3. Nick
Nick
Iknew there was something familiar about her voice when I heard it.
That husky rasp and breath-filled laugh that sounded as if she was trying to keep from laughing too loud or too heartily.
I’d heard it time and time again on her streams and viral clips, and even on the day-in-the-life vlogs she posted to her YouTube channel.
Not that I watched them all, but my sister, Lainey, sure did.
I glance over her again, every generous curve bound up in slick, shiny leather or tantalizingly wrapped in black lace.
The mask on top of her head acts as a makeshift headband for the riot of brown curls that sprout from her head in a long, untamed stream down her back.
My hands itch to twirl a strand around my finger, give it a tug and see just how tightly it springs back into place, but I do nothing of the sort.
I may have watched this woman on a screen, been privy to aspects of her life that she chose to share with the whole internet, but I don’t actually know her.
So, I cross my arms and narrow my eyes at her, even more annoyed than I was before.
“Why does a woman like you need to hire a fake boyfriend? You’ve got plenty of adoring fans. I’m sure any one of them would kill for a date with you.”
She shoots me a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, I don’t really date my subscribers. You said you play sports? Professionally?”
“Hockey,” I clarify, my mouth twitching. Back home, this wouldn’t even have been a question. Hell, most of the time, I didn’t even have to say it. My face and name were known and plastered all over the city. “You know, sticks, pucks, ice skates.”
“Right,” she nods, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to picture it in her mind’s eye. “Do you date your fans?”
My answer is immediate. “Fuck no, I don’t. I’m single and I keep my work life and private life as far away from one another as I can.”
“Okay, see? So, I didn’t do that. And I got burned. Turns out I needed to learn that lesson the hard way.”
I catch the note of hurt running beneath the words and feel my fingers curl into a fist. All this over some asshole who couldn’t be bothered to honorably end things with her before starting up something new with someone else?
“So, what’s the deal then? You need a wedding date or something to make your cheating ex jealous?”
A car pulls up, hip-hop music blaring, and she tracks it with her eyes.
When the unmistakable scent of pizza perfumes the night air, I step to one side as the delivery driver drops off her meat-mania pizza and hands me the wedges and dip.
Then, he goes with barely a grunt after she thanks him, leaving us staring at one another in the darkness as her porch light times out.
“No, I don’t care if he’s jealous,” she says. “I care about proving him and everyone who gave up on me wrong. I’m not washed-up. I haven’t lost my touch. And, damn it, I’m better off without any of them in my life.”
Her hands tighten on the pizza box, and the quiet words hold an intensity and a determination I recognize.
I’m faster. Stronger. Powerful.
My mantra comes back to me, rising like the gooseflesh popping on my arms as I hold out her wedges and dip.
I need to go. Need to run as far away as I can from this curvy beauty and her husky voice that makes me want to peel all that leather and lace off so I can see every inch of her soft, pale skin.
I cannot let myself identify with her. Cannot relate to every word that tumbles out of her mouth and lands like a bone-crushing body check against the boards.
Because, yes, I know what it’s like to want to prove your worth.
“Know anyone who might be game to help me with that?” She looks up at me, pupils large and dark and pleading. “Someone who’s kind of built like you? Tall, fit, attractive, and, you know, free next weekend?”
My resolve melts as I plop the wedges onto the pizza box and clear my throat.
“Yeah,” I say, gruffly. “Me.”
I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Maybe I felt sorry for the girl, or maybe my dick had been so swollen with all the blood that had drained from my brain, I hadn’t been capable of telling Rosemary one simple word: No.
Either way, the result is the same.
In less than 24 hours, I’ve saddled myself with a girlfriend. A fake girlfriend, but it feels suspiciously real when two days after agreeing to her harebrained plan, my new phone number pings relentlessly with a stream of new text messages. All of them from her.
Did you get the contract? Have you signed it? Let me know if you’re okay with the terms of engagement. I mean, I know you’re not a professional, but I am going to require a lot of your time in the run-up to the weekend, plus the whole of your weekend.
Maybe we should go on a few dates? Chat? Touch?
NOTHING INAPPROPRIATE.
Just hand holding, or chaste kisses, or something that looks couple-y.
Wait.
I didn’t even ask. You are into women right?
I groan and type out a curt reply.
Yes, I like women. Fuck the contract. I’m doing you a favor and you’re doing me one. For my sister.
She sends me a thumbs-up in reply, then tells me we should get started right away.
It should be annoying to have this bright, bouncy beauty pull up to the arena in her top-down Mini Cooper to pick me up.
But I can’t stop the weird, fuzzy feeling from blossoming in my chest as she pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head and unfolds out of the car in flip-flops, the tiniest pair of shorts, and a midriff-baring T-shirt that reads, PEW PEW, I WIN.
Our so-called dates apparently consist of her taking one look at my sparse, utilitarian long-stay apartment and deciding that it just wouldn’t do.
So, she drags me through numerous boardwalk shops, in and out of tiny-but-beautiful boutiques, and plies me with ice cream I definitely shouldn’t eat.
Not without burning it straight off in an intense cardio workout, anyway.
By midweek, I’ve got the gist of a typical day in Rosemary’s life.
Planning, social media, editing, hours upon hours of streaming.
Stretching and some kind of physical activity, which she describes primarily as “touching grass” and coming to pick me up from morning practice.
Then, it’s back to training and preparation for the tournament, and in the evening, more editing, clipping, and thumbnail design.
I grow concerned over the number of hours she spends glued to the screen and hunched over her desk. She works herself hard. Maybe too hard.
So when she tries to order us more takeout, I shock her by telling her I’ll cook.
Which is how we end up having grocery shopping dates, and I wind up at her house every night.
By night three, I’m meal prepping chicken and rice, veggie-packed pastas, and even convincing her to try a variety of salads.
After we eat, we game together.
I get my ass handed to me enough times that by night five, I’m actually growling under my breath while she shout-casts the entire match beside me.
“You talk too much,” I mutter, setting aside the controller and casting a look at her desktop setup. “And I’m at a distinct disadvantage with you on a PC and me on a console.”
She snorts as she gets up from her seat, stretching up to the ceiling and knocking her kitten ears headband askew.
I try to ignore how it makes her crop top rise, revealing inches of her soft, creamy belly to my view. When I get a hint of underboob, I focus my attention back on the glowing television screen in front of me.
“Have you considered that maybe it’s the quality of the player and not the choice of platform responsible for all your losses?”
“Are you telling me to ‘get good’?” I arch a brow at her.
She chuckles and drops down into the seat beside me. “Your words, not mine.”
“I’m just saying it’s distracting,” I grumble. “You're talking and laughing and asking me questions when I’m trying to concentrate.”
“I talk to a camera and interact with the chat for a living. But, hey, don’t you have, like, thousands of fans screaming at you every game?”
“I tune them out. It’s all just background noise to me when I’m on the ice.”
“Do you also growl at all the other players on the ice when you’re losing?”
“I do not growl.” I rear back and shoot her a warning glance which makes her snort.
“Oh, but you do. It’s actually so loud.” She giggles and wraps her fingers around my forearm as she reaches for my controller. “Should I show you how it’s done?”
“No, thanks.” I yank the controller back, and she stretches after it, laughing when she ends up sprawled across my lap.
Swallowing down a groan, I frown at her as she beams at me, dark curls spread over my jeans and cheek pressed against my abdomen.
That open, inviting smile makes me focus on the curve and shine of her lips as her cat ears fall to the ground. She scrambles after it, righting herself next to me as I tear my gaze away to focus on something less tempting. Like her forehead.
“God, you really hate losing, don’t you?”
My gaze drops a little and the light catches the flecks of gold in her eyes. It makes me want to reach over and stroke her cheek, tilt her face and study just what colors surface in those hazel eyes of hers.
Instead, I tap her on the nose and remind myself to keep my hands to myself. She already laid out the ground rules, which included no touching.
Nothing inappropriate.
I nearly snort. Everything I want to do to her is inappropriate.
“Well, first of all, the name’s Nick. Probably should commit that to memory if you’re going to tell people I’m your boyfriend.”
She laughs and straightens. “I’m pretty sure I can get away with a nickname. What about shnookems?”
“Please. That’s a name for your cat.”
Then she laughs, a full-on throaty kind of laugh. My disobedient dick twitch in my shorts.
“I actually did have a cat name Shnookems when I was growing up. He was fluffy and fat, and exceptionally lazy.”
“Doesn’t sound like I have much in common with Schnookems.”
Her cheeks turn rosy and she digs her teeth into her lower lip as her gaze skims over my physique. It’s only a moment, a quick, involuntary flash of interest, but I suddenly wish she’d do a little more than look.
I lift my arms behind my head, aware that she tracks the movement and watches the muscles in my arms bulge. Satisfaction makes me bite back a smile as I dip my head to catch her eye.
“Second of all, yeah, of course I hate losing. My job, my bonuses, everything rides on my individual performance and getting the W.”
“Okay, so what did your old girlfriends call you?”
“Never mind them. What would you call me if I was your boyfriend for real?”
“Uhh…” The pink on her cheeks flushes a deeper shade of red as she springs up from the sofa. “I don’t know. The usual thing, I guess. Babe, honey, sweetie.”
My gaze narrows. “Rosemary…”
“You know, something normal.” She skirts around the coffee table and scoops up my empty glass. “Need more water? I do. Be right back.”
Then she makes a beeline for the kitchen. It takes me two heartbeats to follow after her. When I get there, she’s bent over in half, rounded ass high in the air as she decants water from a cooler inside the fridge.
I suck in air and cross my arms to keep from reaching for her as suspicion coils low in my belly.
“Ro, what would you call me if I was really yours?”
She stands and drains the entire contents of the cup before she slams it on the counter. Then she takes a deep breath and looks me dead in the eye while her cheeks flame.
“I don’t know, Nick. Something about you makes me want to call you Daddy.”