Chapter 6 Brody #2
“Maya showed me the photos. From Ironclad.” He’s watching me too carefully. “Funny thing…Chloe’s never so much as mentioned dating. And now she’s your girlfriend?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with suspicion.
He walks away before I can respond.
I finish changing in silence. Pull on my usual tailored look—tonight it’s a Gucci crewneck sweater, pressed slacks, and a wool Burberry jacket. I thread my Rolex through my cuff.
The parking lot is nearly empty when I finally head out, the January wind cutting to the bone and my breath clouding in the security lights.
Frost crackles as I pry open the door of the Shelby and slide in.
The leather seats are freezing even through my slacks.
I sit in the dark and defrost the windshield while the engine warms up.
I pull out my phone, the screen nearly blinding me as the contract fills the screen.
Section 7 stares back at me, the words highlighted.
Two-year non-compete clause.
Do I really want to do this?
Someone knocks on my window.
I jump, nearly lose my phone.
Conrad’s standing there with his fiancée, Penny Pepper, beside him. Penny Pepper…the murder podcaster.
Fantastic.
If anyone can see through me, it’s her.
Maybe it’s not too late to peel out of here, make a break for it before she picks up on anything. If I stick around, it’ll be the murder of my career she covers next.
I roll down the window. Cold air rushes in, stealing what little warmth had built up.
“Everyone’s heading to Sammy’s,” Conrad says, his breath creating clouds with each word. “You coming?”
Sammy’s, the team’s usual haunt, sits about three blocks away. It’s usually a great place to down some wings and a couple beers. Not tonight.
“Not really in the mood.”
Penny leans down. “You looked rough out there tonight.”
“Thanks for the support.”
“She means—” Conrad starts.
“I know what she means.”
Conrad glances at Penny, and she nods slightly, understanding something unspoken. I guess that’s how it is when you’re dating someone.
“I’m an ice cube,” she says. “So I’m getting in the car. But Conrad’s not leaving until you talk, so for everyone’s sake, just talk to him.” She squeezes Conrad’s arm and saunters off toward his car, a few spots away.
Conrad, meanwhile, heads over to my passenger door, opens it, and drops into the seat with a grunt. He waits all of one second before cutting to the chase. “What’s going on?”
I stare for a second, then, well, why not? If anybody could understand, it’s Conrad. “I’m in a situation.”
“I’m listening.”
“Made a deal that seemed simple, but the stakes are higher than I thought.”
He waits.
“And if I screw it up, it could end my career. So…that’s great.”
Conrad’s looking out the windshield at the empty parking lot and the distant lights of downtown St. Paul. “Been there.”
“…And? What do I do?”
“You show up. You play with everything you got. And you leave the rest to God.” He shrugs, a gesture that seems too casual for the weight of what he’s saying.
I blink at him. He can’t be serious. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He turns in the seat to face me more fully. “Someone told me once, faith isn’t knowing it’ll work out. It’s doing the thing anyway. It’s showing up when you want to run, believing that God is with you.”
His words fill the darkness, settle over the silence like a thick, heavy blanket.
A beat passes and Conrad sighs, slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Hang in there, Kane. I’ve been where you’re standing. But sometimes faith takes a leap.” He holds up a fist. “See you at Sammy’s.”
I tap it. He gets out, his words still caught in the clouded breath, lingering.
God is with you.
Hardly. God left the day I buried my mother.
I turn on the defrost, the windshield clears, and I pull out.
Not toward Sammy’s. And not toward home. No…Somewhere between the Xcel Center in St. Paul and my downtown Minneapolis penthouse, I end up on Chloe’s street.
I didn’t plan it. At least, I tell myself I didn’t.
Her apartment building is in the Crocus Hill neighborhood, an older area with tall trees and historic homes converted into rentals.
It’s a classic St. Paul structure—red brick with white trim, probably built in the 1920s.
Second-floor unit on the right side. Lights on in the windows, warm yellow against the winter darkness.
I park down the street, under a massive oak tree.
I sit there, engine purring. I should go home.
Get some sleep. Review the contract properly.
Call Rick back. But I keep looking at her front door…
willing her to text me, ask me if I’m up.
I know it’s crazy—she’s the last person I should want to talk to about the contract—but what I wouldn’t give right now to talk it out with her, with someone who doesn’t see me as just Candy Kane… or who didn’t.
Maybe she does now.
I let out a heavy breath. I shouldn’t be here.
You have her number. You could text her.
Right. And say what? Hey, crazy thought…you wanna hang out and talk fake-relationship contracts? No? That’s cool. Me neither.
Looks like I’m on my own.
I palm the shifter and—
The front door opens.
Everything stops.
Chloe steps out onto the exterior stairs, and I swear time does that cheesy, slow-motion thing they do in movies.
She’s wearing gray sweatpants, the well-loved kind with frayed hems, and an oversized Gophers sweatshirt—the same one from the other morning.
Her brown hair’s piled in this messy bun situation with little wisps escaping around her face, catching the porch light.
She’s taking out the trash.
Taking out the trash.
And somehow, it hits me all over again. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Drive. Drive now. Before she sees you and calls the cops.
My hands won’t move. I’m frozen like an idiot, watching her hustle down the stairs, breath clouding in the cold air. No coat. Just speed-walking to the bins at the side of the building with this little bounce in her step that makes my chest physically ache.
DRIVE, YOU CREEP.
I force myself to shift into gear, foot heavy on the clutch, pull away before she can glance up, before she can notice my car lurking in the shadows. Before I can manage to scare her away and mess things up even worse than they already are.
White knuckled, I pull back onto the freeway, head toward home.
All right, Brody. A few rules if you’re gonna go through with this.
First, no more letting it get into your game.
Second, no more creepy stakeouts.
And finally, absolutely, one hundred percent, no falling in love with Chloe, for both your sakes.
I pull into the underground garage of my apartment building and kill the engine.
Five weeks of pretending.
Five weeks of Chloe.
I close my eyes, drop my head against the steering wheel.
I absolutely do not “got this.”
But here goes.
CHLOE
This is a bad idea.
Section 7 of the contract glows on my laptop screen. I’ve read it maybe fourteen times since yesterday, and it still makes my hands shake.
Furthermore, in the event that Player’s relationship with Ms. Dawson is proven to be fraudulent, staged, or undertaken primarily for publicity purposes, the following penalties shall apply immediately:
(a) Contract termination without severance
(b) Repayment of signing bonus in full ($547,000)
(c) Forfeiture of all future salary obligations
(d) Two-year non-compete clause preventing Player from signing with any NHL team
Two years.
His entire career.
Everything.
I slam the laptop shut as though doing so will trap the scary words inside. Keep me from letting my disastrous life seep into Brody’s. My gaze lands on the dress hanging at the end of the bed, and I let out yet another heavy breath.
Okay. List time. Lists fix everything.
1. Get dressed. In clean clothing.
2. Meet Brody at 11 a.m. Be cool. Don’t embarrass yourself. We’re going for Sandra Bullock from The Proposal, here. Not Sandra Bullock—Miss Congeniality. Poise. Professionalism. Altogether put-togetherness. You get the picture.
3. Align our stories, coordinate our watches, you know the drill.
4. Pick up flowers.
5. Decorate the venue.
6. Change into party dress. (Take off the Goodwill tag.)
7. Convince my entire family I’m in love. (Honestly, this is the easy one.)
8. Don’t get your heart broken. I think it’s important to keep this on the list, don’t you?
My phone buzzes. I grab it too fast, nearly fumble it onto the floor because I’m graceful like that. Maybe I should take the whole poise thing off the list…
Brody
On my way. Coffee first?
My heart does a little flutter that I refuse to attribute to the idea of a fake coffee date with my fake boyfriend. Attribute it to indigestion, if you will. Lack of sleep. Caffeine withdrawal. All great alternatives to the truth.
Me
Yes. Brew & Rumor?
Brody
Perfect. See you in 20.
Twenty minutes.
Perfect. Just enough time for me to get dressed, throw on some makeup, and talk myself back off the ledge. This is fine. I’m fine.
I pull on jeans and an oversized cream sweater that makes me feel approximately three percent less like a disaster. Hair in loose waves because I tried for “effortlessly pretty” and landed somewhere around “gave up.”
My party dress hangs on the back of my bedroom door—a simple black sheath, January-appropriate, elegant. I bought it on clearance three years ago, and it’s been to exactly two events. I think you’d call that mint condition.
I grab my tote and shove in the essentials: party dress, party shoes, makeup bag, deodorant, Tylenol, double-sided tape, scissors, pliers, glue gun—hey, you never know what you’ll need in an emergency. I’ll be darned if Maya’s party is a flop all because I forgot my glue gun.
I scramble through the apartment in search of my keys, flipping over piles of unpaid bills and zero-balance bank notes.
No wonder Brody offered me money. Wow.
My phone buzzes again.
Brody
Outside.
Oh.
Okay.
This is happening.