We climbed the stairs to the foyer of a home I may have seen featured on a show about a billionaire and I questioned every single thing I was wearing right down to my underwear.

This was one of those times the binder of outfits hadn’t been enough. Becca had been in heaven. She even offered to come over and help me dress. I almost took her up on it.

But, between the phone call and a slew of emails with step-by-step for a simple hairdo and makeup that was just a touch more than I'd been wearing lately, I felt like I could almost pull this off.

And wouldn't that be a miracle.

But, Connor had a great point. Tonight would bring us a long way in finishing this whole thing. Half the reason Dex had him doing this was to get his bosses to chill out. Unfortunately, I was learning that if you're a pro-athlete, your bosses consisted of owners, managers, coaches, agents, fans, and who knows how many other groups of people.

Since I was the perfect girl-next-door and I was on the job, this party was the right opportunity for us to hit most of the key players and make them believe this social mirage we were creating.

Just inside the door, I'd done a quick scan of the room to make sure that not only did my clothes look good on me, but they weren't too formal or flashy or too under- or over-done.

Now, I needed to remember to send Becca flowers. Not only did I look good, but I looked right.

Connor slid his hand from my back to my waist, giving me a little pull into his side.

“Don't worry,” he whispered. “Most of the girls have been where you are. The majority of them seem pretty nice from what I can tell.” He pulled us out of the doorway and scanned the room with me.

Was I that obvious?

“See that one in the red with the slit that goes way too high up her leg?”

“How could I miss her?”

“Trust me. You want to. If you see her heading toward you, divert. Fast.”

“Got it.”

“That older man, the one actually wearing a tux with a cummerbund.” He nodded to the man picking up two champagne glasses off a tray as it passed. “Jason's wife says he's handsie, so keep a safe distance.”

“Handsie old man. Distance. Check.”

“See that—?” Connor's hand stiffened, his fingers biting a bit into my hip.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah. No. Not nothing. What?”

“The blonde in the black dress with the huge bracelet?”

I glanced toward the way he'd nodded his head. Oh.

“Yeah?”

“That's Ackerman’s girlfriend.”

“The one you hooked up with?”

His step faltered. Not enough that anyone would have noticed, but with his arm around me, I couldn’t help but feel it.

“The one who told him we hooked up. Unlike the reports, no one caught us. No one caught us because nothing happened. She came onto me in an elevator. I said no and the next thing you know I’m getting my nose checked to see if it's broken or not.”

I tried to ignore the way his arm had tightened around me. How angry he sounded.

“And?” Because, I couldn’t imagine that you got from a pass in an elevator to a nationally-televised brawl in one step.

“And, she went to Ackerman right before the game. She played it up, cried. Made it sound like I was hitting on her and was making her uncomfortable with my inability to take no for an answer.”

A part of my heart raged at that. At the fact that anyone would do that, let alone to Connor.

“He held it together for most of the game,” Connor continued, his voice even lower now. “But toward the end, as it was clear we were going to be out for the post-season, he started throwing little barbs my way. I didn’t even know what they were about until right before he came at me. And, who would you believe?”

I felt horrible. Guilty. I'd assumed it was true. No matter how much I learned about Connor, I still thought it was true. Part of me, even as I was berating myself, still questioned it...wondered if he'd caved for one night. One hook-up. One kiss. Maybe just one flirtation. Just something that put him in that situation. That he wasn’t just the victim, he was one of the players.

“Why would she do that?” I knew as soon as the words came out of my mouth that I’d messed up. It wasn't the question. It was the tone of my voice. Even I could hear the doubt tinged with sarcasm. “I mean—”

“No. Don't worry about it.” He moved to step away, but I grabbed his hand at my waist. “Why would you not wonder what everyone else has? It's her word against mine. We don't want to ever believe the woman in the relationship. It must be the jock. He gets around, right?”

So much bitterness. And I caused it. Well, not all of it. But tonight's version. I did that. Before we were even officially in the party I'd ruined our night.

“Connor, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.” And, just like that I realized I hadn't. It wasn't that I was judging him or calling him a liar. It was that I was afraid that he was that guy. Because of how desperately I needed him not to be. “I swear. I didn't.”

He shifted, his arm still around me so I stood in a half-embrace as he bent to come closer to my height.

He studied my face, his free hand lightly cupping my chin to force my gaze up to his. “I believe you.”

It's what I should have said. But, I was glad one of us had gotten a chance to.

“Good.”

We stood there, grinning at each other like idiots.

“That's our first fight.” He winked, that cocky grin coming back. “We should find a broom closet and make up.”

My heart skipped a beat at the ridiculously over-the-top pick-up line my fake boyfriend just threw at me.

“I think our first fight was the moment we laid eyes on each other and you wouldn't get out of the elevator so I could get to my meeting.”

“Doesn't count. We hadn't met yet.”

“Or maybe the second moment we laid eyes on each other when you said you’d never be caught dead with me on your arm.”

“Doesn't count. We weren't dating yet.”

“Or the time at the farmers market.”

“Doesn't count. That was a misunderstanding. Not a fight.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

“It's a gift.”

“You're a nerd.”

“Only secretly.”

I grinned, absurdly happy at the way he had a comeback for everything I said. The flow of give and take. Amazed at the sweet silliness he was willing to show when it was just us.

His eyes crinkled as he bit off a laugh. “So, about that broom closet...”

“We don't have broom closets. In a house this size we have pantries.” The deep voice broke between us and had Connor stiffening before he straightened.

“Mr. Johnson.” He unwrapped his arm from around me and offered it to Mr. Johnson. “Thanks for having us, sir.”

“And, if I'm not a complete idiot, you'd like to be just about anywhere besides here.” His gaze drifted toward me. “Can't say as I blame you. Looks like this one has brains and beauty. About time.”

He didn't even ask for an introduction. Just wandered away.

Connor went lax, letting out the most relieved sigh I’d ever heard from an adult male. “We could probably leave now that we've been seen and spoken to.”

“I haven't gotten my overly expensive glass of champagne.”

“I'll buy you a bottle.”

“Or to mingle.”

“We'll go to a club.”

“Or let the other girlfriends tell me horrible stories about you.”

“I'll buy you last week's People.”

You'd think he was four years old and stuck at his grandparents’ house for the weekend.

I took his hand, forcing him to look at me and take me seriously. “It took three hours to look like this. We're not leaving yet.”

“I don't see how that could possibly have taken three hours.”

I considered smacking him. Who says stuff like that?

“I mean," he continued. “You look dressed up and everything, but you don't look much different than normal. You know. You don't look...airbrushed. You just look like you, but with fancy clothes on.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not saying this right.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “You don’t need all this to look pretty.”

He sounded like he meant it. Like I was just me and just me wasn’t too bad now.

“But, I thought you thought...”

“I thought, what?”

“Ugly.” I tried not to blush, not to worry as I said it. “I thought you thought I was ugly.”

Connor's arm tightened around me and he pulled me into him. “I never thought you were ugly. I thought you were...I don't know. Different.”

“Great.” Just what every girl wants to be. Forget glamorous or dazzling or even cute. Different.

I braced my hand against him, trying to push back but not getting anywhere.

“Hold still.” His voice was low and tight. “Here’s the thing. I’m not going to apologize again. But, I want you to understand, because…well, you deserve to see the whole picture.”

“I’m not angry. I swear. I—”

“Hails, you obviously think that how I behaved that day is how I feel. I don’t blame you, so here’s the deal.” He ran down my back and up again. Down and up. I began to wonder if the motion, the touching was for me or for him. “When I walked in there, Dex blindsided me. I knew something was coming, but I didn't know what. I was planning on finding a way out no matter what and there you were. I said the first thing I could think of that might get him off my case. Even though you were standing there looking like Miss Girl Next Door. Granted, an annoying and messy girl next door, but still. If I'd said the first thing I thought...”

I waited, looking up into his face as he stared out over my head. What? I wanted to shout. What had you thought?

Connor cleared his throat. “Anyway. I was used to these women who couldn't leave their rooms without hair, makeup, three wardrobe changes. One girl I know changes her nail polish twice a day. Once for her daytime look and once for her evening look. We might have had a bet going on as to when her nails were finally going to fall off.”

I laughed, turning my head down into his shoulder to avoid doing something tacky—like spit in his face.

“Now.” He eased me away, straightening his cuffs before dropping his hands to his sides and stepping back. “We have a party to impress. Half of them have already noticed we're here, but now we get to really go wow them.”

His hand dropped to the middle of my back and he led me toward the main room where everyone mingled in an elegant dance of casual conversation.

“Con, it's about time you showed up.” A man slightly shorter and a whole lot broader than Connor slapped him on the back.

If he'd slapped me like that, I'd be face down and unconscious. But, Connor barely noticed it.

“Crowded rooms aren't exactly a favorite for me, you know.” Connor ran his hand down my arm until he could slip his fingers through mine and pull me forward. “Hailey, I'd like you to meet Marcus Holder. Marcus, this is Hailey Tate. Hails is a writer.”

He sounded so darn proud of the fact.

I just couldn't figure him out. Part of me liked the idea that he liked the idea that I was a writer. Another part worried that this was just part of the plan. That my writerliness was one more way to show people he wasn't stupid. See? I'm smart enough to date someone who's smart enough to be a writer.

Marcus stuck out his hand. It was huge. I wondered if they had to have special gloves made for him. My hand was basically hidden in his.

“I know," he said, surprising both of us. “My daughter was really excited when she saw the news online. You're one of her favorite writers, Miss Tate.”

“Oh. That's so sweet.” It never got old hearing that I wrote something someone enjoyed. That’s the entire point, to give people a few hours of pleasure. “How old is your daughter?”

“Thirteen.” Marcus pulled out his phone and started showing pictures. He let me know how much his daughter read and her favorite topics in school. After a few minutes, he glanced at Connor, a bit embarrassed. “I don't mean to be rude, but...Stacia sent me with a copy of her favorite book. If you have a minute before you leave, I was hoping you could sign it for her.”

“Of course! Let's do it now so we don't miss each other at the end of the night.”

Marcus looked so relieved I almost laughed. “Oh, thank you. If I'd come home without it, there would have been a special kind of daddy torture planned I'm sure. I considered forging your signature. The book’s with my wife.”

Connor just shook his head when I motioned for him to join us. “I’ll grab you that champagne you wanted. You can drink it in the car.”

With a quick kiss on my cheek before I could figure out if he was joking or not, he gave me a little push after Marcus. I followed him toward the far side of the room, glancing over my shoulder to see Connor watching us go. He raised his hand, a little smile playing about the edges of his lips.

In an alcove, several comfortable—not to mention expensive—looking couches crowded around a coffee table, a fireplace lit off to one side contrasting to the open French doors that led to a terrace.

“Chantelle, this is Hailey Tate.”

“Oh,” Her perfect features relaxed so quickly it was almost comical. “Thank goodness.”

“Wow. I guess from hearing that reaction twice we know who runs the Holder house.”

“You aren't kidding.” The woman rose, coming toward me with an outstretched hand. Talk about former models. She was gorgeous, tall, and elegant. I felt frumpy at best standing next to her. She looked like a young Lena Horn. But, when she smiled I couldn't help but feel like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. “I'm Chantelle. Yes, that's my real name. I lucked out and became a model or I would have had to go by Sandy.”

How could you not like someone who introduced herself like that?

After I signed the book, Marcus started eyeing the guys in the corner.

“Chantelle...”

“Go ahead. I'll keep Hailey company.” She smiled my way. “Don’t worry. I won’t throw you to the wolves.”

I felt myself relax, not realizing how stressed I’d been after I lost sight of Connor. “How did you know?”

“Honey, I've been doing this for sixteen years. Marcus and I have been together since high school. When those recruiters came around, I was already doing magazine shoots and making sure I was home so they weren't hooking my man up with some college coed to get him thinking the wrong way. Even after all that, I have no interest in navigating one of these parties on my own.”

“Really?” I found it difficult to believe that someone as polished as Chantelle wasn't at home at these things by now.

“And anyway, this is better than the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy. Half the group is cheating, half the group is fighting to keep his job, half the group is clueless.”

I may not be great at math, but even I saw the problem there. “That's an extra half.”

“Oh, trust me. There's a lot of overlap. Especially in the clueless one.”

Chantelle kept me company, pointing out the who’s who of the team, staff, girlfriends, and wives.

“I love watching the new crop come in. They're hopeful, eager or, manipulative. The best are the ones who are manipulative trying to play hopeful but come off eager in the worst possible way. At this point, most of the girls are here to stay. At least till the next season.”

I glanced away. I was officially New Crop. But even worse than that, I was Fake New Crop.

“Oh, honey. I didn't mean you. You're a totally different caliber. You're in the has-a-brain-and-isn't-using-it-for-evil category.”

I was about to say something witty—or, I'm pretty sure I was—when a glance across the room caught Connor with another tall blonde. Her arm was draped across his shoulder and it looked like she was running her hand through the back of his hair. Connor, for his part, was standing there smiling at her.

Smiling. At her.

My whole body went hot. There he was, flirting with some hot woman right in front of me. I didn't know if I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear or walk across the room and stab him in the eye with those little spears they put my drink's cherry on.

“Oh.” Yeah. Clever, that's me.

Chantelle turned toward where I stared at my supposed boyfriend being fondled by a bombshell.

“You better get over there.”

“What?” Why should I get over there? If he wasn't going to step away, then I wasn't going to cause a scene and drag him away. That was the one deal breaker. That he didn't embarrass me. This was going to be pretty embarrassing anyway you looked at it.

“That's Trish. Trish is on the prowl for her next Nighthawk.”

“Well, if she can sway him that easily, she can have him.” I wrapped my hands around one another so they’d stop shaking.

Chantelle slammed her drink down on the table, her smile turning less friendly. “I don't think you get how it works here. It's not like out in the normal world. Right now, she's setting Connor up to be the center of attention in the worst possible way. Guys are probably noticing that he's over there with her instead of here with you.”

“Yeah. I'm kind of noticing that myself.”

“Only, the problem is, she's got him and she knows it. If he just turns and walks away or if he's rude, he's disrespected one of the senior guy's girlfriends. If he doesn't, he's trying to steal her.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “You seem less than surprised to see him with someone else.”

I wasn't sure if it was an accusation or a question. I just knew it was true. I wasn't surprised. What surprised me was that Connor had made it weeks without us having this problem before.

“I'm not exactly his typical type.”

Chantelle was shaking her head before I was even done talking. “That's a good thing. First, because his typical type is airheads he goes out with once. And also because when a guy diverts from type, it's for a reason. Now, get your butt over there.”

There was no way I could just sit in the corner and stew. I had to go fight for “my man” against the technologically tampered-with-plastic beauty wrapped around him.

I could feel the stares as I wound my way through the room, smiling, and nodding to people who Chantelle had introduced me to. Some of the women wore Cruella de Vil smirks and were waiting for a scene or for me to just plain embarrass myself. Others looked at me and did everything but high-five me as I went by.

“Hey, Connor.” I ignored the woman's hand still on him and wrapped my arm around his waist. I darn near jumped when he lashed his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into him. “Want to introduce me to your friend?”

“Hails, this is Trish. Trish is McPhee’s girlfriend. She works at Vogue.”

Vogue. Bummer. Another writer. There go all my originality points.

“Oh, you're a writer?” I smiled my most welcoming smile as I fought to not push the hand still touching Connor away.

“A writer? What a waste of time they are. I do layout designs for our cover story pages.”

“That sounds interesting.” Now my smile wasn't so welcoming. “So, anyway, I'm a writer.”

Try to steal Connor, fine. Have your hands all over him, fine. Insult writers? Oh, we're going to Throw. Down.

“Really? You couldn't get a real job?”

“Why bother getting a real job when I get paid to work at home in my pajamas while I respond to fan mail? But, you must know what that's like. I’m sure you get lots of fan mail telling you that picture of those shoes was put at just the right angle.”

Connor snorted and covered it up with a coughing fit.

“The hardest part of my job is all that travel.” Trish smirked. “London. Rome. Paris. It's such a struggle.”

“I believe you. There's nothing like jumping time zones to age a girl quickly.” Bravado was coming out of my fingertips at this point. It must have been flowing right out of Connor and into me, because I had no other idea where these words were coming from. I rushed on, "You look great, though.”

And she knew she did, so what could she say?

“So, it was nice to meet you," I said and gave her a smile that would have insulted even a blind woman.

Trish stood there staring at me for a long moment before giving back a smile that threatened bodily harm if we ran into each other in a dark alley. “Have a nice evening.”

She wandered away, an extra snap in her sway that had me checking to see if Connor was watching her rear end. Instead, his gaze was locked on me, that little smile still playing around his lips.

“That was awesome.”

“Thanks.”

I snuggled under his arm trying not to enjoy being there too much. Trying not to let the happy glow of just the two of us mean anything.

“But, Hails, where have you been? That woman had been trying to sink her claws into me for half an hour. You were supposed to come rescue me.”

“Connor, you're not exactly known for fighting off the attention of beautiful women.”

“Exactly.” He winked at me and turned to lead us back over to where the others milled around the bar.

Well, crud.