Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
That dude says they’re never going to let me live this down. This being finding out on a neighborhood site that I’m…dating.
Fake dating, you ass.
Shit. The voice in my head is right. I’m fake dating. And I’d do well to remember that.
I square my shoulders. “What can I say? You’ve seen the marriage proposals I get from the fans. I’m just…irresistible.”
I leave, texting the article to Skylar before I hit the ice, knowing she’s the one who’s irresistible.
When practice ends, I practically jump on my phone, hunting for a response from Skylar. And there it is.
Skylar: We’re famous!
Ford: I saw.
Skylar: Also, we look hot.
Ford: You do.
Skylar: Shut up. You do too. Say it. Say ‘I look hot.’
Ford: You look hot.
Skylar: That’s not what I want you to say.
Ford: Fine. We look hot.
There’s a pause—just bubbles dancing—then a reply.
Skylar: I’m practicing our cute couple pose for the Phoenix game.
It takes me a beat, but then I connect the dots. Right. Our next fake-dating appearance. Because that’s what this is. We look hot as a fake couple. We’re believable as a pretend romance. But isn’t that what I said last night? We’re good at faking it.
That’s fine by me. Faking it is totally fine with me.
Only, I don’t quite buy that the way I used to.
That afternoon, I leash up Zamboni and take her for a walk, then hop into the car. I need to drop her at the dog hotel so I can catch a flight out of here for a short road trip. As I head to the car, though, my gaze strays to Skylar’s home.
Is she inside right now? Working on a plan for the cabinets for my parents’ place? Dreaming up new merch for her judgy dog and his doggie-style critiques?
Stop. Just stop.
I tear my gaze away from her home without any answers and drive off. On the team jet, I listen to the audiobook my sister recommended—the one on the soulless tech giant. It’s a riveting story, but I can’t stop thinking of my neighbor.
I check my texts more than I should. But it’s just a fake romance. There’s no reason she’d be writing to me.
And when a text finally lands that night, I open it so fast in my hotel room.
Skylar: Your mom likes these cabinets.
A picture is attached. Another note lands seconds later.
Skylar: I figure it’d be easier to write to her directly than bug you about every detail. Hope that’s okay!
Oh. Right. Because we’re working together. Because I’m her client. That’s why Skylar’s writing to me with details of the interior design project.
I tell myself it’s fine. She’s efficient. Professional. Focused on the job. It’s what we talked about last night. We’re both devoted to our businesses, not to romance.
But my heart’s a little heavy. Her note still feels like a door quietly clicking shut.
Ford: Of course.
I turn off the lights, wishing she’d bug me about every little detail.
In the morning, though, there’s still no text from her about anything, and I shouldn’t do this. I know I shouldn’t. But as I stretch my neck in bed, I go to my podcast app and check for new episodes of Hot Trends, Classic Spends.
I sit up straighter. It shows one recently posted episode. Like a gleaming prize. A treasure I’ve been seeking.
I bolt out of bed, brush my teeth, and yank on workout clothes. I shouldn’t want this so much, but the second I step onto the elliptical at the hotel gym, I hit play—and five minutes later, the grin on my face is ridiculous in size.
Skylar’s voice is playful, full of laughter as she counters one of her friends with, “I admitted it! I told you I’m dating Sexy Reno Guy.”
“Oh please. You didn’t tell us. You were outed,” her friend says. That must be Trevyn.
“Also, ahem, use his name. You were in the news with him,” Mabel says. “We know who Sexy Reno Guy is.”
Is Skylar smiling? Are her eyes twinkling? Is she tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like she does when she’s feeling sort of feisty? I have to know.
I switch to video and watch it there as I work out harder and faster.
There she is in the studio, a secretive smile tilting her lips as she says, “And what can I say? He bought me champagne and then”—there’s a spark in her eyes—“we drank it.”
Mabel raises a brow. “You drank it?”
“Yes, that’s what you do with champagne,” she says primly, and a smug smile owns my face as red-hot memories of the way the drink tasted on her come crashing back.
“Then why are you blushing?” Trevyn asks.
“It tasted good,” she says, all demure and so thoroughly fuckable I can barely stand being away from her.
But she never reveals anything tawdry, and soon enough, she moves into design hacks, discussing how to use plants like succulents for eco-friendly decor.