CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jake
Before I met Shane Francesca Willoughby, I wasn’t sure I was on board with hiring a woman nicknamed the “Miraculous Mess” to help me fix my fucked up love life.
It sounded like a failed comic book hero, one of those five-cent, bargain-bin things I devoured as a kid because we could never afford to keep the cable turned on. It would have been poorly drawn, even more poorly thought out, and even Justice, my littlest brother, a notoriously kind and accepting soul, would have agreed it was garbage. He would have ripped The Adventures of the Miraculous Mess apart and used the pages to wrap Christmas presents. Or to start fires in the metal garbage can in the backyard. Justice is kind and accepting, but he’s also a firebug who nearly burned our house down twice growing up.
“Miraculous Mess” sounded like a joke, and I was afraid Shane wouldn’t understand how serious I was about keeping our fake relationship discreet. I worried that she would be overly impressed with my fame and fortune, or one of those women who is pretty to look at but possesses all of three brain cells. Keri is too smart to be fooled by an airhead with a pretty face, and she knows better than to believe I would fall for anyone more impressed by what I do than who I am.
Basically, I had Reservations with a capital R and was prepared to bail at the first sign that this romantic intervention firm wasn’t as amazing as my assistant coach’s best friend’s wife’s cousin said it was.
But of all the concerns I wrestled with in the hours leading up to our meeting, not once did I worry that I would have a hard time keeping my hands off of the woman I’d hired to play my girlfriend. I never imagined that her smell would make me ache to taste her, or that the way she runs her tongue across her bottom lip would make it impossible to think of anything but kissing her senseless.
And if someone had told me a few days ago that I would be walking out of Shane’s place with a raging hard-on, daydreaming about fucking her against the door to her apartment, I would have called them a dirty liar.
But that was before I had her lips on mine, her arms wrapped tight around me, and her gorgeous ass—I scraped by with Cs in English, but I could write an epic poem about Shane Willoughby’s ass—cupped in my hands. Her breasts were soft, and her mouth was so responsive that I couldn’t help getting hard—so hard it was all I could do not to slip a hand down the front of Shane’s pants and find out if she was wet for me. I was dying to know, desperate to feel her slick and hot around my fingers and take things so much further than a kiss.
Instead, I’d pulled my shit together and left her place before I made even more of a fool out of myself than I had already.
It was crazy…
I hadn’t thought I was capable of feeling that kind of need anymore. I’d assumed I’d outgrown all-consuming lust the same way I had rollercoasters and drinking behind the equipment shed at work. At seventeen, I’d been an idiot, the kind of kid who overdid everything.
I dipped too much, drank too much, spent money I didn’t have on annual passes to Kennywood Park so I could ride the Phantom’s Revenge a hundred times every summer, and fucked my way through half the senior class. It didn’t matter if the girl I was with was gorgeous or plain, experienced or innocent, raring to go or fucking me because she was bored and had heard rumors that I had a big dick. Every time I got inside the girl of the moment, she was all I could think about, dream about. She was something worth living for, worth dying for—at least until we came, rolled apart, and realized we were strangers all over again.
Hockey was my true love, but pussy had been my favorite addiction.
But eventually even that thrill faded around the edges. Don’t get me wrong, sex is still high on my list of things worth getting up for in the morning—or any other time—but now desire is something I can handle. I’m an adult, and capable of saying “no thanks” on nights when I have other shit to do, or I know the woman in question wants more than I’m ready give. I’m a grown man and master of my dick—or at least that’s what I’d assumed until a curvy blonde flicked her tongue against mine and made me feel seventeen again.
And the real kicker? The woman is as intriguing and funny as she is sexy.
No, Shane Willoughby isn’t any of the things I feared she would be.
She’s worse. She’s an arrow shooting through the chinks in my armor, headed straight for my heart.
As soon as we signed off last night, I went to bed, determined to sleep off whatever spell she’d cast on me. Instead I spent half the night brainstorming ways to convince her that letting me fuck her into a hundred orgasms isn’t against her company’s policy—not if we both agree to keep work and play separate—and the other half dreaming about her naked and riding me until we both came hard enough to see stars.
And when I lay eyes on her tonight, standing in the setting sun on a rooftop above the city, looking take-your-breath-away beautiful in a slinky gold dress, all I want to do is pull her into my arms and kiss her until she melts the way she did yesterday.
The urge is all the excuse I need to call this off.
But it’s also the reason this intervention might actually work.
I want Shane. I want her so badly it hurts, so badly I barely notice the waiters and waitresses in white shirts and black aprons moving around the rooftop, carrying trays of fizzing champagne, or the clusters of well-dressed people admiring the statues and the view. I can’t bring myself to care who might be watching, and that hasn’t happened since I skated out of the minor leagues and straight into a spotlight so hot I felt like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.
Since my first night playing for the Rangers, I’ve watched everything I do, everything I say, every expression that flickers across my face when there might be cameras around to get it on film. People love an underdog story, but they also love to hate the underdog. For every person who is genuinely impressed by my success, there is another who thinks I’m a lucky son of a bitch who didn’t work hard enough for a place on an NHL team.
And the people who resent how fast, accurate, and spot-on-my-game I am are always the loudest.
They’re looking for an excuse to hate me, any excuse, but I haven’t given them one. I’m fair but tough, generous but uncompromising, and I flat out refuse to contribute to any scandal surrounding my name. I’ve made sure any shots the paparazzi have gotten of me were boring to the point of being unsellable, let insults on the ice roll off my back, and kept my romantic entanglements private and personal.
Until now.
Now my future hangs in the balance, and everything is riding on whether I can convince a mentally unbalanced person that I’m not worthy of being the object of her obsession.
But the moment I lock eyes with Shane, the worry fades and all I can think about is how much I want the woman who has promised to help me, who broke a few laws to patch up my arm, and who looks at me like she knows every wicked thought racing through my head.
Maybe she does.
And maybe she’s thinking a few wicked things of her own…
I can feel the sizzle in her pretty blue eyes as her gaze flicks from my head to my freshly shined shoes, taking in my fitted black suit and my tie, clearly liking what she sees.
“Well, well…” Shane nods as I stop in front of her, close enough to smell the crisp, floral scent of her perfume and to feel the heat lamp behind her warming the chill autumn air. “Don’t you clean up nice?”
“And you, once again, look incredible.” I glance down, appreciating the way the light filters through her golden dress, highlighting the curves beneath, but look back up just as quickly. Focusing on those curves isn’t a good idea. “That dress might give some of these older guys heart trouble, but I’m pretty sure you promised me a sweater made of kittens. What gives, Willoughby?”
She smiles and my heart punches at my ribs.
Damn, she’s beautiful.
From the moment I saw the photos in her portfolio, I knew she was the kind of natural beauty who would make Keri jealous, but those pictures didn’t do Shane justice. They didn’t capture her kindness or her confidence or the way her smile makes you feel like you’re a part of her inner circle. She’s magnetic—the kind of person you want to get close to and keep getting closer.
“It’s alpaca wool.” When I lift a brow, she goes on, “The animal that looks like a llama but isn’t. Smaller, cuter, less likely to spit on you.”
I smile. “I’ve heard of them. I think.”
“I’ll text you some pictures later. As for this…” She gestures down at her dress. “I apologize for going back on my word, but I couldn’t find a way to make a sweater semi-formal, and Marie is picky about the dress code for her events.”
“What is the event?” I glance over my shoulder, taking in the impeccably dressed people—mostly blue hairs—milling slowly around the statues that decorate the roof terrace. They look like the kind of people more likely to be opera season-ticket holders than hockey fans, a fact that puts me further at ease.
“It’s allegedly the opening reception for a surprise sculpture exhibit,” Shane says softly, hiding her mouth behind her glass of champagne. “But really, my friend Maria pulled a bunch of statues that have been off the floor for a decade and threw together a fundraiser so we could practice being together in public, surrounded by people who couldn’t care less about hockey or tabloid scandals.”
My brows climb as the small herd of waiters, abundant wine trays, and buffet on the far side of the roof take on new meaning. “She did all this just for us?”
Shane lifts one bare shoulder and lets it fall. “And to raise money for an acquisitions trip she wants to take to Greece. But yes. Mostly for us. I told you, she owed me a favor.”
“What did you do? Give her a kidney?”
Shane laughs. “No. I delivered Cindy Clawford’s kittens.”
“Cindy Clawford, the…supermodel cat?”
She nods seriously, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes. “You’ve heard of her?”
“Who hasn’t?” I say with a straight face. “I love her work. Back in the day, I had her posters all over my room.”
“Exactly! She’s great.” Shane grins, clearly pleased that I’m playing along. “So you can imagine how grateful Maria was to have my help getting Cindy safely through labor. And Maria’s used to throwing things like this together on a dime. She’s one of the top small-venue event planners in the city. I use her for all the fundraising parties for my family’s trust.”
“The Willoughby Family Trust, right?” I ask, glad I spent some time doing my homework last night. “The one that funds medical research and programs for abandoned kids?”
She arches a brow. “Been checking up on me?”
“A little,” I admit, slipping my hands into my pockets. “Enough to feel like an idiot for thinking you had any interest in my ten grand. You’re practically New York City royalty.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says, with a self-conscious laugh. “But my aunt was offensively rich.”
My lips curve at the unexpected word. “Offensively?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I find it a little offensive sometimes. To have so much that managing it and finding good things to do with it has become my full time job.” She reaches out, snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and hands it to me. “The selfish part of me is tempted to give it all away, but the trust meant so much to my aunt. And the kids’ programs are really special to me, too. So I guess I’ll keep fighting the unselfish fight.”
“You think it would be selfish to give away a few billion dollars?”
“I do,” she says, blinking up at me with eyes that have nothing to hide. “I enjoy nice things, don’t get me wrong. But I enjoy my freedom more, and it doesn’t feel like I have enough of that lately.”
I’m about to ask her what she would be doing right now if she weren’t an heiress, but she waves a hand with a laugh.
“But tonight isn’t about me, it’s about you learning how to pull off acting like you’re hopelessly in love.” She eases closer. “And I hate to say it, Falcone, but so far you’re doing a crap job.”
The words shouldn’t make me smile, but they do. “I thought I was doing okay. I’ve complimented you, made small talk, and I haven’t scowled once.”
“But you haven’t touched me, either,” she says, in a soft, sexy voice that goes straight to my dick. “And what about my hello kiss?”
Her hello kiss…
Fuck, how could I have overlooked that? Especially considering all I’ve wanted to do since I stopped kissing Shane yesterday is to start kissing her again.
It’s a serious oversight.
One I mean to remedy immediately.