Chapter 4 #2
"The overhead," I said. I reached over and took the pen from her hand. Our fingers brushed. A spark, small but sharp, jumped between us. She didn't pull away.
"Look," I said, my voice dropping into the low, steady rhythm I used when I was analyzing game tape. "Think of a gallery like a hockey team. The endowment is the salary cap. You can't spend money you don't have on players—or paintings—until you pay for the ice time and the lights."
I started writing in the margin of her notebook. My handwriting was blocky, precise, architectural.
"Start here. Revenue minus expense. Then apply the interest rate."
I walked her through the problem. Step by step. Logic by logic.
She watched me. She wasn't looking at the paper. She was looking at my face. I could feel her gaze on my profile, tracing the line of my jaw, the focus in my eyes.
"You're good at this," she whispered after a few minutes.
"It's just math," I said, not looking up. "Math makes sense. It follows rules. Unlike people."
"Unlike me," she murmured.
I stopped writing. I turned my head to look at her. We were close. Inches apart. The smell of vanilla and my own laundry detergent was intoxicating.
"You are a variable," I admitted. "But even chaos has a pattern, if you look close enough."
She held my gaze. The air between us shifted. It wasn't the hostile, sexual tension of the bar. It was something quieter. Something heavier.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked softly. "You could have just laughed. Or told me to study harder."
"I tried to laugh," I said honestly. "But you looked like a kicked puppy. And it was pathetic."
She cracked a smile. It was small, watery, but real. "You're a jerk, Vance."
"I'm pragmatic," I corrected. "If you fail, you cry. If you cry, you make noise. If you make noise, I can't focus on the playoffs. Therefore, you passing this class is in my best interest."
"Is that all it is?" she asked. "Strategy?"
I looked at her lips. They were chapped from the cold. I had an irrational urge to run my thumb over them.
"Strategy is everything," I said hoarsely.
"Okay," she breathed. "Then teach me. Teach me the strategy."
I stared at her. An idea began to form in the back of my mind. A play. A defensive formation.
Coach Miller said I needed to look stable. He said I needed to handle the pressure. He said the scouts were worried about my "intensity."
What looks more stable than a long-term girlfriend? What looks more humanizing than the Captain of the Hockey Team dating the (former) Princess of the Campus? It softens the edges. It makes me look... approachable.
And if she was busy playing the role of the doting girlfriend, she wouldn't have time to create chaos. And if I was busy tutoring her, I could keep an eye on her.
"I have a proposition," I said.
Camila straightened up, sensing the shift. "What kind of proposition?"
"A trade," I said. "I will tutor you. Every night. Two hours. I will make sure you pass this class. I will make sure you graduate."
"Okay," she said slowly. "And in return? I cook more chicken?"
"No," I said. "In return, you solve my problem."
"Which is?"
"The scouts," I said. "They think I'm a robot. They think I'm too high-strung. They're worried I'll crack under pressure."
"They're not wrong," she muttered.
I ignored her. "I need to look stable. I need to look... happy. Or at least, socially functional."
Her eyes widened. She was smart. She saw where this was going.
"You want a beard," she gasped.
"I want a partner," I corrected. "Trip Halloway is already running his mouth about us. Let's lean into it. We date. Publicly. You come to the games. You wear my jersey. You smile at the scouts. You act like the perfect, supportive girlfriend who tamed the Wolf."
"Fake dating," she said, testing the words. "That's so cliché, Cameron."
"It's effective," I countered. "You get your degree. You get a place to live. And you get the protection of my name. No one—not Trip, not the bank, not your father—will touch you if you're with me."
She bit her lip. She was weighing the pros and cons.
"And privately?" she asked. "What happens behind closed doors?"
I leaned in. This was the dangerous part. This was the part where I risked everything.
"Privately," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, "the contract stands. You follow my rules. You keep my house clean. You study when I tell you to study. You eat what I tell you to eat."
I paused, letting the implication hang there.
"You let me take control, Mila. Because right now? Your life is a wreck. You're drowning. Let me be the anchor."
Her breath hitched. Her eyes darkened. I saw the surrender there. She didn't want to fight anymore. She wanted someone to tell her what to do. She craved the structure I was offering.
"You want to control me," she whispered. It wasn't an accusation. It was a question.
"I want to help you," I lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. "But yes. I want control. Do we have a deal?"
She looked at my hand, resting on the table. It was large, scarred, steady.
She slowly reached out. She placed her small, soft hand in mine.
"Deal," she whispered.
I closed my fingers around hers. Her skin was warm. Her pulse was fluttering against my palm like a trapped bird.
I squeezed. Just a little too hard. Just enough to show her I meant it.
"Good girl," I murmured.
The praise hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes rolled back slightly, her lips parting with a sharp intake of breath. A flush spread across her chest, visible above the neckline of the oversized hoodie.
She liked it.
Checkmate.
"Chapter one," I said, releasing her hand and tapping the textbook. "The fundamental principles of asset management."
"Right," she breathed, her voice shaky. "Asset management."
She picked up her pen. Her hand was trembling.
I watched her. I watched the way she tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
We had a deal. We had a plan.
But as I watched the flush stain her cheeks, I knew one thing for certain.
Keeping this "fake" was going to be the hardest save of my career.