Chapter Three
Emelia
"Your game is evil," I tell Ava as soon as she answers her phone. "It's ruining my life."
Her bright laughter spills down the line. "It was just a game, Emelia. I doubt it's ruining your life."
"Oh, really?" I flick my gaze at the navigation screen in my car. "Ask me where I'm going right now."
"Okay…" She laughs nervously. "Where are you going? Oh God, please don't say jail."
"I'm going to dinner with Royce Elliot," I huff. "You want to know why? Because I have to tell him, again, that I'm not representing him. He refused to hear it today. And it's entirely your fault!"
Ava sputters with laughter. "How is that my fault?"
"Six times, Ava!" I cry. "His name came up as my future husband six times!"
"They're still just games," she reminds me. "If he's into you, it's because you're hot. It's not because you folded your way into some wild destiny."
"Says you," I grumble, taking a left into the parking lot of Forte. Out loud, it sounds ridiculous. I know it does. But…she wasn't there today. There was nothing normal about anything that happened when he was in my office.
I'm used to unhinged athletes who never hear no. I'm used to said unhinged athletes driving me nuts. But an unhinged athlete who refuses to hear no, looks at me like he wants to eat me, and swindled me into a date? That's new.
"Even if that were the case…would it really be that bad?" Ava asks softly. "I mean, you added his name every time for a reason. You're allowed to like him."
"He's an athlete."
"So? It's not like you're related. That's my drama, in case you've forgotten."
I cringe because she's right. Not dating an athlete is my own personal rule, established because most of them can't keep it in their pants.
They have different girls in different zip codes and pretend that's normal.
But Ava's in love with her new stepbrother.
Basically, half the planet thinks that's some sort of incest.
"Dawson doesn't hate you," I remind her. "And it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. It's your life."
"Says you," she mutters.
I pull into a parking spot, killing the engine. There's no way I'm paying to valet. I may need to make a quick escape.
"I mean it," I say softly. "He doesn't hate you."
"I guess we'll see," she says, her tone ominous. "We're all going to dinner this week. Mom called a little bit ago."
Yikes.
"It'll be fine."
"Uh-huh," she says, groaning. "What time is dinner with Royce?"
"Now-ish?"
"Oh my gosh! You're there already?"
"I'm in the parking lot, trying to work up the nerve to go in."
"Go in!" she cries. "And don't you dare fire that man as a client, Emelia Jónsson. Not until you give him a chance."
"I can't!"
"Do you want me to go to dinner with Dawson?"
"Yes."
"Then you aren't allowed to fire Royce tonight. If you do, I'm not going," she says, her tone triumphant.
"Cheater."
"You love me."
She's right. I do.
"Fine. I won't fire him. Yet."
"That's my girl!" she cries. "Now, get in there. Shoo. Go!"
"I'm—"
She hangs up on me, making me laugh despite myself. Of course she's advocating for me to actually date this man. She didn't meet him today. She has no idea how flipping gorgeous he is, or how unhinged.
Or how I haven't been able to stop thinking about him all day.
"Crap," I groan, hauling myself out of the car before I can chicken out. My heart pounds wildly as I hurry across the parking lot to the entrance, praying he forgot about tonight.
No such luck.
I don't even reach the doors before he materializes from the shadows, dressed in a suit that looks like it was tailor-made for his broad frame.
His gaze sweeps down my body, a smirk curving his lips up.
"Damn, baby. I thought you looked beautiful today, but that little dress right there puts the one you were in today to shame. "
My cheeks heat, butterflies floating through my stomach. "Thanks."
He places his hand on the small of my back, leaning in to press his lips to my cheek. "Our table is waiting."
I don't shiver. I don't.
I'm also a dirty, dirty liar.
Our table is in the back corner, hidden from the rest of the restaurant. It's nothing but us, candles, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline outside the windows.
Instead of sliding into the seat across from me, Royce slides in beside me, so close his thigh presses to mine, and his arm brushes my side every time he moves.
"I ordered a bottle of wine." He grins at me. "We're celebrating."
"What?"
"I said, we're celebrating, babe."
"What are we celebrating, Royce?"
"Oh." He grins sheepishly. "We're celebrating you agreeing to be my publicist."
"You…" I give up trying to argue and just shake my head, laughing. "Have you ever heard the word no in your entire life?"
"All the fucking time, actually. I'm just not interested in hearing it this time." His gaze tangles with mine, glinting with humor. "We have a stupid, childish game to win."
"What?"
"I've been thinking about it," he explains, reaching for my hand.
I try to pull it away, but he laces our fingers together.
"Your cootie catcher said I was your future.
The only logical thing to do is to play it out and see whether the game was right or wrong.
If it was right, you win. If it wasn't…well, that's not going to happen. "
I stare at him for a long moment, my mind spinning. "We're making decisions about our future based on a kid's game?"
"I like that you called it our future. And sure, why not?"
"That doesn't seem a little—oh, I don't know—insane to you?"
"You're the one who played, babe."
"I was wine drunk! And it wasn't supposed to keep landing on you," I huff, exasperated.
His eyes narrow on my face, a hint of what looks a whole lot like jealousy flickering across his expression. "Who was it supposed to land on?"
"It doesn't matter. That's not the point."
"Who, Emelia?" he growls, his voice so low I feel it in my womb.
"Clayton Devine."
"Fucking Clayton Devine." He strokes his thumb across the back of my hand. A spark races up my arm, sending a shiver through me.
I quickly pull my hand free, grabbing my water.
"How many times did you play?"
I choke on the water. "What?"
"How many times did you play?"
"Uh…"
"You said it kept landing on me." He meets my gaze again, his eyes bright with curiosity. "So, how many times did it land on me?"
"S-six," I whisper.
"Mm." He reaches out, tracing one fingertip down the side of my face. "And how many times did you play?"
I bite my lip, refusing to answer.
"How many, Emelia?"
"Six, okay?" I growl. "I played six different games, and your name came up every time."
The way he grins at me is all sex and sin. "And you don't believe that means anything? Ouch, baby."
"It's just a game," I mutter, burying my face in my water glass again.
He chuckles, his arm brushing my side again. "Yeah, bullshit. But I'm going to let you keep thinking that. For now."
Heaven help me, there's something wrong with this man. Or maybe there's something wrong with me, because I do not hate the warning in his tone or the way he looks at me like I'm prey he's toying with. I don't hate it nearly enough.