Chapter 7
Georgia
I was a very good liar. I had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of the bluff, the spin, the elegant half-truth. I could lie about my feelings, my finances, and my father without blinking.
But I couldn't lie about this.
I couldn't lie about the fact that I was standing in front of my closet—or rather, Toby's guest room closet, which was now filled with my designer refugees—with a swarm of butterflies doing acrobatics in my stomach.
It was just dinner. That was what he had said.
"The pre-season booster dinner is mandatory for captains," he'd announced this morning, not looking up from the laptop where he was analyzing game film. "You're coming with me."
It wasn't a question. With Toby, things rarely were.
"As what?" I had asked, pouring myself coffee. "Your physio? Your roommate? Your hostage?"
"As my girlfriend," he'd said, his voice so casual it was like he was ordering groceries.
The coffee mug had slipped from my fingers, shattering on the pristine porcelain floor.
He had finally looked up then, his gray eyes pinning me. "We're allies, Georgia. We present a united front. If I show up with you, it shuts down the rumors about you being broke and MIA. It makes you look stable. It makes me look..." He had paused, searching for the word.
"Human?" I had supplied, a little too breathlessly.
"Normal," he had corrected. "It gives me a plausible reason to be seen with you. It protects the secret. It's a strategic move."
A strategic move.
Right.
So why did it feel like a marriage proposal? And why was I now staring at two dresses—a sophisticated black sheath and a bombshell red number—with the same level of anxiety I usually reserved for my father's quarterly performance reviews of my life?
Get a grip, Sterling.
It was a means to an end. It was part of the deal. He needed a date to protect his image. I needed a free meal and a reason to wear something other than stolen sweatpants. It was transactional.
But the night in the Boathouse... it had changed things.
The confession had changed things.
He hadn't just seen my art; he had understood it. He hadn't just heard my story; he had echoed it. We're the same, Toby.
We weren't the same. He was controlled, I was chaos. He was stoic, I was a storm. But we were both trapped. And that shared knowledge had woven a thread between us that was stronger than lust, stronger than proximity.
It felt a lot like hope. And hope was dangerous.
I chose the red dress.
If I was going to play the part of Toby Kincaid's girlfriend, I was going to do it on my own terms. The black dress was sophisticated, quiet. The red dress was a statement. It was a siren's song. It hugged every curve, dipped low in the front, and screamed I dare you to look away.
I did my makeup with a steady hand, a bold cat-eye and a nude lip. I let my platinum hair fall in soft waves around my shoulders.
When I was done, I stared at my reflection.
It was Georgia Sterling 2.0. All the armor was there—the designer dress, the perfect makeup, the defiant glint in my eyes. But underneath, something had shifted. I wasn't dressing for the crowd tonight. I wasn't dressing to prove my father wrong.
I was dressing for him.
I took a deep breath, slipped on my highest heels, and walked out of the room.
He was waiting in the living room, staring out the window, his back to me. He was wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit. No tie. The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, revealing the tanned column of his throat.
He looked less like a college athlete and more like the CEO he was trying so hard not to become. He looked powerful. He looked untouchable.
"I'm ready," I said softly.
He turned.
And for the first time since I'd met him, Toby Kincaid was speechless.
His eyes widened. Just a fraction, but I saw it.
His gaze started at my heels and traveled up, slowly, deliberately, as if he were memorizing every inch.
He lingered on the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist, the swell of my breasts against the red fabric.
By the time his eyes met mine, they were dark. Smoldering.
His jaw was tight. A muscle feathered. He swallowed hard.
"Wow," he finally breathed. The word was rough, torn from him.
"Is that a good 'wow' or a 'you're going to get us arrested' wow?" I asked, my voice shaking slightly.
He walked toward me. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of me, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He smelled incredible—that familiar sandalwood, but mixed with something richer, like bergamot and expensive wool.
"That," he murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek, "is a 'no one else is allowed to look at you tonight' wow."
The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver straight to my core. It should have been a red flag. It should have been controlling. But from him, it felt like a shield. It felt like protection.
"Well, you look..." I trailed off, my eyes drinking him in. "You look like you own the place."
"My family does," he said dryly, but his eyes were still burning. "Let's go. Before I decide to lock the door and keep you all to myself."
He held out his arm.
I hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, I looped my arm through his.
His biceps flexed under my hand. It felt solid. Real.
As we walked out of the penthouse, side-by-side, it didn't feel like a strategic move.
It felt like coming home.
The North Haven University Booster Club dinner was being held at the Duluth Country Club, a stuffy, mahogany-paneled temple of old money and bad opinions. The air smelled of lemon polish and entitlement.
We walked in, and the room went quiet.
Not a dramatic, movie-style silence. But a subtle dip in the decibel level. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Heads turned.
I felt a familiar wave of anxiety wash over me. I was used to being looked at, but tonight felt different. I wasn't just Georgia Sterling, the disgraced heiress. I was on the arm of the Ice King.
I felt his hand cover mine where it rested on his arm. His thumb rubbed a slow, steady circle on my skin. It wasn't a gesture for the crowd. It was for me. I'm here. You're safe.
I took a breath and lifted my chin. I smiled, the practiced, dazzling smile I had perfected at a thousand of these events.
"Kincaid!"
A portly man in a bowtie, his face flushed with whiskey, bustled over to us. I recognized him. Mr. Abernathy. He owned the biggest car dealership in town and thought that made him an expert on hockey strategy.
"Good to see you, son," Abernathy boomed, clapping Toby on the shoulder. "Ready to bring home the championship this year?"
"That's the plan, sir," Toby said, his voice polite but cool.
Abernathy's gaze flickered to me. His eyes, small and piggy, did a quick, dismissive scan of my dress. "And who is this lovely young lady?"
Before I could answer, Toby tightened his grip on my hand. "Mr. Abernathy, this is my girlfriend, Georgia Sterling."
The name landed with a thud. Abernathy's eyes widened. He knew the name. Everyone in this room knew the name.
"Sterling?" he repeated. "As in... Richard Sterling's girl?"
"The one and only," I said, my smile turning a little sharp.
"Well, I'll be," Abernathy chuckled, a sleazy sound. "Keeping it in the family, eh, Kincaid? Smart move. Kissing up to the GM's daughter can't hurt your draft prospects."
The insult was slick, coated in a veneer of "good old boy" humor. My smile faltered. My stomach twisted. He was reducing us to a transaction. He was cheapening whatever this fragile, beautiful thing between us was.
Toby went still.
It was a terrifying stillness. His entire body became a block of granite. The warmth left his hand. His eyes, when he looked at Abernathy, were flat and cold and utterly devoid of emotion.
"I think you've had enough to drink, Mr. Abernathy," Toby said. His voice was quiet. It was the quietest thing in the room, and it was the most dangerous. "And I would appreciate it if you didn't speak about my girlfriend as if she's a commodity."
Abernathy blanched. The whiskey flush drained from his face. "Now, hold on, son, I was just—"
"You were just leaving," Toby finished for him. He didn't move. He didn't raise his voice. He just stood there, a silent, immovable force.
Abernathy looked at Toby, then at me. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He scurried away toward the bar.
Toby turned to me. The coldness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a fierce, protective fire. "Are you okay?"
"You didn't have to do that," I whispered, my heart hammering.
"Yes," he said simply. "I did."
He led me to our assigned table, his hand a warm, solid weight on the small of my back.
We sat down next to Jager, who was already on his third bread roll.
"Well, well, well," Jager grinned, looking between us. "Look at you two. The Ice King and the Ice Princess. You clean up nice, Sterling."
"You don't," I shot back, gesturing at his slightly crooked bowtie.
"Ouch." Jager turned to Toby. "So this is the 'no girl,' huh? Funny, she looks a lot like a girl."
"Eat your bread, Jager," Toby ordered.
But there was no bite to it. And as we settled in, I felt Toby's leg press against mine under the table. He didn't move it away. He kept it there, a constant, grounding point of contact.
For the rest of the dinner, we existed in our own bubble. The speeches droned on. The boosters asked stupid questions. But Toby and I were in our own world.
We developed a secret language. A slight raise of his eyebrow meant this guy is an idiot. A subtle roll of my eyes meant I'm dying of boredom. He'd steal a piece of asparagus off my plate. I'd kick him under the table when he started looking too broody.
At one point, the coach's wife, a kind, grandmotherly woman named Mary, leaned over.
"You two are just adorable," she said, her eyes crinkling. "It's so nice to see Toby with someone who makes him smile."