Bishop (Arizona Vengeance 1)

And those eyes remind me of the green grasses of Ireland when I studied abroad there my junior year of college.

There is much credit to be given to him, not only for showing up to this ruse of a dinner, but because he dressed really nice for the occasion. Dark blue dress pants—slim fit with no cuffs—are paired with camel-colored oxfords. I don’t know men’s fashion as well as women’s, but he’s wearing pricey shoes. He didn’t go super dressy, but the pressed button-down shirt in charcoal gray with the sleeves rolled up two turns and opened at the base of his throat gives his appearance a confident casualness.

“You came,” I breathe out, my lungs not refilling very quickly as I note the grim press of his lips.

“There is no way he’s not going to see through this sham,” is how Bishop answers me, sweeping his hand toward my father’s house. “He’ll grill us with questions that we can’t answer and sniff out the lie in minutes.”

I shake my head and hold my hands out. “No, he won’t. I sort of padded our story a little bit this afternoon after your skate. He came back up to my office to talk about it.”

“What do you mean?” Bishop leans a hip against the back of my car—the first I’ve ever owned—and crosses his arms over his chest. His expression is skeptical and it dings my confidence a little.

“I told him we’ve only been dating a few months.” I give him a quick rundown of my conversation with my dad. “But that we fell hard and fast for each other. It was sort of whirlwind, so he thinks it’s all new to us.”

“You told him we were engaged,” he growls in reply. “That’s a lot different than dating a few months.”

“I know,” I concede, then continue quickly before he gets into his car to leave. “I backpedaled on that a little. Told him that you and I have been discussing marriage and that we’re sure we’re going to do it, but not in that big of a rush to do the whole ring thing. Most importantly, I told him we knew it wasn’t the right time, with us all coming out to Phoenix to start new careers.”

“And he didn’t think it was a little too soon to be talking marriage?”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off a building stress headache. When I drop my hand, I look at him and hope he hears the earnestness in my voice. “I know I fucked this up. But my dad is in a really weird place right now.”

“You said your mother died,” Bishop says softly, and for the first time, I get a look from him that’s not completely filled with anger or disgust over the situation I’ve put us in.

“Pancreatic cancer in February,” I say softly. It was brutal, but at least it was fast. “Maybe you can understand this, I don’t know…But my dad has not done well since she died. They were together for thirty-three years. They were soul mates. He really fell apart and wasn’t taking care of himself. I stepped in and got him going again, but it’s still a struggle. I’m really hoping this move and the new season are going to get him back on track. But I came to Phoenix with him, because I am still worried.”

Bishop’s gaze cuts over to my dad’s house, which he stares at for a thoughtful moment. When he looks back to me, he asks, “So what’s our short game?”

Relief causes my legs to go weak. “Oh, thank you for doing this. I’m—”

Bishop holds a hand up. “I’m not committed to this.”

My mouth snaps shut as I frown at him.

“If it goes south in there, I’m coming clean with everything.” I don’t distrust the promise in those words. “But if we can pull this off tonight, then the plan is we wind this thing down quickly and stage a breakup of this fake relationship that leaves me in a good light with your dad, correct?”

I manage to nod my head.

“Then let’s go,” he says as he pushes away from my car. Bishop snags my hand and it startles me so badly I pull away quickly.

His mouth curves upward, and I’d think he was genuinely amused if it wasn’t for the hard glint in his eye. He grabs my hand back and holds tight. “If you’re going to sell it, Brooke, you need to sell it. We’ll need to at least act like a couple if you don’t want your dad smelling out your bullshit.”

“Oh…of course,” I mumble as I allow him to guide me—hand in hand—up the driveway, across the sidewalk, and up the front porch of my dad’s house.

Before I can reach out for the knob, the front door is pulled open and my dad is standing there staring at us. His eyes drop to our hands clenched tight before going right to Bishop. To my surprise, my dad extends his hand and says, “Welcome, Bishop.”