“Jenna! Over here!”

The media already knows my name, and as I linger on the sidelines of the Youth Sports football rally that’s being held in a middle school gym before the season’s opening weekend, I oblige the cameras with a big, ecstatic smile. I reveal my newly fitted diamond ring to them, causing a firestorm of flashing bulbs. Then, with a shy, “wholesome” grin, I stroll away from the press area and return my loving gaze across the gym to where Eli is signing autographs for all the little future football players who surround him. He glances over at me and winks, and I keep beaming.

I am a sweet, unexpected fiancé, a media darling, a mystery who was unveiled to the public only a short while ago. There are already reports of the Cinderella story Eli’s PR flack has fed to the media, as well as tales about Eli’s generous heart when it comes to helping out with my mom’s illness. Isn’t love grand?

Natalie, Eli’s personal assistant, is walking next to me. “You’re quite good at this.”

She’s definitely grandma material, reminding me of my own grams before she passed on years ago. She’s even kind of hip with her pink-tinted silver hair and a pair of red glasses that hang from a jeweled chain around her neck.

“I think I already need a break,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “I feel like my face is going to freeze from all this smiling.”

“You’ll get used to it, especially when you see what an effect this has on Eli’s career. This PR plan was truly genius.”

As we keep walking, I scan the faces in the bleachers: wide eyes inspecting me, curious faces wondering why Eli Brennan, wild man extraordinaire, didn’t choose someone more his speed, like a hot woman with racecar curves and an equally fast reputation.

A woman like Lulu Preston.

But they’re also smiling at me, as if they’re cheering me on, as if I’m a regular girl who won the lottery. Which in a way, I suppose I have.

Natalie and I approach the section where the “football wives” are sitting, and my stomach twists up. I’ve already met a few of the women, and although they’re friendly, I can tell this is an exclusive club that’s hard to crack. Maybe they sense who I really am, and they’re only being polite to me.

With a squeeze to my arm, Natalie drops me off on a front bleacher, right next to the quarterback’s wife and her two boys—one who is still in a stroller that she’s rocking back and forth. Her name is Courtney Dexter, and her dark skin is flawless, her eyes a deep doe-brown. She’s just as wholesome as most of the other wives.

“Worn out from all the attention yet?” she asks.

I smile at her two-year-old, Taggert, who’s trying to commandeer the stroller from her grip. “I have the feeling that the attention is just starting.”

“You didn’t know what you were getting into with Eli, did you?”

I sure did. But I innocently shrug, and she laughs.

“Just wait until the first game. This is the last time life will seem normal before we jump into the regular season. Things are about to get intense, especially since everyone thinks we’ve got a good shot at the Super Bowl this year. Eli’s got a lot riding on his well-paid shoulders.”

As a casual football fan who watches games whenever she can with her dad and sister, I’m not surprised by this. Last year—Eli’s rookie season—the team made the playoffs, only to be thwarted by some key injuries during the final stretch. Injuries aren’t a factor this year, at least not yet.

As Taggert runs off to play with another little boy, Courtney adds, “I don’t know if anyone’s warned you yet about all the moodiness and superstitious nonsense that’s in store for you.” She leans over to me and lowers her voice. “Last year, Michael refused to have sex until we got to that last playoff game. He thought he should save up all his energy for quarterbacking on the field.”

Maybe this is how Eli plans to get through the next three months without nookie—through sheer superstition. And maybe superstition is why he was so hot-and-cold toward me when he saw me in the nightie. I should be happy to hear that, but my belly tightens instead.

Courtney waves a hand in dismissal. “Truthfully, the no-sex rule was a good break for me. I could use the rest.”

As if hearing this, her baby starts wailing, and she scoops him out of the stroller to rock him.

Other wives and girlfriends gradually filter over to us on the pretext of helping Courtney out with Baby Andre, but I’m pretty sure they’re looking me over at close range. Who is this girl? Why is she enough to make that scoundrel Eli settle down?

There are fifty thousand good reasons why I can never divulge the truth.

After the rally winds down, I go to Eli, parting the crowds as I move. He sees me, then sweeps me off the floor and lifts me above him. The tinny sound of clicking camera phones and bursts of flashes decorate the air.

“There’s my girl,” he says, looking up into my eyes.

I’ve worn my hair down today—he texted me first thing this morning asking me to do that—and my curls whisk against his face as he slowly lowers me toward him. My heart pops in a ragged rhythm, my lips tingling just before they meet his.

I hear the crowd sigh as he kisses me, and I feel a million more sighs whisper through me, too. I melt against him, lost for an eternal moment.

Then he whispers against my mouth. “They adore you, Jenna.”

Yes, that’s me. A crowd pleaser…

And I keep pleasing the masses for the next couple of days, shopping for the cameras with Natalie in high-end boutiques, attending a football field dedication ceremony where I mingle with the wives and girlfriends again, trying my best to fit in. With every innocent-looking kiss with my fiancé, it seems that I become a bigger social media sweetheart, the woman who’s saving Eli’s soul.

But after every day, we end up going our own ways—Eli to his football business, me to my room to chat on my new computer with my family and friends, smiling for them, too.

When the night before the first game arrives, the story is the same, except this time, Eli retires early with only a distant goodnight.

I guess this is how it’s going to be for the next few months. Not that it’s a surprise since I agreed to the terms, but I thought…Well, I thought the flirting meant something. I thought I saw something in Eli that showed he wanted me, and I guess I was stupid for assuming wrong. But why does it matter anyway when we come from such different worlds? After this is all over, I’ll finally go to school and he’ll resume his insane lifestyle, and we’ll never see or speak to one another again.

And that’s that.

It’s been a long day of prepping for my first interview for the local newspaper’s society section, and I’m restless. I can’t sleep. I haven’t felt comfortable enough to wander around the big house at night until now. Things are just so quiet with the crickets outside and the view of the Strip like a wavering light show in the desert. I haven’t even worn any of my adorable, sexy nighties since that first night when Eli saw me, and I’ve got on my long-sleeved white button down and boxers instead. This is more me. The part that I’m still comfortable with.

On my way to the kitchen to grab lemonade, I hear sounds from one of the leisure rooms, and I take a detour to peer inside.

Eli is sprawled on an oversized sectional leather sofa watching the huge TV screen. Explosions rock the sound system during a car chase. I catch the expression on his face before he realizes I’m standing there. He looks so…lost. I identify the quality easily because I feel that hollow strangeness myself, and something inside of me reaches out to him.

It’s as if he can feel it, like fingers of sympathy brushing his shoulder, and he glances back at me. For a naked moment, I clearly see the lost boy—the one with a shitty, controlling father, the one who screwed up so badly with the black book, the one who probably feels as if it’s him against the world most days.

But then Eli banishes all emotion, grinning wolfishly at me in my baggy button down and boxers. I don’t have to be in a baby-doll nightie to see that he still appreciates the sight of my tanned legs.

“You’re up late,” he says.

“You, too.”

“My mind won’t rest.”

I’ve already found out that football players go to more meetings than I would’ve ever guessed. His head is probably full of plays and pass routes.

“Do you have the first-game jitters?” I ask.

“Never.” I see the cool, calm player who’s paid the big bucks to pull out wins—at least on the field. It’s as if nothing gets to him, although I know that’s not true.

He jerks his chin to the spot next to him, inviting me to sit down, and I hesitate. This seems off-script, not my business—our business—but there’s something about the look that I saw on his face that pulls me in. Reluctantly, I walk around the sofa and ease down onto the soft cushions. I leave plenty of space between us.

“Jesus,” he says. “I don’t bite.”

I don’t mention that he sure looked like he wanted a bite of me the other night when I was wearing that nightie. But I’m pretty covered up now, and he never mentioned our encounter, so I guess I’m safe.

With a soft laugh that I hope doesn’t sound too unsettled, I scoot closer to him.

“Lethal Weapon,” he says, gesturing toward the screen. “I’ve seen it so many times that I’ve got it memorized. I don’t know why, but just knowing what’s going to happen puts me to sleep. It’s a habit of mine that you’ll get used to.”

“So explosions are your lullaby.”

“I never thought of it that way, but yeah. You’re right.”

He sinks down into the cushions, one of his thick arms resting on the back of the sofa behind my head. It’s as if there’re vibrations emanating from his skin, straight into mine, giving me a buzz. But while the movie plays on, he seems oblivious to me, totally on board with our business arrangement now that football has become his number one priority.

I start to get into the movie, the blue of Mel Gibson’s eyes making me think of Eli’s piercing gaze, and it’s only when I feel Eli’s fingers playing with one of my curls that I become distracted.

The same buzz is swirling in my belly, trickling lower until I feel it between my legs. I can smell the soap on his skin, a heady, clean and manly combination that puts a hitch in my breathing.

I shift in my seat, and even though I don’t mean to, I get even closer to him. He moves his arm so that his fingers touch my shoulder. He toys with the fabric of my shirt, almost as if he isn’t thinking about what he’s doing. Maybe he’s not. I don’t know. But, gradually, I find myself shifting closer, as if I’m finding a more comfortable position. All I really want is a touch from him, something to tide me over.

Before I know it we’re side-by-side, and he’s still playing with the top of my sleeve.

I can hear him breathing. I’m much too aware of it, and I’m trying my damnedest not to breathe too loudly myself. I don’t want him to hear how the oxygen gets hooked in my lungs, don’t want him to know that I’m yearning for much more than I ever bargained for.

As another explosion from the sound system rocks the room, I close my eyes, feeling the tremors inside of me. I experimentally press my hip against his, and I hear his breathing clip to a stop.

Then there’s no breathing at all, not from him, not from me.

Not until he suddenly pulls me onto his lap in one breathtaking move.