7
Sasha
“Wait a minute.” Conor says, holding one hand midair, his forehead creasing in confusion. “What do you mean ‘be your boyfriend’?”
“Not my real boyfriend.” I clarify, trying to sound casual as I pick at my freshly painted nails. “Just pretend. For appearances.”
He blinks slowly. “I don’t get it.” Bless his wee heart. His deep blue eyes are as wide as saucers and the poor man looks genuinely baffled. I don't know why he's confused though. I think I’ve explained it pretty well.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “What don’t you get? I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend.” Duh.
“Why?”
A frustrated groan escapes me before I can stop it.
My words are coming out louder than I intended them to, though none of my irritation is directed at Conor.
It’s directed at me for digging this stupid fucking hole.
I cover my face with my hands in embarrassment for what I’m about to tell him.
“BecauseIbumpedintoMaxandtoldhimthatwearetogether.”
“Okay, I didn’t understand a single word of that. Try again please.”
I lower my hands, fisting the ends of my dress.
“I bumped into Max today. He looked so happy, practically rubbing his new engagement in my face.” The words sting more than I thought they would.
My eyes well with tears as the back of my nose begins to burn.
“Okay, he wasn’t rubbing it in my face, but he asked if I was seeing someone and I couldn’t say no.
How embarrassing would that be?” The first tear rolls down my cheek and I angrily swipe it away.
“You’re the first person that came into my head.
And then he said he’ll see us both at our friend's engagement party in a few weeks and-” I let out a defeated sigh, hanging my head in shame.
I can’t believe I’m even here, sitting in a hockey player's apartment, begging him to fake date me, all because I couldn’t admit to my ex that I hadn’t moved on. How fucking pathetic have I become?
“Please don’t cry, Angel.” He shifts uncomfortably, patting my shoulder with his palm. “I don’t know how to deal with crying women.”
I huff, swiping the stray tears falling from my eyes. “I’m sorry, Conor. Just forget I said anything, okay?” I rise from my spot on the couch, ready to get the hell out of here and forget about this whole embarrassing situation, but Conor’s hand wraps around my wrist, pulling me back down.
He doesn’t speak, just stares at me with those intoxicating eyes. There’s no smart remark or teasing smile. His jaw works as though he’s weighing his options.
If he says no, I will die from humiliation. I could never be around him again without spontaneously bursting into flames. I’d have to move cities. Maybe states. What was I thinking even coming here in the first place? I’m such an idiot.
“Okay.” Conor’s single word pulls me out of my head.
“What do you mean ‘okay’?”
He smiles softly at me, the small dimple on the side of his mouth drawing my attention. “I will be your boyfriend.” The words have barely left his mouth before I launch myself at him, straddling his hips and wrapping my arms around his neck.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I pull back, planting a hard kiss on the side of his cheek.
“Thank you.” It’s only now, after the small boost of adrenaline has died down, do I realize what position I’ve found myself in.
My front is plastered to his, my legs wrapped around his waist and oh…
Oh no. Heat floods my cheeks as I become painfully aware of just how close we are.
I scramble off him so fast that I almost fall off the couch.
I right myself, sitting at the opposite end of the couch, putting as much distance between us as I can.
“We need rules.” I say quickly, averting my eyes to look at anything in the room other than him.
My face is on fire and my hands have become clammy.
“What kind of rules?”
“Well, rule one; no physical contact when we’re alone.
” I wait for him to agree before I continue.
He gives me a slight nod of his head, keeping strangely silent, which isn't like him at all. It’s unsettling.
“Two; when we’re in public, physical touch has to be kept to a minimum.
Holding hands, hugging, a small peck if necessary. ”
“So would you be mad if I slipped you the tongue?” Conor asks, that cocky smirk back on his annoyingly handsome face.
“Yes.” I deadpan, leveling him with the flattest glare I can manage. “Three; No sleeping around. You’re a famous hockey player, everyone knows you and everything about you, it’ll look really bad if someone sees you with a sneaky hookup when we’re supposed to be a couple.”
“Deal but the same rule applies for you.”
“Oh, please. Who would I possibly hook up with?” He opens his mouth but I don’t let him speak as I say my final rule. “Rule four; No feelings. No getting attached.” Conor’s expression changes again, only for a second. It’s barely noticeable. “No getting attached.”
Silence settles between us. He doesn’t argue, but he doesn't agree either. He just watches me. I choose to take that as acceptance. Besides, this is Conor. The man has never had a serious girlfriend in his life. He’s the last person I’d expect to catch feelings.
“How long will this be for?” He asks instead, leaning forward on the couch, elbows pressed to his knees.
“You can break up with me after the party.” I tell him, and then we both laugh when I say, “But, I may need to steal you back for the wedding if I haven't found a real boyfriend by then.”
“I have one rule.” Conor says and I give him a small nod to continue. “No wearing other guys' jerseys. When you’re at my game, you wear my name on your back.”
Warmth creeps up my neck. I had started buying every player’s jersey except Conor last year just to get under his skin. Seeing his reaction every time I was at a game and not wearing his jersey was the funniest thing ever. That was as far as our friendship went. “I didn't think you had noticed.”
“Of course I noticed, Angel.” His voice is quieter, softer. “I’ve always noticed you.”