Boyfriend Bargain Page 9

  His pen stops. “May I write that down?”

  I inhale. “Yes.”

  “I’ll also need you to attend parties with me. You didn’t seem thrilled about the Kappa house.”

  “How about one party?”

  He drops his pen. “I want all the parties.”

  I hold my hands up. “No! Wait—okay, yes, but I have to study too. Just remember that.”

  He gets this triumphant look on his face and scribbles away.

  I clear my throat.

  He glances back up at me. “Is there something you wanted to add?”

  I tap on the paper. “There’s no falling in love.”

  He pauses, his lips parting as he gives me a fascinated look. “Do you think that’s even a remote possibility? You, a pre-law student, falling for me, the douchebag hockey player?”

  “I never called you a douchebag to your face, and yes, I’d like to have it down. It’s the number one rule.” My voice is firm. “And write down no more baby or babe or sweetheart. Never again. It makes me crazy.”

  He chews on the pen. “Boy, you’re really racking up the rules, but I have to have a cute nickname for you.” He gives me a look. “I reserve the right to come up with a nickname later.” I hesitate, and he guffaws. “Seriously, you’re second-guessing this over a nickname? What are you afraid of?”

  “Fine. And this girl-of-the-month thing stops at the end of four weeks—strict, no extensions.”

  “Girls beg for extensions.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Not this one, bud.”

  “Y’all working out a sex agreement thing in there?” Eric calls out, his gaze on the TV. “My safe word is coconuts. Use it if you want.”

  “No,” we both say at the same time, and then we look at each other and laugh.

  A few minutes later, he wraps up his writing and pushes the notebook over to me. I’m reading it when I raise my finger as a brilliant idea hits. “I’ll take Miss Ryan as my nickname.”

  He grins broadly. “You like that? It’s very lawyery sounding.”

  “It’s better than babe.”

  “Oh, Miss Ryan, I’m so going to enjoy this,” he says softly, drawing out my name, and my body sizzles.

  “Or Sugar. Whatever. Nicknames aren’t important.”

  “I love nicknames. If fact, I’m going to write down that you have to call me Z. We have to maintain a facade, especially when we’re supposed to be fucking our brains out.” His eyes drift over me. “Right?”

  “You’re infuriating.” But there’s no heat in my voice. I like him. Shit, shit, shit.

  He just smiles and pushes the paper over to me once again. I run my eyes over his quickly scrawled handwriting, noticing it matches the writing on the note he left at my door.

  Our little contract doesn’t look official at all, but I sign it with a flourish, and he does as well. He asks for my number and I give it to him just as one of the doors in the back of the house opens, perhaps a bedroom, and another guy stalks into the kitchen shirtless and wearing a pair of unzipped jeans and nothing else. “Z, I found another pile of cat throw-up in my closet—”

  His voice comes to an abrupt halt as our gazes meet, his a soft grey with dark brows slashing over them. Of course, he’s Z’s brother, but I see the differences between them. His features are missing that classical, hot Greek god thing Z has going on. He isn’t as tall or as broad as Z either, but he’s handsome in his own way, built with solid shoulders, a trim waist, and an obvious six-pack.

  Their gene pool is amazing.

  A cat comes out of nowhere, darts at the Z lookalike, hisses, and then dashes off to a back room.

  The longer he stares, the more he whitens, and I squirm. “Who are you?” he asks.

  Z frowns and moves closer to me. “A friend.”

  Eric moseys back in from the den. “Dude, this is Sugar and she brought us pie, man. PIE. And all because she dumped on Z last night.” He starts singing, “She’s my cherry pie…” and dances into the kitchen.

  At least he likes me.

  But still, what’s up with this guy? I frown, checking the hem of my sweater to make sure it’s not showing too much skin. It’s not, and when I glance back up, Z’s face is tight, and he and his brother seem to be having a deep conversation with their eyes.

  He sticks out his hand, still frowning. “Reece, Z’s brother.”

  I take it, but the handshake is brief and hurried. I nod. “Hi.”

  The temperature in the room chills and just like that, the visit is over. Z takes my elbow, steering me toward the door, ushering me out.

  Okay.

  “We’ll talk more soon,” he says as I make my way down the steps of the porch.

  He follows me along the sidewalk to my truck. Ten years old with faded paint and a small crack in the windshield, it’s got a dent in the side where someone hit me in the HU parking lot last fall. I’m not normally embarrassed by my lack of money, and I’m not now, but when I take in the new-looking black Escalade parked in his driveway and the silver Porsche next to it, I let out a laugh.

  “What?” he asks.

  I tilt my head toward the tiny car. “Which one of you guys drives the Porsche? I’m imagining you trying to fit inside it.”

  He smiles. “Ah, that’s Reece’s. He likes his flash.” We stop at the truck door and he opens it for me. “By the way, there’s a party here next Thursday for Eric’s birthday. Be here at seven and plan on PDA. I don’t want people catching on that we’re pretend.”

  My eyes flare.

  “Is the idea of kissing me again so terrible?”

  I feel color rising up my cheeks. “I really don’t like college parties. I’m a total introvert.”

  He gives me an arched brow. “I need you on my arm to fight off the piranhas.”

  My gaze goes behind him and Reece is watching us from the window, a scowl on his face. Eric is behind him, waving. He’s got another piece of pie in his hand.

  Before I can analyze Reece and his odd reaction, Z helps me inside my vehicle carefully. Without brushing against me, almost as if he’s being careful with me, he reaches for my seat belt and leans over me to snap it. He smells all male, and his shirt clings to the taut muscles of his chest. My fingers itch to touch him, recalling how hard his body felt, toned to perfection.

  “I can buckle myself,” I say, but I don’t mean it. Even though it’s dangerous to my heart, I like him doing this, like being near him. I hear the click of the metal latch.

  “You’re my pretend girlfriend, and I need to practice. Plus, Reece is watching, and it’s probably annoying him. He ticked me off earlier.”

  “Why is that?”

  He rises up and considers me, his gaze searching my face carefully, as if he’s looking for something. We’re close, so close—

  He touches my hair. “Just tell me you’ll come to the party.”

  I close my eyes then reopen them.

  He tugs at a strand, his voice lowering. “Say you’ll come, or I’ll kiss you right here.”

  My eyes flare, going to his lips. I exhale. “Fine, but—”

  Before I can move, he’s leaning in and barely touching his lips against mine. “Until next week, Miss Ryan.” He grins.

  “You kissed me anyway! That’s one, with seven left,” I say, but his broad shoulders are already striding back inside the house. He tosses a hand up over his shoulder and walks in the door.

  Shit.

  My hands grip the steering wheel and I sit for a minute, my lips tingling. I briefly reach up and touch them.

  It was barely even a kiss.

  So why does it feel so good?

  What a risky game I’m playing, yet my elation is real. Freaking Zack Morgan just agreed to help me make my dreams come true—and it’s going to be a battle to keep him at arm’s length in this game of pretend.

  13

  Sugar

  Wearing orange skinny jeans and a cream fisherman sweater, Taylor waves his hand as Poppy and I arrive at the bo
oth he’s been saving for us at the Tipsy Moose. A fashion major with medium brown skin, soft topaz eyes, high cheekbones, and wavy longish black hair, he’s the prettiest guy I know.

  He air-kisses us both on the cheeks. “Ladies, my loves, it’s about bloody time you got here. I’m dying to hear all about Zack.”

  Poppy returns his air kisses and I smile. The three of us have been friends since a tennis class freshman year where Poppy tripped over Taylor’s blinged-out sneakers, broke her foot, and had to wear a boot for three months. That was one of my favorite classes, and I still giggle when I think about Taylor prancing around in his white pleated tennis skort.

  Steepling his fingers, he takes us both in and continues talking. “And to prepare us for this rare weeknight out together to celebrate Sugar’s boyfriend bargain, I already ordered two pink raspberry Cosmos, a shot of Patron Silver for Sugar, and a plate of cheese fries with bacon. Sugar, guac and chips are on the way too. It’s all I ate when Craig broke up with me last year, and I know it’s your go-to since you and Bennett are kaput.” He puts a hand over his heart. “Wherever Craig and Bennett are, I hope they’re both miserable, the little cheaters.”

  I give his arm a squeeze, recalling how depressed he was last year when his boyfriend dumped him.

  “Nice pearls,” he says to Poppy as we get settled. “New?”

  “Gram sent them to me for my birthday.” She preens, her chestnut hair shining under the lights of the bar as she toys with the jewelry around her neck.

  “Gram’s coming off some of that money, huh?” Taylor says, and she smirks.

  I smile at them. They’re both from well-to-do families, like the majority of the students here, but it strikes me sometimes how different we really are. I’ve had to work my ass off to get every stitch of clothing on my back, and their families give them Amex cards and pearls.

  I scope the place out, wondering if Z is here. It’s been a few days since our bargain, and I’ve only seen him once walking across campus. He jogged over to me and walked me to my dorm, gave me a kiss on the cheek—right in front of a group of sorority girls—and then left to go to hockey practice.

  Our food comes, and Taylor is fascinated by my retelling of Frat Boy and Pixie Girl as we eat. “It’s funnier now that it’s over,” I say with a sigh.

  “You shouldn’t go to those parties alone,” he tells me.

  “I had Julia with me.”

  He and Poppy both frown. “Nothing against your roommate, but she isn’t the best wingman,” he says. “Not when she disappears with someone at a party.”

  My face goes beet red. I went off with someone at that same party.

  I sigh. “I really don’t want to go to the party at Z’s by myself.”

  “I have to work,” Taylor says with regret. “I need that job for an internship credit.”

  “I wish I could, but my parents are coming up for a quick visit.” Poppy flicks her hair over her shoulder and considers me. “I’ve never actually met Zack. Is he as hot as everyone says?”

  Yes. Hell yes.

  “He’s okay.” I let out a heavy breath and push at my hair that’s up in a tight sleek ponytail.

  Taylor dips his chin and gives me a look. “Honey, you and I both know he’s hotter than the devil in hell with no A/C, so don’t even play. You can go to this party. I believe in you. Plus, I will work my magic and do your makeup before I go to work.”

  I munch on chips, and the more I think about Zack, the more I eat.

  He leans in. “So have you heard from Bennett again?”

  I grimace. “I’m avoiding all the places we used to hang out at, the coffee shop, and Remi’s Bar.”

  He frowns. “I hate the bloody bastard for what he did to you.”

  “Keep talking British to me.” I grin.

  “Just thank my beautiful mother for marrying an American and moving us here.” He flutters his lashes, which have several coats of mascara on them.

  I clink my glass with theirs. “I might not have said it before, but thank you both for being here for me when things went south with Bennett.” I recall the nights they spent with me over the holidays, crashing with me in my tiny room at Mara’s.

  He rolls his eyes. “I will always be here for my LA girl.”

  “That’s Lower Alabama,” we say at the same time.

  Poppy’s applying a fresh coat of lipstick when Taylor nods his head toward the door of the Tipsy Moose.

  I turn to see several hockey players making their way inside, but not Z.

  “OMG. I don’t see them for a while and I forget how tall they are.” Taylor lets out a low whistle. “I don’t see Zack.”

  “Does he kiss well?” Poppy asks.

  Fuck yes.

  My body tingles, and I blush again. “It’s just a pretend relationship.”

  “But you have kissed him?” she asks.

  Oh, honey, it was way more than that. “Yes.”

  Taylor looks at me. “Something is going on with you two.”

  I munch on a chip. “Nope.”

  He laughs. “Why do you lie when you know I can read you like a book?”

  I roll my eyes.

  He grins at me. “I’m wondering, Sugar—is his plumbing big enough for the building? Because sometimes those things aren’t built to code, feel me?”

  “Who’s a plumber?” Poppy asks, her bright blue eyes locked on the hockey guys. “I’m confused.”

  “He means his cock,” I say with a snort. “He’s asking about Z’s, um, size.”

  “Un-huh. Z, is it?” he says, looking at me from over his drink. “Have you had…rebound sex…with him?” He gasps.

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “You’re a little minx for being coy, but there’s only one reason you look so happy tonight, and it’s because you got nailed by your new fake boyfriend.”

  I toss a fry at him just as Zack walks up to the back entrance, which I have an excellent view of. He seems to take a deep breath then pushes his way inside.

  He’s magnificent, his shoulders encased in that fitted grey leather jacket, his ass snug in a pair of weathered designer jeans, his feet in a pair of black Chucks. With his body and face, the man would look good wearing a sack.

  With long, purposeful strides, he makes his way to the right side of the room where the bar curls around into a small lounge area with leather couches and a dartboard. There’s a murmur that goes through the crowd as he passes, and when he walks by a group of girls, they call out his name and send him finger waves. The redhead from the party—he called her Veronica—jumps up and follows him. He sort of drags her along with him as he takes a stool and orders something from the bartender that looks like a soda. She takes a seat next to him, talking animatedly, her hands brushing at his shoulders as if she’s picking imaginary lint off his clothes. He gives her a stern look and eases away.

  As if he senses he’s being watched, his grey eyes look in the mirror on the back wall behind the bar and lock with mine.

  He arches a brow. Well, well, well, says his pleased expression.

  I feel a slow blush rising on my face. You’d think I’d be used to the way he looks at me, but I’m not.

  Taylor lets out a little whistle. “That man is staring a hole through you.” He brushes at his hair, fluffing the ends. “How do I look?”

  Poppy giggles. “Keep dreaming, Taylor.”

  He clutches his chest. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  They continue their banter, but I tune them out.

  Z turns around, away from the bar, and my heart thumps with every second it takes for him to face me.

  Tonight his jawline is scruffier, the dark beard in contrast to the caramel-blond highlights in his hair, and I think about how he got those lighter strands. I imagine they’re probably leftover from a summer spent at some exotic location. I picture him on some big fancy sailboat or a yacht with tanned girls in bikinis flanking him on either side.

  Protect your heart, a voice says.
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  My phone pings with a text and I fumble around in my purse, pulling it out.

  Hey, fake girlfriend. Want to rescue me from this girl?

  My mouth quirks up and I raise my head to watch as he takes a sip of his drink with those eyes leveled at me.

  Handle her yourself, is my reply. You seem to know her well enough.

  I went to prep school with her. Trust me, not interested. Jealous already?

  I look up and he’s grinning at me even as she’s trying to get his attention.

  I once had a puppy who yipped like that, I send.

  Please come to me, Miss Ryan.

  Come to me. His words are intoxicating and I inhale a sharp breath. Poppy looks from me to him then squints. “He’s really focused in on you.”

  “He’s intense,” I murmur, thinking back to the Kappa house.

  She takes a sip of her martini. “Dang, he’s so damn hot.”

  “Amen,” Taylor says softly. “Watching him stare at you is almost as good as watching Khal Drogo and Daenerys eye-fuck each other. Shit, love, go get your fake boyfriend before those bitches do. Ask and you shall receive.”

  Fine, fine, fine.

  I can do this. I’m not sure why I’m so anxious anyway. It’s just pretend. I gulp down the rest of my tequila and stand up.

  A slow, knowing, sexy smile settles on Zack’s face.

  14

  Zack

  After an intensive practice and dinner in the athletic cafeteria, the guys and I head to the Tipsy Moose. I park and they get out while I stay in the car for a few minutes, practicing my deep breathing. There’s an anxious pit of worry in my gut about our upcoming game. Sure, we won our last one, but the next opponent is a tougher team, which means more pressure. Even with the loss to Minnesota-Duluth, we’re still ranked at number five, and that brings its own kind of pressure with trying to stay there.

  Another nightmare hit this morning at four. Knowing I couldn’t go back to sleep, I went for another run then circled back to the house exhausted and worn out. Then at practice, I gave up several faceoffs, and that shit never happens. I’m the fastest one out there, but you wouldn’t know it by the way I played today. I rub at my wrist, nursing the bruise I got from a defenseman’s clean check when I cut in front of him to push the puck in. Instead he slammed me into the wall and I landed wrong.