CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shane
“Hello, Shweitzburglar, how the hell are you?” I greet Hillary with the proper amount of enthusiasm, but on the inside I’m dying.
And panicking.
And wishing I’d kept texting Jake last night instead of pretending to be tired so I could sign off and stop flirting with him before I made a fool of myself.
Of all the people to catch me kissing Jake before we’ve had a chance to nail down the details of our fake relationship, Hillary is the worst. She’s an adorable, quirky, nosy-as-hell, gossip-hunting bloodhound who was best friends with my aunt. When I was growing up Hillary had dinner at our apartment every Saturday, and she knows me well enough to sniff out a lie before I’ve had the chance to even think about telling it.
Jake and I are so screwed. Unless…
He seems to think fast on his feet. Hopefully he’ll be able to follow my lead and we can escape without blowing our cover.
I love Hillary like family, and there was a time when I could have told her the truth and sworn her to secrecy. But her mind isn’t what it used to be. She’s pushing ninety and tends to forget which juicy tidbits she’s supposed to keep secret and which she can feel free to share.
And she’s still a consultant for the gossip column she wrote for almost fifty years. If she lets it slip to the wrong person that I’m working as a famous hockey player’s fake girlfriend, Jake and I could find ourselves on Page Six, our mission doomed before we even get started, and Jake even worse off than he was before.
Nope, there’s no choice but a full frontal assault.
“Why especially like this?” I grin as I lean into Jake. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Hillz, I’m not letting you write a tell all book about my sex life.” Jake chokes on his drink, but covers his mouth before he sprays champagne over Hillary’s head. “We’re friends, and you’re old enough to be my grandmother. It would be too weird.”
“You never know. Things change, dear,” Hillary says, fluffing the white hair curling from beneath her typically weird hat. “When I’m one hundred and forty and you’re ninety the age difference won’t be anything to write home about.”
“You’re such a pervert.” I cluck my tongue in mock disapproval. “Does Maria know you’re a pervert? I have to imagine the answer is no, or you wouldn’t have been invited to a function with civilized people.”
“She has no idea. The hats confuse people, make them think I’m an adorable old lady.” Hillary smiles up at Jake, clearly pleased with herself. “And what about you, handsome?”
“What about me, ma’am?” Jake asks, the perfect mixture of respect and amusement in his tone. I glance his way, relieved to see him smiling instead of running for the bathroom to escape the crazy that is Hillary and I when we’re together.
“Are you harmless?” Hillary’s clever eyes narrow. “Are you going to be a good boyfriend? Or are you going to get our Shane into trouble?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m harmless, but I know when to be on my best behavior,” Jake says, his tone sobering as he adds, “and I promise I’ll only get Shane in good kinds of trouble.”
“The kind of trouble I like?” I tilt my head back to gaze into his dark eyes.
“The kind you like,” he says, the words a wicked promise I want him to keep.
Damn, the man is sexy, and getting sexier with every passing minute. I never would have imagined that his big, muscle-bound body came with a quick wit, a nimble mind, and a tongue that could make me feel like he’s kissing me everywhere all at once.
God, that kiss…
I completely lost myself in it, in the wild, reckless, hungry things he made me feel. If Hillary hadn’t interrupted us I might have started humping Jake’s leg on the Met’s rooftop terrace, surrounded by the kind of deep-pocket donors I can’t afford to alienate. The Willoughby Trust runs on contributions from people like these, people who are not amused by public tonsil-hockey.
I owe Hillary a thank you, so I bend down and pull her into a hug. “Thanks, lady.”
“For what, bubby?” Her bony hands pat me gently on the back, sending a wave of sweet sadness through my chest. It’s good to feel loved by someone older and wiser, and Hillary is one of the last of those kinds of people I have left.
“For keeping me from embarrassing myself with my hunky new boyfriend.” I pull away. “And for doing the sex book joke with me again. I know it’s time for new material, but I love that one.”
“It’s a good joke,” Hillary says, chuckling. “Why get new material when the old stuff still makes people spit out their drink?”
Jake laughs. “I didn’t! I swallowed. It was hard, but I swallowed.”
“That’s what she said,” Hillary says, making Jake choke again.
“Aw, and thanks for that, too.” I laugh as I pat Jake on the back. “And for caring enough to bully my new man for me. You’re the best, Schweitzburglar and I love you.”
Hillary smiles, her eyes shining. “I love you, too. And don’t worry about embarrassing yourself. Everyone here is glad to see you happy with this boy you haven’t introduced me to yet. Your manners are terrible, you know.”
I shrug. “I know. You can just call him Hunky Boyfriend.” I thread my arm through Jake’s and grin up at him, surprised to find him gazing down at me with what looks like real affection in his eyes. “Or Jake,” I add softly, his name feeling intimate on my lips. “Sometimes he answers to that.”
“Either one is fine with me,” he says, holding out his hand to Hillary. “Jake Falcone, ma’am. Happy to meet you.”
“Hillary Schweitzburger.” She gives his arm a firm pump up and down. “This one calls me the Schweitzburglar because I stole her french fries when she was little, but you can call me Hillary.”
“Nice to meet you, Hillary,” Jake says. “And thanks for the heads up. I’ll be sure to keep an eye on my fries when you’re around.”
Hillary releases Jake’s fingers with a wrinkle of her nose and a wave of her hand. “No need to worry, sweetheart. I can’t eat fried foods anymore. Makes me do the Mexican fox-trot every time.”
Jake frowns and his lips part, but I cut him off with a shake of my head. “Don’t ask,” I whisper. “You don’t want to know.”
“When I first met Shane, she called it getting the squirts,” Hillary says gleefully, making me groan. “Such a dirty mouth on such a pretty little girl. She made me laugh until I was in stitches.”
“Stop,” I beg. “No ten-year-old Shane stories. Let’s agree to agree that I was a mess, and leave it at that.”
“I don’t know, I think I would enjoy a few Shane stories,” Jake says with a shit-eating grin.
“No!” I pin him with a hard look before glaring at Hillary. “I’m serious, woman. I’m trying to maintain at least a little feminine mystique here. That won’t happen if you start telling tales of how gross I used to be.”
“You weren’t gross,” Hillary says, her smile fading. “You were a little girl trying to prove how tough you were during a terrible time in your life. You were very brave.” She touches Jake’s elbow. “Shane’s one of the strongest people I know, but she’s been through her share, my boy. Treat her right or I’ll have to come hurt you while you’re sleeping.”
Jake nods seriously while I fight the urge to run and hide. “I will. I promise.”
“All right. Enough of that,” I say, forcing a laugh. This is getting too intense, but I should have expected as much. Ever since Aunt Tansy passed, Hillary has made it her business to mother me every chance she gets. “Can I hunt you down a drink, Hillary? Or something to eat?”
“No, thank you, doll. I’m going to take a turn around the exhibit and find the racy ones.” Hillary winks. “God has made some beautiful things and I enjoy looking at them naked. Even if they are carved in marble.”
Jake laughs, and I lean down for one more hug from Hillary, and then Jake and I are alone.
And for the first time tonight, I don’t know what to say. Talking to Jake has been surprisingly easy so far, but now I feel like I’ve lost my hold on the fun and flirty Shane I’ve decided to be when I’m with this man.
Before I can find my way back to easy and breezy, Jake’s warm hand comes to rest gently on my back. “I read about your parents and the car crash. Last night while I was Googling. I’m sorry.”
I nod, keeping my gaze on my half empty drink. “Or is it half full?” I murmur, fighting an unexpected wave of emotion.
I didn’t anticipate having to deal with feelings tonight, and I certainly never imagined that Jake’s touch could be as comforting as it is arousing. It’s nice that he’s nice—it makes me want to help him even more than I did before—but I don’t want or need comfort.
Comfort gets complicated even faster than sex, and neither are on the table with Jake.
“I think it’s half full,” he says, as if he has no trouble following my private chain of thought. “And I think you’re pretty amazing.”
I look up, holding his see-through-me gaze even though I want to look away. “I’m not amazing. I’m just a normal person.”
“I disagree.”
I shake my head again. “No, you just don’t get it. People who haven’t had any really bad luck think it takes super human strength to keep going after life knocks you down. But that’s not true.”
I glance down, running my finger around the top of my glass, wondering if it would be tacky to chug the last of my champagne. “Humans are hardwired to live, so we do. We keep going, keep living, even when living hurts. It’s not strength, or anything amazing; it’s a biological imperative. Like pulling for the surface when you’re drowning, even if you went into the water with every intention of sinking to the bottom forever.”
“Bullshit,” he says, making me blink in surprise.
“It’s not bullshit.” Screw being tacky. I down the last of my drink in one gulp and scan the roof for a waiter with a full tray. But of course, now that I really need that second glass of champagne, all of them are on the other side of the exhibit. “Besides, lots of kids lose their parents. And most of them don’t have a sweet, wonderful aunt who’s also swimming in money to swoop in and take care of them. I had it easy, Jake. I was one of the lucky ones.”
“And now you help raise money to take care of the ones who aren’t so lucky,” he says, making me squirm in my too-high heels.
“Stop trying to make me into a saint. I’m not.” I set my glass down on the stone Balustrade and drum my fingernails on the ledge. “Jesus. Who do you have to kill to get a drink around here?”
“I’m not trying to make you a saint.” His fingers circle my wrist as he presses his champagne glass into my hand. “I’m trying to let you know that I think you’re badass. And sweet. And funny. So stop trying to convince me you’re not. It won’t work. I’m too good at seeing through people’s bullshit.”
“Except Keri’s,” I say, the barb out of my mouth before I can stop it.
I wince, regret flashing through my chest. “I’m sorry. That was mean. Sometimes I get mean when people make me feel things I don’t want to feel.”
“Things like what?” he asks, in this kind, patient tone that makes me feel even worse.
I try to hand his champagne glass back to him, but he crosses his arms, refusing to take it. “I don’t know. Off center, I guess.”
“Why does someone telling you that they like you make you feel off center?”
“You’re not supposed to like me. This is a fake relationship.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t like you as a real friend,” he says. “Right? There’s nothing in the contract that says we can’t be friends.”
I frown, not liking the idea of being Jake’s friend, for some reason.
For some reason? Ha!
Like you don’t know exactly why “friends” is a total buzzkill.
You don’t want to be his friend. You want him to kiss you until your panties catch fire and your clothes burn off and you’re both naked and he’s inviting you to lick chocolate sauce off his eight-pack.
I close my eyes, cursing beneath my breath. The inner voice is getting way too close to becoming the outer voice. I have to come clean.
If we keep spending time together, there’s no way I’m going to be able to hide the fact that I’m attracted to Jake. Better to be up front about it now, and give him the chance to back out before things get messy, than to keep pretending this is pretend until I lose control and confess I’ve got a lady boner for him that won’t quit and I can’t wait to experiment with toppings for his sadistically lickable abs.
“But if you’re not interested in being friends, that’s fine,” he says in a stiff voice. I open my eyes to find him staring out across the maze of statues, the first scowl of the night furrowing his brow. “I’m not used to people looking like they’re going to lose their lunch at the thought of socializing with me, but I don’t get out as much as I used to.”
“I’m sorry.” I hold out his drink. “Here, take your drink. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset. I play in the NHL.” He stands up straighter, rolling his shoulders back and puffing up his impressive chest. “I get pissed off or fucking mad as hell, I don’t get upset.”
I smile. “That’s manly as shit.”
“I know,” he says, continuing to scowl until I can’t help but smile.
“Well, Mr. Manly, just so you know…I think you’re pretty cool, too.”
He shoots me a narrow look from the corner of his eye. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re a lot funnier than I thought you would be.”
“That’s because you’re prejudiced against professional athletes.”
“That’s not a thing,” I say, still grinning.
“Sure it is. It’s called athletic-ism. Not to be confused with the other kind of athleticism meaning good at athletics or sports.”
I snort. “You’re so full of it your eyes are turning brown.”
“It’s genetic. All of the men in my family are full of shit.”
I laugh, loud enough to cause a few heads to turn in our direction. But the people turn away with smiles on their faces.
“You know,” I say in a softer voice, “I think we’re doing all right with the pretending to be in love thing. What about you?”
“I think so, but we should probably kiss more.” He leans closer. “Just to make sure people believe that we can’t keep our hands off of each other.”
I’m about to tell him the truth—that I really am having a hard time keeping my hands off of him, and that I don’t see that changing any time soon—when a bright flash of light stabs into my eyes, blinding me, and I realize I’ve seriously underestimated the paparazzi.