9. Skylar
For two days the tightness in Skylar’s chest refused to ease.
She’d gone over the events of Sunday a hundred times. Charlie’s defense of the woman in the bar versus offering fifty thousand dollars like pocket change. The emptiness in his eyes when he’d called himself the villain.
He was a contradiction. At first, she’d seen him in sharp blacks and crisp whites. The playboy billionaire with the world on a string. Now grays bled into the edges, and she didn’t know what to do with them.
The email from Dean Fairchild’s office arrived Tuesday morning while she shelved books in the library’s east wing.
Ms. Hartley, please report to my office at 3 p.m. today regarding a university matter.
Skylar’s mind raced through possibilities as she crossed campus. Was there a problem with her scholarship? Had a video from the bar surfaced? Was she in trouble for being there?
Once in the administrative building, she climbed the stairs to the third floor and found the Dean’s office at the end of a long hallway lined with portraits of former university presidents.
His assistant waved her through without comment. Skylar pushed open the heavy oak door and stopped.
Charlie sat in one of the two leather chairs facing the Dean’s desk. Her grip tightened on the doorframe. At the sound of her entrance, he didn’t turn.
“Please, Ms. Hartley.” Dean Fairchild stood behind his massive desk, hands clasped behind his back. “Have a seat. We have an exciting opportunity to discuss.”
Skylar lowered herself into the chair, hyperaware of Charlie beside her. He crossed his legs, radiating the casual confidence.
He still didn’t look at her.
“I assume you remember the promotional photoshoot from Sunday.” The Dean turned his computer monitor to face them. “The photographer sent over the proofs this morning. I couldn’t wait to show you.”
The screen filled with images. Cheerleaders with pom-poms. Football players in formation. Group shots and action shots and candid moments.
Then photos of her and Charlie.
Skylar’s breath caught.
She barely recognized herself. The girl in the photos looked relaxed, confident, glowing.
Charlie’s arms held her to him as she gazed at the camera, her face lit with something that bordered on joy.
The sun highlighted his hair, but he wasn’t watching the lens.
His gaze was intent on her. His grin so genuine her heart ached.
They looked like a couple. A real couple, comfortable in each other’s space, electric with chemistry.
“These are remarkable.” Dean Fairchild clicked through the images slowly. “You really impressed the photographer. He said, and I quote, ‘These two have something special. The camera loves them.’”
“That’s very kind.” Charlie’s words held no warmth.
She turned to stare at him. He kept his eyes on the screen, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, hands still in his lap. Not a single muscle out of place.
“It’s more than kind. It’s valuable.” The Dean leaned forward. “Ms. Hartley, I understand you’re a photojournalism student on scholarship. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you work multiple jobs to cover your living expenses.”
Her spine stiffened. “I manage.”
“I’m sure you do. But what if I told you there was an opportunity to earn significant income while also building your professional portfolio?”
Skylar’s eyes narrowed. “I’m listening.”
“The university is launching a new promotional campaign for our athletics program. We want fresh faces, authentic energy, students who represent the best of Thorndale.” He gestured at the screen. “Based on these photos, I believe you and Mr. Carnell could be those faces.”
A prickle of unease ran up her spine. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“First, we’d like to use this photo on our website and in recruitment materials.” He clicked to an image of Charlie cradling her against his chest, both of them beaming at the camera. “We’ll compensate you five hundred dollars for the rights under a one-year contract.”
Five hundred dollars. Skylar’s mind immediately calculated what that could cover. A month of groceries or her bus pass for next semester.
“Additionally, we’d like you and Mr. Carnell to appear together at six promotional events throughout the semester. Football-related functions, donor dinners, that sort of thing. Each appearance would pay an additional five hundred dollars.”
Three thousand more. Her pulse quickened.
“Finally, if you complete all six events culminating in Senior Night in November, there’s an additional two-thousand-dollar bonus.”
Skylar’s hands went cold. She gripped her knees to keep them still.
Fifty-five hundred dollars. More than enough to cover her grandparents’ electrical repairs with money to spare.
“That’s . . . a lot of money.”
“It’s fair compensation for your time and image.” The Dean’s smile widened. “We value our student ambassadors.”
“What’s the catch?”
Charlie shifted beside her.
“No catch.” The Dean spread his hands. “Simply show up, look presentable, and represent Thorndale Athletics with enthusiasm. The events are all local, so there’s no travel required.
” He glanced at the screen. “We’ll provide a proper cheerleader uniform, and other appropriate clothing, work around your class and work schedule. ”
Skylar’s mind raced. This solved everything. The electrical panel, the constant stress about money, the fear that her grandparents would lose the shop.
But it meant spending time with Charlie. Hours, over the next several months.
“And Charlie?” She turned to look at him. “Why is he doing this? He doesn’t need the money.”
The lines of Charlie’s face locked in a casual expression.
“Mr. Carnell has always been a tremendous supporter of our athletics program,” the Dean answered before Charlie could speak. “Football is his life. He understands the importance of positive publicity for the team.”
“I’m happy to help however I can.” Every syllable landed in the right place at the right time. “Skylar’s a natural in front of the camera. I’m sure we’ll work well together.”
Skylar looked between the two men. Charlie, with his etched-in-stone smile and too casual posture. The Dean, with his calculating eyes and too-smooth explanations.
The wrongness prickled at her skin. She couldn’t name what was wrong, but she could feel it.
But fifty-five hundred dollars.
She twisted to face Charlie. “If Charlie agrees, I’ll do it.”
At last, his eyes met hers, blue and fathomless. His frozen expression softened. “I would never ask you to do something you don’t want to. I’ll follow your lead.”
“But do you want to do this?”
His eyes flashed, then dimmed back to casual. “I do.”
She turned to the Dean. “I’m in. But I need the payment schedule in writing and a guarantee regarding the flexibility around my other jobs.”
“Of course.” The Dean pulled a folder from his desk drawer. “I took the liberty of drafting a contract. You’re welcome to review it with anyone you’d like before signing.”
Skylar took the folder and scanned three pages of dense legal language. The payment terms were clear. Five hundred for the photo rights, five hundred per event, and a two-thousand-dollar bonus at completion.
She signed on the last page before she could talk herself out of it.
“Excellent.” The Dean collected the contract with a satisfied smile. “The first event is next Saturday. A donor reception at the alumni house. Mr. Carnell will provide the details.” He stood, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Thorndale family, Ms. Hartley.”
His palm was dry and cool. Skylar shook it quickly and let go.
“Thank you for the opportunity.”
On the stone steps outside, the autumn air hit Skylar’s face, crisp and sharp. She waited until they cleared the building before whirling on Charlie. “What was that?”
“Good fortune.” Charlie shrugged. “You can work fewer hours now.”
She wanted to shake him and crack that polished facade wide open. “Cut the act. I’m not buying it. You obviously don’t need the money, and no one loves football enough to willingly parade around at donor dinners.”
His jaw went slack. Just for a heartbeat. Then his expression reset to that infuriating casualness. Too late. She’d caught the same slip in the Dean’s office when she’d asked what he wanted. Whatever answer he’d rehearsed, her question wasn’t part of it.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Maybe my idea of a good time is hanging out with rich men and women trying to relive their glory days through me.”
Me. Not us.
“Tell me the truth right now or I’ll tell Dean Fairchild he can find another cheerleader to hang off your arm. I’m sure there’ll be a lineup around the block.”
The easy confidence drained from his posture and victory swam in Skylar’s veins. She’d broken through.
Charlie crossed his arms, then let them drop. “I’m never going to be able to change your mind about me, am I?”
“I’d apologize for being immune to your charms, but my bullshit sensor must be my superpower.”
A bark of laughter erupted from him. Two girls passing on the sidewalk turned to stare.
He looked at the sky for a heartbeat, then met her gaze.
“The Dean has security footage from the bar. From the fight.” He sucked in a breath.
“One angle clearly shows Wyatt pushing Tad. Another makes it look like I did it.”
“So release the one that shows what really happened.”
“And destroy Wyatt?” Charlie shook his head. “He was drinking underage and he shoved a guy who cracked his skull open. Even if it was an accident, even if he was protecting me, that’s assault. He’d lose his scholarship. Maybe get expelled.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t let that happen.”
“Okay.” Skylar bit her lip. The grays in her mental picture of Charlie kept multiplying. The man who cared about his teammates enough to cover for them. “But why can’t you just . . . make this go away? Pay someone off?”
“My father controls everything.” He looked past her shoulder. “Every dollar I spend, he sees. Every decision I make, he questions.” His jaw tightened. “The fifty thousand came from a watch he gave me two years ago. He won’t miss it. He just needed the photo of him giving it to me.”
Skylar’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag. A three-hundred-thousand-dollar car. A fifty-thousand-dollar watch. Gifts that weren’t free.
“The Dean was kind enough to point out that it would be a shame if the video of me pushing Tad ended up on the news.” Charlie’s gaze dropped to the pavement. “Or in my father’s inbox.”
The ground shifted beneath her feet. “He’s blackmailing you.”
“He’s leveraging me.” Charlie’s laugh held no humor. “Smile for the cameras, charm the donors, and the video stays buried. Refuse, and my father sees his investment damaged.” He bit off the last word. “He won’t care about protecting a friend. He’ll care that I embarrassed the Carnell name.”
Skylar stared at him. The golden boy quarterback, trapped in a cage of his own making—or his father’s at least. Sacrificing himself to shield everyone else.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her grip on the bag strap loosened. “In there. Why didn’t you say something?”
“And what? Drag you into my mess?” A crease formed between his brows. “You already think I’m just another rich kid buying my way out of problems. I didn’t want to prove you right.”
The words stung because they were true. She had thought that. Part of her still did. “This isn’t the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” He stepped closer, and the scent of fresh-cut grass filled her lungs. “I’m trading my time and my image to make a problem go away. The only difference is I’m not writing a check.”
“The difference is you don’t have a choice.”
“Neither do you.” His gaze held hers. “Fifty-five hundred dollars. That’s not nothing for someone working three jobs.”
Four jobs, she almost corrected. But he was right. The money had made her decision for her, just as surely as the video had made his.
She studied his face. “We’re both trapped.”
The corner of his mouth curved. “Seems so.”
“Thank you for telling me the truth.” She adjusted her backpack.
“The truth matters.” Charlie stepped back, the distance between them widening. “I’ll see you in class. Afterward, we can discuss the donor dinner.” He paused. “You can even buy me a coffee.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
His grin shifted. Smaller than the one he’d worn in the Dean’s office. It sat slightly crooked on his face, as if it had arrived without his permission.
Her chest tightened.
She turned and walked away before he could see her smile.
As Skylar stepped into her apartment, she found her roommate curled on the couch in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, a pizza box open on the table.
“Hey.” Skylar dropped her bag by the door. “You okay?”
Poppy shrugged. “Charlie and I broke up.”
Skylar’s shoulder’s tightened. “What? When?”
“Yesterday. He came over while you were at work.” Poppy picked at a crust on her plate. “It’s for the best, I think. We’ve been more like friends than anything for a while now.”
“Poppy, I’m so sorry.” She sank onto the couch beside her. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No.” Poppy’s smile wobbled. “It doesn’t.”
Skylar’s ribs ached. Charlie, breaking hearts and writing checks. Maybe she’d been right about him all along.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Tell me about your day. Distract me.” Poppy shifted to make room, tucking her feet beneath her. “Where were you this afternoon? You’re home late.”
Skylar’s throat tightened. The timing was cruel, but Poppy would find out eventually.
“Actually, I was with Charlie. The Dean summoned us to his office.”
Poppy’s slice of pizza paused halfway to her mouth. “Why?”
“Technically it’s your fault.” Skylar filled her in on the photos and the deal. “It should have been you in the photos.”
“I think this worked out better.” A ghost of Poppy’s usual brightness crossed her face.
Skylar sighed. “I’m going to be spending a lot of time with your ex-boyfriend.”
“I know.”
“If it’s too weird, I can tell the Dean I changed my mind—”
“Sky.” Poppy set down the pizza and reached for her hand. “We were over weeks ago. This doesn’t change anything.” Her grip tightened. “Take the money. Quit one of your jobs, help your grandparents, and splurge on something that’s not a necessity.”
Skylar nodded. “Speaking of jobs, I need to change for my shift.”
In her bedroom, she sank onto the mattress and stared at the contract in her hands.
She’d just agreed to spend the next several months pretending to have chemistry with the man who’d broken her roommate’s heart. A man who was being blackmailed by the Dean. A man she’d accused of being just like the family that killed hers.
A man who’d looked at her in the Dean’s office and made her pulse spike.
She dropped her head into her hands.
What had she gotten herself into?