of his breath on my skin.
I am sooo ready to go.