Fake Fiancée

Yet a chill went down my spine—something was about to change. Somehow.

Tate popped his head out the door. “Dude. You want a beer?”

I nodded.

He came out a few minutes later, sat next to me on the stoop, and handed me a Newcastle. “Waiting on your girlfriend?”

I flipped him off.

One of the only people I trusted in this world, he knew the low-down on the agreement between me and Sunny. He’d laughed his ass off when I told him.

See. He didn’t get it. My determination. My grit. My willingness to do whatever it took.

I took the beer, twisted off the top, and took a swig. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

Tate’s eyes squinted like they did when he was thinking. “I hope this plan doesn’t blow up in your face, mate. There’s a lot of shite that can go wrong. If the media finds out you’re just doing it for the hype . . .”

I ignored that. No one was going to find out.

Sunny was good at keeping her distance from me, even though I’d catch her in class sending me these weird little glances, an expression on her face as if I was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out. But those walls . . . man, she had built them high and tight. She’d been dead serious about not getting involved with me. Which was fine. That’s what I wanted too.

My cock didn’t agree. I was in a dry spell. It had been several weeks since I’d hooked up with anyone. I hoped I’d be able to last . . .

Tate turned his beer up and took a drink. “You don’t really know her, though. She could be a nutcase or after your money—”

“I do know her.”

“You just met. How can you be so sure?”

I couldn’t explain how achingly familiar she was. Sometimes, you just knew when someone was good, and my gut sensed we had affinity. I liked her. She didn’t care who I was and she sure as hell didn’t want to jump in my bed and get pregnant for a paycheck.

Just then the glare of a car’s headlights swung into her driveway—a Jeep. The vehicle came to a halt and Sunny exited the passenger side. Bart got out of the driver’s side to walk her to the front door. He helped her with her backpack when it slipped down her shoulder.

My teeth snapped. She was with her ex.

Tate whistled. “Cheating already? Bloody hell. That’s got to be a record.”

I sucked down my beer.

Tate shrugged. “Her car’s in the shop. Perhaps he just gave her a ride—no pun intended.”

I sent him a death-glare and he snorted.

I stared at Bart, my body wired as I set my bottle on the concrete edging of the porch. I stood and paced, weaving around the bushes, my eyes detailing every muscle twitch from the two people across the street caught in the spotlight of headlamps. I studied them, trying to get a read on how they reacted to one another.

He eased her bag back onto her shoulder, and then they stood there staring at each other.

Had something happened between them while I was out of town?

She said something to him and then went inside, shutting the door gently. GENTLY. What did that mean? In class, since our run-in, they’d never even spoken to each other again.

Ah, but what happens when you aren’t around, Max?

Why did I care?

I was way overanalyzing this.

Bart just stood there, staring at her closed door. My fists tightened.

Scrubbing my face, I got to my feet and stepped out on the grass, being sure to stay in the shadow of our porch roof so he couldn’t see me. It helped that our porch light was out too.

“Before you lose your temper and go over there half-cocked, remember she’s your fake girlfriend,” Tate murmured, his tone slightly sardonic.

“My head’s on straight,” I said. “And mind your own business.”

“Bugger, you are my business. My mission is to keep you out of trouble. I’m your checker. You asked me to do that shit freshman year, and I take it seriously. I will not let you screw up.”

“I’m not in trouble, and this isn’t a football game,” I said curtly. “I’m just watching how she deals with her ex. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.”

As I watched, Bart seemed to come to a decision. His shoulders slumped as he turned from Sunny’s door, stalked to his car, and drove off.

Good riddance.

I grunted. I should cool off and deal with her tomorrow. I should go inside and watch game tapes. I should take a hot shower . . .

Screw that.

I gave her five minutes as I paced. Giving her time to get settled . . . maybe turn on the television. It also let me chill out.

Tate made an exasperated sound as I headed her way.

I ignored him.

I stood at her door for a few minutes, debating. Again. It was late. We had class in the morning. I could talk to her then. I should wait.

Fuck it. I knocked.

“Who is it?” she asked, her voice quiet in the silence of the night.

I let out a deep exhale. “Max.”

“Hang on,” she called. I heard lots of flapping and scurrying around.

A few minutes later, she flung the door open, and whatever I’d been going to say got clogged in my throat.

I hadn’t seen her since Friday morning in class, and the effect of her took me by surprise.

She’d changed into a skimpy white tank top (no bra) and a pair of tiny flannel shorts. Her wavy hair was up in a messy bun with long strands curling around her face. And was that a nipple piercing poking through her shirt? Hell, yes.