Boyfriend Bargain Page 8

  She rolls her eyes. “All it took was a visit to one of the sorority girls on my floor. You’ll be flattered to know she even knows your current hockey stats, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a picture of you hanging on her wall with a heart drawn around your face.” She sighs. “People are rather nuts over you.”

  “Everyone but you?” I grin.

  “I do not have a picture of you anywhere. I have better things to do.”

  “So you say.” I laugh. Man, I like this banter. And damn, she actually came to see me…

  She shifts from one leg to the other, her eyes darting from mine to the box. “I hope you like this.”

  “Is it Gwyneth Paltrow’s head?”

  She gives me a surprised glance.

  I smirk. “Like in the movie Seven?”

  She nods. “Saw it, loved it—so dark—and no, there’s no head inside.” She smiles. “I know my movies—especially the ones with Brad Pitt.” A small laugh comes from her. “Mara has a thing for him. Well, she has a thing for a lot of movie stars.” She takes in my arched brow. “Mara’s my guardian. She’s family, but not blood, ya know?”

  I nod. I’m trying to listen, but shit, she’s so fucking gorgeous, and the way her eyes light up when she’s talking…

  Eric is still behind me, looking over my shoulder—nosy bastard—and I turn to see him checking Sugar out. He’s cramming Cap’n Crunch in his mouth at the same time, and the effect is pretty much an overgrown child. I smack him on the arm when we walk past him.

  “Ow! What the hell did I do?” he says.

  I lead Sugar into the kitchen area.

  She eases into the room carefully, taking in my place as if she’s unsure about coming inside. Everything about her screams uncertainty and unease, and absurdly I want to make her feel at home.

  She runs her gaze over the space, a small craftsman style house, older but with a semi-fresh coat of pale beige paint on the walls, crown molding in the den, and nice, tall baseboards throughout. Our furnishings are newish and from IKEA, everything clean, modern, and functional. My dad bought all of it for me when I signed my scholarship for Hawthorne, and I think part of him just wanted to make me happy, to fill that black hole of grief I had. After graduation, Reece and Eric will stay here, and after that, my dad will probably sell it for a profit.

  “Nice house.” She turns to face me.

  “Thanks.” I stick my hands in my pockets. “So if there’s no head in the box, what did you bring?”

  Eric starts singing the Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg song “Dick in a Box”, and I shake my head at him. “Show some restraint.”

  He pouts. “But if you ask what’s in the box, that’s where my head goes.”

  A slow bloom of color starts at her neck and makes its way up her neck to her cheeks. I watch the pulse that beats erratically at her throat, and my shoulders rise as I inhale her scent, light with a hint of vanilla. “Ignore Eric. He gets excited when anyone comes to see us, even the guy who delivers the mail. He always goes out there and talks his damn head off.”

  She gives us a sheepish look. “The box has pie in it.”

  “You made me a pie?” I blink.

  “Yeah. Stupid idea?”

  I shake my head. “Hell, no. I like to eat.”

  She bites her lip.

  “Score!” Eric says. “What kind? Is it chocolate? I love chocolate. Man, that shit is the bomb.”

  She laughs. “I’ll remember that and make you one next time.”

  “Cool.” He gives her a fist bump.

  “Don’t you have an episode of The Bachelor to watch?” I say to him.

  He shrugs, gets a good look at my face, and laughs. “I guess so, but I want a piece of that.” His gaze lingers on Sugar and the box before he wanders back into the den and cranks up the TV. Good. Dude is my best friend, but he’s also a horn dog.

  I turn back to Sugar. “Thank you for the gift.”

  “If I can set this somewhere…”

  “Of course, sure.” I’m feeling discombobulated, stiff, and a bit off, and I edge in front of her to clear off the table. My shoulder brushes hers, and I think I hear her breath hitch.

  “Sorry,” I say as I grab my books and plop them in one of the wooden chairs.

  “Great, thank you,” she murmurs as she leans over and sets the box down, giving me the perfect view of her heart-shaped ass. She’s willowy and curvy in all the right places, and I tug at my collar.

  Last night, that ass was in my hands…

  She turns to face me, and I blink at the twinkle of a piercing in her belly button, the blue jewel causing my eyes to linger on the creamy strip of skin between her sweater and jeans. Damn. How did I miss that? There’s also a half-moon birthmark the size of a quarter to the right on her waist and my pulse jerks, fantasizing about putting my mouth there, sucking the taste of her between my lips.

  “Before you look at it, just know I did the best I could.” She grimaces, pressing her lips together, that blush rising on her cheeks again. Almost shyly, she turns and opens the box, and hell, at this point I don’t even care what’s in it. A head? A dick? Bring it.

  “It’s cherry pie.” She says the words with bravado. “I read your HU bio and it said it’s your favorite.”

  I blanch.

  She pauses, giving me a searching look. “It is your favorite, right? I spent the whole afternoon on this thing.”

  I recall the bio she’s referring to and the PR girl who did them for us. That meeting ran short and before she could get all of us interviewed, we left for practice and she never came back to recheck her facts. We all assumed she made half of it up. It also says my favorite song is “Dark Horse” by Katy Perry…just no. I’m a dude, not a teenage girl.

  “Uh, yeah, thank you. It looks…delicious.”

  “You’re sure? You don’t look sure.”

  I look at her, taking in her earnest blue eyes. “I’m sure.”

  She heads for the kitchen cabinets and pulls them open until she finds three dessert plates. Then she gets a knife out of the drawer and proceeds to cut three slices.

  I hold my plate and get a small piece on my fork. “Together?” I ask, and she nods.

  I give the bite a long look and stick it in my mouth. My body clenches at the tart taste, at the disgusting squishiness of the cherry. “Very good,” I tell her after chewing, fighting my gag reflex.

  She pauses. “You look like you’re barely eating any.”

  “Yeah,” I choke out, walking over to the sink to fill up a glass of water then chugging it down.

  I turn around and she’s staring down at her piece. “You don’t like it.” She looks back at me. “Did I do it wrong?”

  “No, no, it’s just…I fucking hate cherries.” I say the words lightly, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “Some PR girl made all that up.” I explain the story to her.

  “What?” Her face is horrified.

  I grimace. “Eric likes it.”

  Sure enough, he’s practically having an orgasm in the den as he devours the piece he snagged while we were talking. He waltzes back into the kitchen and gives Sugar an appreciative look. “Damn, girl, you are welcome to bring your cherry pie over any time.” He sticks out his hand. “By the way, Z’s too rude to introduce us, but I’m Eric—or you can call me E.”

  “One of the wingers?”

  “That’s right.” He grins and leans back against the counter, his gaze glinting with interest. I know that look. Hell, we invented that I’m into you and do you want to get with me look.

  I bristle. “Don’t you have to call that girl you brought home last night? What was her name?”

  Eric grins at me, completely unabashed. “I think it was Eleanor. Might have been Erica, possibly Ellie. All I know is it starts with E, which is like Eric. Easy, you’d think, but shit, I can’t really remember. She left me a note on the dresser. Guess I can go check for you.”

  Sugar laughs and tries to hide it with a cough.

&nbsp
; I give him a look. Get out of here.

  “Touché,” he says, straightening up from the counter and easing away from us, heading back into the den. “I’ll stop bugging you.”

  He plops back down on the couch, and we grow quiet and stare at each other. Truth: I’m not a man with a silver tongue although usually I’m better than the current situation. I know how to flirt and tease and pull a girl in, and shit, I tried that with her in class, but she seems a bit impervious to my charms. She has a wall around her, one I want to take a sledgehammer to. The air vibrates between us, and I’m racking my brain for something to say, watching her as she toys with the hem of her sweater. She nods as if coming to a decision. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m sure you need to study anyway.” Her eyes move to the pile of books I shoved in the chair.

  I step in front of her. “Last night you never explained why you’ve been following me. What was that about?”

  She clasps her hands in front of her. “Nothing.”

  “It was something or you wouldn’t have said it.” I grin. “There’s something about me you find fascinating.”

  Her chest rises.

  I run a hand through my long hair. “Must be the hair. Everyone loves it.”

  She bites her lip, and I think it’s because she wants to laugh.

  I shrug and splay out my hands, feeling…light around her. “When you’re me—”

  She points at my face.

  “What?” I say, and before I know what’s happening she takes a step toward me, wipes at a crumb at the corner of my mouth with her finger, and then sticks it between her lips and licks it off. Her tongue is pink and wet and I—fuck. Tingles zip over me, enough to make me dizzy.

  She hasn’t moved away from me and that connection thing—that scorching heat that’s been in the room since she walked in—finally gets to me.

  I grab her wrist and lick the same finger, my lips tugging on the skin. “I can play games too, Sugar. Are you back to finish what we started?”

  Her breathing deepens. “We did finish.”

  “And it was spectacular.”

  “Not denying it.”

  “But…what do you really want from me? Is it this?” I press a hot kiss to her palm.

  12

  Sugar

  There are two breeds of girls from the South: Southern belles with their debutante balls, cultured pearls, monogrammed napkins, and big fine houses, and then there are girls like me who were raised in a trailer park on the wrong side of town with a strong tenacity to claw our way out. Don’t get me wrong, Mama was good to me, and she worked hard even though those last years she got a little lost. She got up every morning, made me a big breakfast, took me to school, and went to work. Week after week, she worked, bouncing from one hotel/motel cleaning position to another. We lived near the interstate, and Lord knows there was a slew of them to pick from. She never stayed anywhere long, though, and sometimes I think maybe that was my fault because she was a single mom and it was hard for her to take care of me. She used to tell me she dreamed of going to beauty school, and it kills me that she never got to fulfill her dreams.

  I think back to one of the last conversations she had with me.

  You have to live life fearlessly, Sugar. Recognize that things are scary and uncertain but jump in anyway. If you don’t, how will you ever know?

  And it’s her voice in my head as I stand in Zack Morgan’s kitchen.

  He’s just kissed my hand and now he’s staring down at me, waiting for me to tell him what I want. “Why are you really here?” he says, his tone soft.

  I pull my hand out of his grasp. My heart is beating double time. Part of me is seriously annoyed that he has this pull over me while the other side just wants to throw him down, saddle up, and ride him like the thoroughbred he is.

  I take a deep breath and go for it. “I need a fake boyfriend who plays hockey, specifically you.” I let those words sink in.

  His brows go straight up, surprise on his face. “Didn’t see that coming. Why?”

  I huff out a laugh, struggling for words. “I—I applied to Vanderbilt Law School and was waitlisted.”

  He nods, crossing his arms. “That sucks. Go on.”

  “And there’s this interview thing in Nashville this spring where you have dinner with the admissions faculty. Mostly it’s to see who still has them on their list and who’s moved on to another school—which I won’t. It’s Vandy or nothing. I can bring a guest. Maybe you?” I hold my breath.

  His eyes analyze me. “Why me?”

  “William Fitzgerald is the dean of admissions and a huge fan of the Predators.” I twist my lips. “It’s public knowledge from his social media. He’s constantly posting about how excited he is to see you join the team in Nashville this summer…”

  He cocks an eyebrow.

  “And…if he thought I was your girlfriend, he might give me a shot.”

  “I see.” He paces around the small kitchen, his brow knitting. I study him while he isn’t looking, tracing the lines of his angular face, taking in the shadows under his eyes. I pause, wondering what keeps him up at night. There’s more to him, something deep and dark—

  He lets out a deep exhalation and rubs a hand over his lips. I think I’ve blindsided him.

  Shit. He’s going to say no.

  I start talking fast. “It would just be for that event—if you would go with me. Plus, we don’t even have to talk to each other until then. We can just say we’ll do it and shake on it…or something. It’s a trip out of town, but I can pay for it. I’m working extra shifts and I’m not splurging on any extras.”

  “Will this plan of yours push someone else out of a place?”

  “No, this event is all about who is willing to not apply to other schools and maybe snag the spot of someone who’s dropped out at the last minute. With my scores, I could get in without you, I just…” I sigh, stopping, that familiar anger rising. “Look, I scored a 178 out of 180 on the LSAT. That’s insane, and there’s no logical reason they turned me down. I could snap my fingers and go to Harvard with that score.”

  “Then why not go to Harvard?”

  I shake my head. “My father’s entire family went to Vandy.”

  He scowls. “These are the people who think you’re not good enough for them?”

  “Yes, and I want to prove I am. Plus, it’s also one of the top law schools in the country and I want to move back to the South…where I fit in.”

  “You fit in here,” he says.

  “Do I?”

  His gaze drifts over my face. “Yes.”

  Oh. I glance down at his books. “I know the idea sounds crazy, and I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need in exchange.”

  “Anything?”

  “Not that,” I say.

  He smirks. “There are other things you can do for me. Let’s figure it out.” He takes a seat at the table and indicates I should do the same. I sit and watch as he grabs a notebook from the chair and opens it, turning the pages. “I think we need to get some ideas on paper, establish some rules. Sound good?”

  My stomach flutters with excitement. I like where this is going. I nod. “Rules?”

  “Yeah. We need parameters, what you’ll do for me, etcetera.” He taps the pen against the paper and watches me. “First, going out of town—that’s like asking me to give you a leg. I hate to travel, and Coach will be pissed if I miss any postseason training sessions.” He thinks for a moment and then drops his bomb. “I want you to be the girl of the month, starting today and going for four weeks, which technically puts you in the middle of February.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not having sex—”

  “So you’ve already insinuated—”

  “Because I’m not.”

  His face looks unsettled. “No reason to remind me you don’t even like me.”

  I sigh. That really isn’t true. He brought my coat to me, and I enjoyed our banter in class, and I think…I think I see kindness in his
eyes now as he looks at me.

  “I do like you,” I say.

  “And you did bring a pie, although I can’t eat it.” He gives me a sheepish grin.

  “I had no intention of bringing up the fake boyfriend thing until you asked,” I add with a sigh. “If we set up an arrangement, what do I have to do for you?”

  “Hang out in public, spread the word that we’re together—that kind of thing.”

  Really? “Why?”

  He leans in over the table. “I need to focus on my game and training. Women are constantly finagling their way into my life, and honestly, I need a break.”

  “Poor you.” I shake my head.

  He laughs, and I take him in, enjoying how he looks with a smile curling his lips, the way his hand rakes through his hair. “I want a championship.” He glances down at the pile of textbooks, and I see our poetry book. “And I could use some help in our class.”

  “That class is easy!”

  “I’ll be missing it for hockey reasons and I may not be back.” He shrugs. “The TA is helping out, but you can keep me updated.”

  Oh. Disappointment hits at the news that he won’t be there.

  “No fringe benefits?” Geeze. Does part of me want him to ask for “extras”?

  Another grin. “I wouldn’t throw you out. Whatever happens between us will have nothing to do with our agreement.”

  “Fair.” My heart flies at the prospect of him being inside me again, his hands in my hair, his lips on mine—

  Stop the madness. I clear my throat.

  “So, let’s proceed, then?” His lids have lowered, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

  I nod, feeling a little dizzy with excitement, the idea growing. This…this can work.

  “Want me to write it?” I ask, leaning over to watch him scribble. “Contracts are exciting to me.”

  “I’m in charge,” he murmurs, his head bent over his paper. I hear a little bit of command in his tone, a wisp of authority—and it makes me hot.

  What is wrong with me?

  He looks up. “I want you to kiss me in public at least a couple times a week—just so everyone knows.”

  “What?” I feel flushed. “That’s like eight times.”