THE MAKEUP ARTIST Personal Shopper Becca hired had gone all out. I couldn't even name everything she’d put on my face. In the end, when I told her there was no way I'd be able to do that—let alone want to—she’d handed me powder, lip-gloss, and mascara for everyday coverage.

Even I could handle that.

Becca called that morning to make sure I was wearing the perfect outfit that would say I’m the woman he’s willing to change for. Even my clothes were lying now.

With only four weeks on our deal—not to mention our schedules—Connor and I had decided to move our relationship up a few weeks.

It had been two days since the pizza delivery girl had posted her picture and mentioned “some short girl” Connor was with. Thinking back, he’d been brilliant. He’d given her all the info we’d want out there without making it seem planted and the girl had completely failed to mention more than my height.

Or, lack thereof.

On top of that, Connor had been caught with Ackerman’s girlfriend about three weeks before. Figuring he and I met right after that and I caved to his charm immediately, we'd be halfway through our time together. Probably magically making me his longest relationship ever. So, tonight was a big show of Just Comfortable Enough.

Connor was right on time. I'll admit it was a bit of a shock. I figured him for the wander-in-whenever-he-remembered-to-show-up type of guy. The way he’d held us both up for the meeting the first day didn’t scream I value punctuality. And may the universe help us all if a model crossed his path.

Luckily, I’d made sure to be on time for this. Or Kasey who was obsessed with timeliness came over to help me get ready and made sure I was on time for this.

I grabbed my wrap and headed toward the door before the buzzer finished echoing against the walls. At the top of the stairs, I ran head-on into a solid chest. Patting my nose to make sure it wasn't broken, I glanced up.

“You're ready?” He gave me one of his probably-patented once-overs.

“You said seven.”

We stood there, facing off eye-to-eye, with him on a lower step, because we were both punctual. For once.

“Right. I know. But I've never met a woman who was actually on time.” He gave me a look that said, and that includes you.

I smiled, trying to portray that my occasional tardiness was part of my charm.

I considered the high-maintenance women he dated. With the hair and the clothes and the whole have-to-be-perfect thing, no wonder he was always waiting.

“Well, I don't have as much work to do as the girls you date.”

His eyebrow went up and I realized that didn't come out the way I meant it.

“I mean, I don't do as much to myself to go out...you know? I guess my self-standards are lower. I mean, with the makeup and everything. I’m just…yeah.” And thank goodness for that. After my makeover, I definitely did not envy the women who had to look perfect all the time for their job.

He was chuckling now. A deep laugh under his breath, and I couldn't figure out which part he was laughing at, the low-maintenance part or the stumbling-around-for-words part.

“No worries. I know what you mean. I guess I'm just used to sitting on uncomfortable, feminine furniture, sipping a Whiskey Neat for half an hour before each date.” He shrugged. “My own personal date ritual.”

Oh, geez. Whiskey Neat was Scotch, right? I didn't even own any whiskey. Or Scotch. I was already a fake girlfriend failure.

“Don't worry.” He must have seen the panic. “I can order a drink at the restaurant if I want one. I guess I was just looking forward to having a comfortable chair to sit in for once.”

Connor rolled his shoulder and I noticed the strap of a bag over it. Please, please don't let him be one of those guys who carried a weird murse thing. Or who wore indoor scarves. Or got manicures.

Connor didn’t seem like a girly-guy, but he was edging toward high maintenance if any of those things were true.

I scanned him for a scarf or overly fashionable socks before asking, "What's that?”

“I brought some things over. I was talking to my brother Gavin and he pointed out that if we'd been dating seriously for a few weeks, I'd have some stuff at your house. And they'd catch us sneaking out to breakfast some morning wearing something different than the night before.”

Stuff? And he was going to put it in my place and leave it there?

This was way more involved than I'd anticipated.

Also, the idea that people would be aware enough of us that they’d know he was wearing different clothes—Well, that was a level of celebrity tracking I hoped my visit to would be brief.

“So...I was thinking we could leave the bag here instead of taking it to dinner?”

“Yeah. Yes. Of course.” I turned and force-marched myself back to the door, sliding the key home and ignoring the man behind me until I couldn't. “You're not really going to stay here are you?”

He set the bag down on the couch and glanced around. Taking in my tiny furniture and my small, cozy space with the non-guy-sized television.

“Of course I am.”

I didn't see how there was an “of course” involved in this.

“But that means sleeping here.”

Connor stepped over my miniature coffee table and came to hover over me. His gaze slid over my face before coming back to my eyes. He winked, giving me that trademark smile I’d seen on every website hit I’d pulled up last night. “There's not a lot of sleeping involved when I stay over my girlfriend’s house.”

I could feel the heat rushing up my neck—part embarrassment, part annoyed.

“Oh. I'm so glad to hear that.” I forced a grin as he started in surprise. “Because I can't guarantee the couch is very comfortable.”

“I am not sleeping on the couch.”

“Then it's the floor, because you're not sleeping with me.” I crossed my arms, so flustered I feared my hands were shaking. “I don't know you. I'm not dating you. If you're sleeping in this apartment, it's on the couch. Or the floor. Although, as you've pointed out, the leather chair is comfortable.”

“Hailey, we're both adults.” He turned on the charm for this attempt. “There's no reason we can't share a bed.”

“I understand you don't know me. So, I'll say this once. I'm not a prude, but my values around sex and relationships obviously aren't as lax as yours. I don't go sharing my bed—for sex or sleep—with random guys I'm trapped in fake relationships with. If you stay, you know your options.”

I pushed past him before he could respond. This wasn't an argument. An argument meant he might have a chance of persuading me. This was a non-negotiable and he better get that if this whole thing was going to work.

I threw the door open, annoyed with myself when it banged into the wall behind it.

“So, we can go to dinner and you can decide if you want to stay here—on the couch—later. Or we can call it off. If you forfeit, you make it very clear to Dex that it’s on you. I have a proposal going out the door in a few weeks and I don't need their little agent mafia bad-mouthing Catherine when I need every negotiating super power working in my favor.”

“Forfeit?” His voice had dropped to a new low and I realized my mistake immediately. “Sweetheart, I don't lose. And I certainly don't forfeit. But get one thing straight. I also don't sleep on couches.”

“Then I guess you'll be going home tonight.”

I stepped into the hall, forcing his hand.

“Fine.” He pulled the door shut behind us. “Let's go to dinner.”

Worst. Start. To a date. Ever.

I tromped down the stairs, annoyed at Connor. Annoyed to be breaking in more new shoes. Annoyed I could have stayed in and gotten pages written and maybe watched an old episode of Buffy.

When I reached for the front door, a dark sleeve shot past me, pulled it open, and held it as I attempted to sail through as graceful as a swan. I’m sure I looked more like a waddling penguin. But, hey. At least my hair looked good.

On the sidewalk, Connor stepped forward to flag down a cab.

“Where are we going?”

“Il Giardino.” He named a restaurant nearby that was busy enough we'd blend in without the paparazzi of his typical set, but we'd still be spotted out together.

“That's only four blocks from here.”

Connor nodded, oblivious to my point.

“Why don't we just walk?” Did the man not realize how much cabs were?

“You want to walk?” The way he asked it had me wondering why it was such a confusing idea.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Aren't you afraid you'll get...” He waved a hand in my general direction. “Mussed? I mean, don't you want the moment where you get out of the cab and everyone glances?”

“Not really.” And, did people really do that? Make cab entrances? That sounded stressful. “One more reason to just walk.”

He kept looking at me and I had no idea if I was supposed to add something to this.

“You really don't care, do you?”

“Should I?” This was way too confusing between the bag and the whiskey and the cabs. I was going to have to make myself pre-date flashcards at this rate.

“I don't know.” He looked like he really didn't. Like he was thinking it through and trying to come to some conclusion.

“Do you?” I asked, figuring I’d messed up again.

“I don't think so.” He shook his head, a surprised look raising his eyebrows. “No. Nope, I don't care. Let's walk.”

We headed east. The sole sound between us the clicking of our shoes. I was focused on not falling or getting the pointy heels stuck in a crack or grate when a heavy arm fell across my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” I tried to step away, but his hand tightened where it cupped my shoulder.

“There's no way I'd walk down the street without having an arm around my girlfriend. If we're not making an entrance showing up in a cab, then we'll have to look the part this way.”

He was right.

It kind of grated.

So far, he’d been right often enough that I was beginning to realize I’d underestimated him. Which could be a problem if I was going to make sure I stayed a safe distance from any dating danger zones.

We walked on, both pretending this wasn’t the least bit awkward. Okay, I was pretending I didn't feel awkward. Who knows what Connor was thinking? We were a block from the restaurant when he glanced at his watch.

“We're earlier for our reservation than I expected.”

I don't think I'd ever gone out with a guy who bothered to make reservations. Or maybe Connor didn't. Someone who made as much money as he did must have lackeys. The whole thing was suspicious. He probably made reservations and then tipped off the papers himself. I'd heard about the Hollywood wars over actresses doing that to get coverage. Like those just-coming-out-of-the-gym photos where the person looks really surprised to be caught. Not to mention, completely not sweaty.

Because that happened in the real world.

“Why did you make a reservation?” I tried to keep the suspicion out of my voice, but when he shot me an odd look I knew I'd failed.

“So we wouldn't have to wait. Also, I have a few favorite restaurants where I've gotten to know the owners. Not letting them know I'd be there was just rude if there's a chance we might have an audience.” The tone of his voice was not all warm and fuzzy on that last word. “I waited till the last minute though so we could stay low key. I was afraid Dex had called the papers.” He steered me across the street at the crosswalk. “He seems to know where I am no matter what. I've tried texting, calling, having my brother call. It's like Dex has LoJack on my phone. Would you believe I actually left it at home for a few days to test the theory?”

No. I wouldn't have, but after seeing Dex in action maybe I should rethink that.

“So, you think he calls the papers on you?” I asked. “You think that's how you have so much coverage?”

He shook his head, not even bothering to look down at me.

“Sweetheart, I was born for this coverage. I have it because I'm the best at what I do, I make a lot of money, I’ll help get the Nighthawks to the pennant, and I date some of the most beautiful women in the world. If I wasn't me, I'd be buying those dumb rags just to check me out too.”

As statements went, that one was an excellent reality check. His social karma moves would only get him so far.

Connor pulled the front door open and allowed me to pass by him into the restaurant. One thing was for sure. He had excellent manners…when he didn’t have horrible ones.

Dex had probably sent him to some etiquette school to get him house broken.

“Mr. Ryan!" The girl behind the hostess stand sounded as if she'd just run the four blocks from my house. “We weren't expecting you for half an hour.”

“Not a problem, Sheila. Hailey and I can just grab a drink in the lounge.” He flashed a smile so smooth, so charming I thought she was going to drop to her knees and thank him for knowing her name.

Which, I’ll admit, I was impressed by.

I jumped when Connor's hand landed on my lower back. All this touching was nerve-wracking. But, let's be honest. He was so used to dating five-foot-eleven girls, he was probably aiming for my butt.

In the bar, we found a low table in a dim corner. The booth was a circular, plush-covered deal and as I slid in, Connor moved in behind me. He was better at playing this game out than I was.

“Okay," I said, trying to get my game back under control. I leaned against him in what would hopefully look like a comfy cuddle, but was just to discuss our plan without being overheard. “Tonight we're out in public enough to be seen. We've known each other several weeks. This isn't a first date. It's the date where we just stop caring if we get caught since we've both started to take this more seriously.”

He dropped his arm behind me, cupping my shoulder again. His smile was somewhere between condescending and humoring. I made a note to self: Look those up to see how different they are.

“I'm sure you can manage to chill and enjoy yourself.” His hand ran down my arm and then back up, slow, soothing movements with just the tips of his fingers that had me relaxing against him. “Will it really be so bad having a few nice meals with me?”

Would it be hard? I didn't know enough about him. I knew he was the bachelor of the hour and he was a big shot in the baseball world. I knew stores had started selling Mrs. Ryan t-shirts and couldn't keep them in stock. I knew he dated a lot and had a very clear image as a playboy.

But I didn't know if he read or voted. I didn't know if he went to college and, if he attended, how he did. Did he have a pet? Where was he from? Was he close to his family beyond that brother he kept sucking into his public adventures?

When it came right down to it, I knew less about him than the average girl on my block. I doubted between his money and his lifestyle that we had many of those things in common.

“Connor, I just—” How to put this nicely? "I just don't think we're the same kind of person. To me this is part of the job.”

His lips flattened and at the same time managed to show an almost cruel smirk. “Are you afraid I'm going to fall in love with you?”

If sarcasm had a face, it would be the one he was looking at me with right now.

“I have no idea how you even got that out of what I just said.” Because, really.

“So you don't think I'd be interested in you?”

“You don’t have to be mean about it.” I couldn’t believe he was bringing this up again. “I know your type. The whole world knows your type. I'm five inches too short, two cup sizes too small, and six years too old. Which, honestly, aren’t those girls starting to feel a little young to you? So why don't you leave the sarcasm for someone it will work on?”

I pushed his arm off my shoulder and tried to slide farther down the booth.

“Hailey.” He wrapped a hand around my wrist. “Stop. Settle down and listen.”

I tried to pull away, but his loose hand had tightened on my arm.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean that sarcastically. I was joking. I thought you'd see the humor in it.”

“You don't know me any more than I know you, so I don't know how you think I'd magically understand anything you'd joke about.” I was afraid we’d never be speaking the same language at this rate.

“Okay. Listen. This is what I'm thinking. We're going to—”

“Hi, Mr. Ryan!"

“Sorry it took me so long.” She rushed on as if we’d been waiting hours. “What can I get you guys to drink?”

“Hi, Rachel. I'll have a Whiskey Neat.” He turned toward me, forcing the attention my way. “Hailey, what did you want tonight?”

I wanted to understand what was going, to get his intentions and be able to play along. But, in lieu of that, I’d take an adult beverage.

So I asked, "What do you have for white wines?”

She ran through a list and thank goodness there were a couple good ones I recognized.

We sat quietly, waiting for Rachel to bring our drinks, his hand doing that soothing up-and-down thing on my arm again.

After we'd been beveragized and Rachel had wandered off, Connor took a sip of his whiskey then paused, waiting for something.

“Here's what I'm thinking.” He set the glass down and pulled his arm away so he could shift to face me. “Why don't we just think of this as hanging out? You know, as friends. You're smart and clean up to be cute in that girl-next-door way. Maybe it will be fun. Being able to go out with someone and not have any pressure. Not to mention, the whole we're-pulling-something-over-on-everyone thing.” He gave me a hopeful grin. I think it was dawning on him that he was the one with something to lose here. “It's kind of funny, don't you think?”

I thought about my rapidly approaching book release, focusing on the fact that this misadventure had the power to make or break it. I pushed those worries aside because I could only handle what I could handle.

“Sure. Why not?” I mean, what did I have to lose? It's not like I was escaping this, so I might as well go along for the ride.

“Great.” He eased back and took another sip. “I think this will be just fine.”

Yeah. So said the man used to getting everything handed to him on a silver platter.

To be fair, it was amazing how quickly he was adjusting to the plan. I guess when a person was as goal-driven as he was, they embraced the route to a win and went full throttle. Or whatever baseball players did.

“But, I was serious.” I wanted this as clear as the short glass his whiskey glimmered in. “Do not embarrass me. No cheating on me during this or anything.”

I glared, adding weight to my words.

“You're adorable.” He grinned, ignoring the weighted words. “But, I promise. I know you seem to think I'm this womanizing jock. And, granted, I'm a jock and I like women, but that doesn't always equal the same thing.”

“You've been featured on TMZ for goodness sake!" Normal people did not end up on gossip rag TV shows.

“And?”

“And, it's not like you've managed to be faithful to a woman. Every week you're on a cover with at least one new girl under your arm. I especially loved the cover of you on four different dates with four different women in one week.” It was my turn to casually sip my drink. I forced myself to take a moment to enjoy the forty-dollar glass before adding, "I didn't even know there were that many rich, beautiful, famous women in town. Do you have them imported?”

I had no idea where this Hailey was coming from. I couldn’t even stand up to my own agent, but with Connor…well, I guess I was afraid if I let him get a foot in the door, I’d never gain that territory back.

“This is your idea of relaxing and playing nice?” He leaned in, getting so close I could see the silver flecks in his eyes. “I'm going to say this one more time. I do not cheat. I play fair. Every girl I go out with knows the deal and if things get even slightly serious, I treat them that way. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to be judged on my actions instead of by those supposed stories slapped together that don't represent an accurate picture of my life.”

Oh. Um. Yeah. Well...He sounded angry enough that it was kind of hard not to believe him. So, maybe I'd been a bit quick to judge.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he demanded.

“Yes. I said okay, alright?”

We stared each other down and then he laughed.

“Hailey, I have to tell you. For a fake girlfriend, you're really high maintenance.”

“I'm high maintenance?” I tried to lower my voice but outrage was making me squeak. “You date some of the most high maintenance women on the planet.”

“Maybe. But, I show up, my whiskey's waiting, they come down, they're happy to go anywhere, they’re good at small talk, and they don't badger me about the tabloids.”

“You'll have to excuse me if I have zero experience understanding what goes into a tabloid date. I'm happy hanging out with my girlfriends, meeting guys who don't come with a rule book, and writing. It may sound boring to you, but it's a good life.”

“That doesn't sound boring. It sounds nice.”

Geez. Nice. Kiss of death, if this had been a real date.

Maybe Connor was right. Maybe we just needed to write this off and enjoy ourselves.

“If we're going to pull this off,” I said, trying to play nice. “Then tell me something about yourself? Like...where are you from?”

“You don't know that from all those tabloids you buy.”

“I wouldn't buy that trash. It's horrible. Plus,” I went on, getting to what I really found offensive about those cheap rags. “I don't think any of them have hired a real copy editor in forever.”

“And yet, you just spouted off about some very specific articles and covers.”

“Oh.” Oh, if only there were a way out of this. “I might have done a little research last night.”

“On me?” That grin broke into a full out smile. “You researched me?”

“Just enough to find out if you're a serial killer or anything weird like that.” And, when he'd known about my website, I'd realized I was behind the ball. If information was a commodity, then I was broke.

“And to take a count of how many famous, beautiful women I'd gone out with in the last month. Just so you know, I've also had an enjoyable evening with a lawyer and a woman who runs her own boutique.”

Of course he had.

I refocused, trying to remember to toss my tabloid thoughts out and play fair.

“So, again," I pushed us back toward the right conversational track. “Where are you from?”

“I grew up outside Chicago. Nice suburb. A mom, a dad, a brother. Good times.”

I tried to read between the lines, figure out what he wasn't saying. It seemed too straightforward.

“Hailey, I can see that brain of yours trying to create something where there's nothing to worry about. I have a great family. I have another condo there so I can spend time year round in my own place. Somewhere to go home to. I did all right in school. Not amazing, but would have gone to college even without the ball scholarship. I was a business major just in case. Nothing exciting. No dark hidden secret you'll stumble upon.”

I'll admit I was disappointed.

Of course, that was just his family background. There was still sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll to cover.

“Ever lived with someone before?” I asked.

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“No.”

“Really?” I found that hard to believe. You heard all these stories about athletes with steroids and models drugging to stay skinny and energetic. And he was at every A-list party on the East Coast. It seemed difficult to believe he hadn't indulged. “Never?”

“Nope. I went to school on scholarship, which meant getting random tests. Then, by the time we got out, I'd already seen what any type of drug could do.”

“Okay.”

“Keep going. This is kind of fun.” He picked up that whiskey he was nursing.

Those must be the smallest sips ever. I was used to people drinking their drinks. But maybe he felt the same way about alcohol he felt about drugs.

“Or, maybe I should play this game too.” He set the glass down and studied me like there might be some answers written right there on my forehead. “Your bio says you're from New England. Here?”

“Vermont.”

“Really?” As if no one was actually from Vermont.

“Yes. I'm saving my lies for something bigger. Things that if I tell you, you’ll have to disappear forever with the knowledge.”

I was shocked when he laughed a true, deep laughter that had other people looking our way.

“I hadn't realized you were funny. I mean, your books are supposed to be funny and you say some odd stuff. But, purposefully funny I wasn't expecting.”

“I'll try not to do it again.” I kept my voice dry and made a strong attempt to not roll my eyes as he laughed again.

“Connor.” An older man stood at the edge of our table, his smile more welcoming than I’d expected. “I didn't know you were coming in tonight.”

“Mr. Antonelli.” Connor slid out of the booth and wrapped an arm around the man. “Last minute plans. I thought it was time I showed Hailey where the good food is.” He motioned to me and I wondered if I was supposed to slide out too, but Mr. Antonelli waved me down.

“This Hailey, she's the first girl you've bothered to introduce me to. She must be the reason you haven't been coming around with all those salad-eating skinny girls lately.”

My college roommate was Italian. That was the only reason I knew I'd just been complimented instead of being called fat.

“She's definitely keeping me on my toes.”

I watched them chat, Connor steering the conversation away from any outright lies.

“Where is Sheila seating you? Did you ask to sit outside? It's a nice night, not too breezy. We have those nice heat lamps, keep things snug. You might enjoy it.”

I could see Connor struggling, trying to figure out what the right thing was and I realized something. He was smart enough to make the right call. Sure, we were going to argue more than any two humans should over the next few weeks, but we had the same endgame: Survive, get the right PR, and not kill each other—Or, per Connor's suggestion, enjoy each other's friendship.

“I think we'll sit inside this week. We're still...flying under the radar.” He glanced my direction with one of those smiles that made you feel like you were in on a secret with him.

But, of course, I was.

It really was absurd.

We were still flying under the radar because we hadn't existed before this week. And, we didn't want insta-fame as a couple because that would be nuts.

Plus, I'd realized there were a few more people I needed to bring into the secret web of conspiracy to make this work.

“I understand.” Mr. Antonelli nodded as if this were very sage and he was in complete agreement. “Let me show you to a table then.”

I slid to the edge of the booth and looked up to find Connor there, hand outstretched, to help me out.

One thing was for sure, if the fame, money, and good looks stopped getting him women, his charm could.

Mr. Antonelli showed us to a comfortable table in the corner where we'd be away from the hustle of the front door and the kitchen, but not shoved in a small alcove.

“I'll send Margo over to take your order. You know how she loves to see you.” He put his hand over his heart as if he were sharing a secret of the love they all had.

“You just want the latest gossip,” Connor accused. “And, look at you willing to send your wife to do the dirty work.”

It was funny seeing him laid-back and joking with a restaurant owner. It wasn't something I expected. I kept waiting to see the slick side of him the media showed. The I'm-too-sexy-for-my…well, everything. He shook the man’s hand once more before sitting down and giving me his full attention.

But, at the same time there was still something guarded about him. It took me a moment to realize that while he seemed to genuinely enjoy the people he was introducing me to, he also was a little standoffish. His wall was just one of overwhelming friendliness.

“So, where were we?” He snapped his fingers, pulling me back from my study. “Oh, yes. I remember. Any pets?”

“Not since Franklin.” I regretted the words as soon as I said them. That wasn’t somewhere I wanted to go.

“And Franklin was...”

“A rescue beagle I brought home and hid from my landlord for four years.”

“I didn't see any doggie stuff around.”

I shouldn't have brought him up. It had been off the cuff—there was no delete button.

“No. He...” I really wanted that delete button. “He got away from his walker last spring and was hit by a car. They told me it was really fast. The poor kid couldn't have missed him if she'd been psychic. When I got there she couldn't stop crying.”

And I hadn't been able to either. Not for days.

“And you went over and told her it was okay. That it wasn't her fault. That you understood even though you wanted to sit on the sidewalk and bawl?”

The cop who showed up had called me a soft hearted idiot when he’d seen me trying to help the girl.

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” I focused on the sconce-over his head and blink-blink-blinked the almost tears away. A year isn’t that long to be missing your dog. And, when it happened, it wasn’t like I was going to scream at the girl. There was a little blanket laid out over Franklin and she couldn’t stop staring at it and sobbing. “Anyone would have said that no matter how upset they were.”

“Hailey, you have no idea how nice you are. You're just one of those girls. Let me guess, everyone's best friend in high school. You didn't date much, but always had guys around you. If something went wrong, everyone knew to call you because you'd bail them out. Straight As with the occasional B, but you didn't work too hard at it—just hard enough. Your teachers liked you except the ones who were trying too hard to be cool. Them you annoyed because they didn't know what to do with someone who actually liked books and words and learning. Your parents trusted you so much that if there was a video of a bank robbery with you on it, they’d still believe you when you told them you didn't do it. You've been in like twenty weddings—at least a third of them as the maid of honor. You date nice guys who are a little dull, but you never have to worry about them. You'd never blame someone who was at fault for hitting your pet because they already have to live with it.”

I wasn't quite sure what to say. He was close—too close—on too much of that. And I was still trying to figure him out.

“How'd I do?”

I wanted to lie, to tell him not even close. But there was too much truth there.

“I didn't have a ton of guy friends, but you're right about the ones I did have. I am still close with a lot of my girlfriends. The weddings might be a slight exaggeration. My parents would still believe me if they were at the bank. So, I guess all-in-all...not bad.”

He grinned a new grin. I hate to say almost…boyish. Obviously he was more than pleased with himself.

He threw his arm around the back of his chair, stretched out, looking just a tad too arrogant… even for him. “You know you want to.”

“Want to what?”

“You know you want to try. But you’re going to be wrong or find out I'm not the guy you thought I was. Or,” he leaned toward me, lowering his voice, “maybe I’m a good liar.”

Okay, now he was just pushing my buttons. The guessing was one thing. The reading my mind was a whole other level of intrusion.

“How do I know you'll be honest?”

“I'll make you a deal—if you're up for it.” He leaned forward again in what must have looked like an intimate conversation to others.

“What's the deal?” And how worried I should be?

“For the next three weeks we'll be completely honest with each other knowing the other one will never tell anyone. That includes friends, family, tabloids, anonymous blogs...” He paused, giving me a look that would make an angry fan back down. “Putting things in books.”

Oh. Ouch.

“I'm not sure I can promise that last one. I put everything in books. I don't even realize I'm doing it sometimes. You just hear stuff and it's so good it gets worked around in your head and some version of it comes out on the page.”

“No wonder your parents wouldn't believe the surveillance tapes.” He shook his head as if this were something to pity. “You’re way too honest for your own good. Even before we decided on our deal.”

“I mean, I can try. But that's not always how it works.”

“Could you promise to not overtly and knowingly use specifics from our deal?”

I could do that. Anything that specific—or overt—would be obvious. I'd pick it up on my read-through if I didn't notice it while writing.

“Okay. Deal. But, you have to know everything is research to me.”

“Fine.”

It was my turn to lean forward, watching him closely for a tell, for anything that would help read him like he'd read me. “You were raised in a strict but loving home. Your mom stayed home, but she did stuff on the side. Lots of volunteering, maybe some part-time work. Your brother was your best friend after he was done being your biggest enemy. You had plenty of girlfriends through high school, but somewhere around a year before college you settled on one. Together, you guys were voted pretty much everything. Most popular, best looking, homecoming king and queen. You broke it off when you went to college where you immediately fell in with the jocks and cheerleaders. You annoyed the heck out of your professors and tutors because they all realized how smart you were but you stayed focused on baseball. Not that you didn't do well. Bs were good enough for you. The occasional C wouldn't kill you. You've never been in a serious relationship. That isn't just because of the playboy thing. It's mostly because you know you're not in a place in your career and life to settle down so you don't want to get into something and blow it because that would be too much like losing—instead you get into lots of little things and then ease out of them. Politely.”

I have no idea how I was suddenly sure about the last bit. Maybe it was because since we’d started tonight, I'd watched him treat everyone—no matter their job—with respect. Everyone who wasn’t forcing him into a deal he hadn’t made got nothing but consideration and respect. Maybe it was because I wanted to believe he was a nicer guy than the tabloids made him out to be. Whatever it was, I was pretty sure the playboy thing was a side benefit because he wasn't ready to settle down and not the reason he wasn't settling down.

Or, at least I’d come to like him just enough to hope that was true.

Connor took a long drink from his ice water before putting it down.

“Not even close.”

“What?” The table closest to us looked my way. I'd been so sure I was on to something with some of my things. “That can't be true. I have to be close on some of it.”

“Okay, the family stuff was pretty right on. In high school I was...I grew four inches senior year and was still shorter than the average shortstop. I grew another five from freshman year of college into sophomore.”

I did some quick reverse math and came up with the only thing I could: Connor had been a runt.

“College I was red shirted as a freshman—so I sat out the whole year. They were hoping I'd keep growing. Some of the coaches had no clue how I'd ended up on the team at my size. But my batting average...well, that college record still hasn't been broken. And I was great at fielding, quicker than I looked.”

Not at all what I expected. But I could see it. He'd talked about the scholarship and the drugs already. I could see him being a kid who went to college to go into business and stumbled into stardom. It seemed to almost make sense he'd accidentally become a baseball god.

“And the rest?” I asked.

He may have been open about his family and his ball playing, but he shut down as soon as I asked about the relationships.

“Not everyone is built for the picket fence, Hailey.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means people assume that young, successful athletes that date around are trying to fill a void. Being single is somehow the equivalent of filling up the hole in your heart with drugs or booze or some other adrenaline rush. But the thing is,” he leaned in, lowering his voice and I realized he was telling me the truth as he saw it. “The thing is that some people are just happy. They’re not lonely being single. They’re not feeling the loss of a soul mate or that their house isn’t a home because they live in it alone. I like my life. I have a great life with lots of opportunities to do things I couldn’t do if I were married. Travel, sports, not worrying about getting traded. When this is done I’ll do things like rock climb and jump out of planes and other things I’d feel nervous about if someone was counting on me.”

He took a long drink of his water, studying me over it. Maybe to ensure I was taking in what he was saying.

“Okay,” I said, because it seemed like what I should say.

“I’m not saying,” he rushed on. “That marriage is bad. I just can’t imagine that being married to anyone, to be with someone forever, would make me happier than I am now.”

I started running through all the reasons that could be. Horrible childhood, tragic love dying in his youth, the—

“Hailey.” He interrupted my thought process. “You’re doing it again. Let it go. Just, believe me. I know me. I’m not looking for someone to fill a void. There’s no void, so…”

He trailed off and shrugged, as if that said it all.

I guess for him, it did.

And that was obviously all I was getting on that.

I still wanted there to be something else. The romance writer in me couldn’t believe that some people were just happy with their lives without that One Person.

When I thought about it, that wasn't a lie. Not everyone was built for the picket fence.

But was Connor?

Who knew...and, really, who cared?

When this was over, he could go back to all the non-picket-fencing he wanted to.

He'd promised to be honest and play fair, and that was all a girl could really expect from a pro-player...I mean, pro-baseball player anyway.