Chapter 15 #2
We were on my couch two nights later, arguing over which Thai place had the higher protein count, when it came out of me.
“Need you to come home for Thanksgiving with me,” I said.
Too fast.
Too rough.
Too much like a play snapped before the offense was set.
Isa paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.
I kept talking because panic is apparently one of my best skills.
“I already bought the airline tickets. Don’t be mad. I mean, be mad if you want, but I’ll cancel them if you say no. I just—” I dragged a hand over my hair. “My dad wants me home. And he asked about you.”
Her fork lowered slowly.
I watched the calculation happen behind her eyes.
The quick mental math of a girl who had spent her whole life managing other people’s feelings around her own.
“My mom doesn’t really care where I am for Thanksgiving,” she said carefully. “And she won’t want to see me moping around the house anyway. I can tell her I’m staying here to rehab. Get back on the turf for indoor.”
The words landed like a gut punch I should have seen coming.
I looked at her.
“Are you ashamed of me coming home with you?”
Her face changed instantly.
“No.” She set the fork down. “No, Drew, of course not.”
“Then why would you hide it?”
“I’m not hiding it.”
“You just said you’d tell your mom you were staying here.”
“Because why would I tell my mother about my fake boyfriend anyway?”
Fake.
There it was.
One word.
Four letters.
A clean little blade slid right between my ribs.
The second it left her mouth, I saw her realize it. Her face crumpled, just a little, in a way she’d hate if she knew I saw it. Her hand reached for me too late.
“No. Drew, I didn’t mean—”
I nodded once and looked down at my plate.
“Thanks for the reminder of what we are, right?”
She looked like I’d slapped her.
“No,” she whispered. “No, it’s not like that.”
“It’s all good, baby.” I forced a smile because I was still enough of an idiot to protect her from the sharp parts of me even while bleeding from one. “It’s all good.”
“It’s not.” She moved closer on the couch. “Come here.”
I let her pull me in.
Let her climb half onto my lap carefully, one knee on the cushion beside my thigh, her hands cupping my face like I was the one who needed steadying now. She kissed the side of my neck. My jaw. The corner of my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured against my skin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
But she had.
That was the thing.
She had meant it.
Maybe not cruelly. Maybe not as a weapon. But the truth had slipped out before either of us could dress it up.
Fake boyfriend.
Fake relationship.
Fake rules.
Fake breakup by New Year’s Eve.
I kissed her back because I didn’t know how not to. Because she was warm and soft and wearing one of my shirts, and the last thing I wanted was to start a fight I didn’t know how to win.
But that night, we didn’t spoon.
We didn’t even really touch after that.
She went back to her dorm a little after midnight with my hoodie folded over her arm, and I lay in my too-clean bed staring at the ceiling, knowing this trip was going to make or break whatever the hell we were pretending not to be.
The flight was quiet.
Isa held my hand through takeoff and most of the landing, but she kept looking out the window like the clouds had better answers than I did. I hated that I’d put distance between us and hated more that I didn’t know how to pull it back without asking a question I wasn’t ready to hear answered.
Are you falling for me?
Or am I still just the guy making your life easier?
When we landed, a black SUV waited outside baggage claim.
Isa looked at me. “You ordered an Uber Black?”
“No.”
The driver stepped out in a dark suit, took our bags, and nodded.
“Mr. Montgomery.”
Isa’s head snapped toward me.
There it was.
The first crack in the version of Drew Travers she thought she knew.
I didn’t explain.
Not yet.
The driver took us out of the airport and onto sun-bright roads lined with palms and money. Everything got greener, cleaner, wider. Houses sat behind walls. Gates opened like mouths. The kind of neighborhoods where people called privacy a lifestyle because calling it wealth sounded tacky.
Isa stayed quiet beside me.
Too quiet.
When the SUV turned off the main road and slowed in front of tall iron gates, she let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, wow.”
The gates opened.
Palm trees lined the long driveway. Beyond them, the water flashed bright and blue. A dock stretched out behind the house, white posts standing clean against the bay. The house itself sat at the end of the drive like it had been waiting all week to judge us.
White stucco. Dark shutters. Red tile roof. Balconies. Columns. The kind of place that made other expensive houses look like they were still trying.
Isa stared through the windshield.
“Is your father on CNBC or something?”
I laughed once.
Not because it was funny.
Because, of course, that was exactly the kind of thing she’d guess.
“Or something.”
Her eyes cut to me.
I leaned forward. “Stop here.”
The driver slowed before we reached the front circle.
Isa turned fully in the seat. “Drew.”
I reached for her wrist.
Not to hold her there.
To keep myself grounded.
“Look,” I said. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
Her face went still.
Not scared.
Ready.
“This is my father’s place,” I said. “Richard Montgomery.”
Recognition flickered across her face.
Of course it did.
Everybody knew the name.
Not football famous.
Worse.
Money famous.
Richard Montgomery. Miami hedge fund king. Wall Street tycoon. Founder of Montgomery Capital. Business-news regular. The kind of man who could sit under soft studio lights on CNBC or Fox Business and talk about market corrections like he personally had the power to start one.
He wore navy suits, gave calm opinions about interest rates, and made people feel safe while buying entire companies out from under families who’d built them.
“Richard Montgomery is your father,” she said slowly.
“Yeah.”
“But you’re Travers.”
“My mother’s name.”
Her expression softened at the edges.
I hated that more than shock.
“I should’ve told you,” I said. “Before we got on the plane. Before I bought the damn tickets. Before we were sitting in my father’s driveway like a hostage briefing.”
She didn’t speak.
So I kept going.
“He hates football.”
Her brows pulled together. “He hates football?”
“Despises it. Thinks it’s violent, stupid, temporary, and bad for long-term brain function.
” I dragged a hand over my jaw. “He only tolerated Stanford because Stanford looks good on a CEO bio. Student-athlete. Discipline. Leadership. Elite network. All that bullshit. In his mind, football is a hobby I should outgrow before it damages the brand.”
Isa’s mouth tightened.
“He wants you to come home and work for him.”
“Run things eventually,” I said. “If I stop embarrassing him first.”
“By playing football?”
“By pretending I get to choose my own life.”
The words sat between us.
Ugly.
True.
Her fingers turned under mine and squeezed.
“What else?” she asked.
I looked toward the house. “I have stepbrothers. Everett and Beckett. Everett is older. Perfect Montgomery heir. Finance degree. Summer analyst. Already works at the firm when he’s not pretending nepotism is a personality. Beckett is younger. Prettier. Looser. More dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
I hesitated.
Her eyes sharpened.
“Drew.”
“They like games,” I said. “They like making people uncomfortable. Especially people I bring around.”
“Women?”
“Everyone.” I looked at her. “But yeah. Women too.”
Her jaw tightened.
“Stick close to me, okay?” I said. “Not because you can’t handle yourself.
I know you can. But because I know them.
And I know this house. My dad’s a real ass.
My mom died of cancer when I was a kid. I was the product of an affair he had a long time ago, and this place has been reminding me of that since I was old enough to understand where the real family photos were hung. ”
The words came out rougher than I meant them to.
I looked down at where my fingers wrapped around her wrist.
“I should’ve told you all of this earlier,” I said. “Not now. Not like this.”
For a second, she didn’t move.
Then she turned her hand and squeezed mine back.
“No,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
I looked at her.
“It’s not okay.”
“It’s not ideal,” she corrected. “But I got it. I’ve got my own family drama. Different packaging, same poison.” Her mouth curved, small and crooked. “Thank you for telling me what I’m walking into.”
The knot in my chest loosened by half an inch.
“I don’t want them touching you,” I said.
Her brows lifted. “Touching me?”
“Emotionally. Physically. Metaphorically. Pick a category.”
“There’s my caveman.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Her smile faded. “I’ll stay close. But Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“If one of them says something, I’m not hiding behind you.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
She glanced toward the house again, then back at me, the crooked smile returning with just enough attitude to make my chest hurt.
“And go easy on yourself,” she said. “Yes, this is dramatic and you should have warned me before the airport. But I’ve survived Texas debutante luncheons, Stanford gossip, one torn hamstring, and you ordering me onto my stomach with massage oil in your living room. I can handle Thanksgiving.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
She leaned closer and touched my jaw.
I cupped her face before I could stop myself.
“Trust me, Texas,” I said. “You’re beautiful. Stanford soccer star. You’re gonna be just fine.”
Her eyes flickered.
“Not so much of a star,” she muttered. “Didn’t even make it through one full game.”
“Still got three more years.” I brushed my thumb along her cheek. “Four if you redshirt smart.”
Her mouth softened.
“Look at you knowing NCAA eligibility.”
“I read.”
“Hot.”
“Yeah?”
She leaned in and kissed me quick. Soft. Too sweet for the place we were about to walk into.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Hot.”
The knot in my chest loosened another fraction.