That has to be the weirdest evening of my entire life.

An NFL player that I barely know just asked me to be his freaking fiancée.

What the hell does that even mean?

I snort to myself as I watch Mason’s SUV disappear down the street. “Who the fuck even comes up with that shit?” I say to no one in particular.

Harriet’s home when I get in. I don’t tell her about my evening. I don’t tell her about Mason’s ridiculous proposal. I just want to forget about this night.

Even though, when I finally go to my room and get into bed, I can’t get his face out of my mind.

He looked amazing tonight. I don’t know what it is about him. But his eyes just mesmerize me. And his body… when I’m near him, it’s all I can do not to just reach out and touch him. To see if he feels as good as he looks.

God, I bet he’s fantastic in bed. The cocky bastard.

I hate this.

* * *

The next morning, a few hours after my early morning slot, Ethan comes rocketing out of his office, a furious look in his face. He crosses the newsroom in a few strides, his jaw set and tense, looking like he’s about to explode. It’s clear he’s on the warpath for some reason. A few seconds later Thomas, Ethan’s assistant, comes out, looking exhausted.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk up to him to see what’s going on. “What’s Ethan so upset about?” I ask.

“WMGT got a big scoop on a corruption story out of the mayor’s office that one of our people was supposed to be working on,” Thomas tells me. He reaches up and massages a tight muscle in his neck and sighs. “Ethan’s furious. It’s going to be a long, long day.”

Just then, Ethan stalks up to the two of us. “Thomas,” he snarls. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the phone with Andy?”

“I already called him,” Thomas says with exaggerated patience. “He’s on his way here.” He looks at me. “Andy was the one who was supposed to be getting the story for us.”

Wow. Judging from the look on Ethan’s face, I would not want to be Andy right now. He’s a good reporter, and a good guy.

“That’s too bad,” I murmur. “But, I mean, I’m sure Andy was doing everything he could. Sometimes scoops are just luck, right?”

Ethan turns to me, an expression of pure contempt on his face.

“Anna, no offense,” he says, his voice dripping with scorn, “but stick with what you’re good at. Looking pretty, and saying whatever we tell you to say.”

Ethan storms off, shouting back at Thomas to send Andy to his office as soon as he arrives. I’m too stunned to say anything.

Thomas gives me a sympathetic look. “Don’t take him seriously. He lashes out when he’s mad. He doesn’t mean it.”

But he does.

Even if he wouldn’t have said it if he wasn’t angry, my boss has just revealed what he really thinks about me.

I feel sick and disheartened as I go back to my desk and try to start doing some research on a story I’m supposed to be preparing for next week. But I can barely concentrate. What’s the point? It’s a story about an immigrant kid who just qualified for the national high school scholastic chess tournament. It’s barely going to even get a glance from Ethan.

Ethan doesn’t think I have anything to contribute other than my looks. He’s never going to promote me or reward my efforts, no matter what I do.

I’m going to be stuck doing stories he doesn’t care about for as long as he’s my boss. Because they’re the only ones he’ll ever think to give to me.

I’m still stewing and feeling sorry for myself when my phone buzzes. It’s my dad calling. I almost answer it, but then I realize he’ll know instantly that I’m upset. I hate to make him worry about me. It’s not good for his health.

I set the phone back down on my desk and let it go to voicemail. I’ll call him later, when I’m in a better mood. He was so excited and proud for me when I got hired at WSPR. I don’t want to give him my sob story about how I’m afraid I’ll never be taken seriously as a journalist.

Great use I made of the money you invested in my college education, Dad. I’m stuck in a dead-end job, with a boss who thinks I’m an airhead.

A few minutes later, Andy comes flying into the newsroom, looking nervous and harried. I try to give him a reassuring smile as he goes to Ethan’s office and knocks on the door. A few seconds later, the yelling starts.

Oh, brother.

I finish up what I’m working on and decide to take the rest home with me. I really don’t want to be here when Andy comes out, and I can’t concentrate right now anyway. Gathering up my files and my laptop, I dump them in my bag and head out to my car. I drive back to my place, taking the scenic route because I’m not really in the mood to work right now.

It’s a beautiful day, and I roll down the windows to let the fresh air in as I drive.

I think about what Mackenzie said when we were out for drinks yesterday.

You never know what you’ll learn or what opportunities you’ll have, just by being in the room.

In this business, you have to take every opportunity that presents itself.

Every opportunity.

I flip on the stereo and find a song I like, turning it up loud.

Mason likes turning up his music loud when he drives, too.

Mason.

Mason, who probably won’t get signed to the Rockets now, because I turned him down.

Unless he finds someone else to agree to his crazy plan.

Could he find someone else?

Of course he could. He’s Mason freaking Robichaud. He’s hot as hell and one of the best linebackers around. Who wouldn’t want to be linked to him?

His words come back to me, unbidden:

You said you’re trying to move up the food chain at your job, right? Well, what would being the fiancée of a high-profile linebacker for the Rockets do for your image? Everyone in town would know who you are, Anna. The station would be falling all over themselves to offer you a prime slot. It’s a win-win, for both of us!

The messed-up thing is, he’s probably right.

And would it be so bad? I mean, it’s not like I’d actually have to marry him. I’d just have to pretend for a while.

It’d be a little weird, but I can keep my professional distance.

Of course I can.

Right?

Before I know it, I’ve pulled my car over to the curb and put it in park.

I sit there for a few minutes, staring into space with the engine running.

Finally, I pull my phone out of my purse, scrolling through the calls. I find the number I didn’t recognize from yesterday, which must be Mason’s.

I can’t even believe I’m considering this.

Cringing, I press the call button and wait.

On the third ring, Mason’s voice answers.

“How long?” I ask.

“What?”

“How long will I have to be your fake fiancée?”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. Suddenly, I’m terrified he’s going to say it’s too late. Then:

“One season,” he says firmly. “Just until my contract is renewed. After that, we can ‘drift apart’ and split amicably before the start of the next year.”

“How do you know you’ll be re-signed for next year?” I ask skeptically.

His familiar, rumbling laugh comes over the line.

“Doll, have you seen me play?”

I ignore the sudden fluttering in my stomach. “Okay, number one, we’re gonna finish with this ‘doll’ stuff right now,” I retort.

“What’s wrong with doll?” Mason asks innocently.

“It’s demeaning. I have a name.”

“I know you have a name,” he sighs. “Let’s just say ‘doll’ is my affectionate nickname for you. You know, like a pet name.”

“Let’s just not say that,” I argue.

“Are we having our first fight?” he teases.

Through the phone, I can practically hear him grinning.

And then I realize:

I may be on the verge of making a huge, huge mistake.