Fake Fiancée

“So is the date set yet?” Carrie asked.

A snort came from Isabella, and I sent her a glare. Don’t mess this up for him, I conveyed. She stuck her tongue out at me, and Mimi popped her on the leg. Isabella flinched and ended up spilling a bit of champagne on the front of her shirt. I giggled. I’d woken up in a bad mood, knowing I was coming here, but I loved my little family.

I focused back on Carrie and smiled as I lied through my teeth. “We’re planning on late next year, but no venue has been chosen. The draft is in January, so as soon as we know what team he’ll play for, we’ll be moving . . .” my voice trailed off.

Max would be leaving Atlanta—and me—soon.

“I’m the maid of honor,” Isabella told her with a smug smile, reaching over to the tray on the ottoman style coffee table. She grabbed the champagne bottle and poured herself another glass.

“Yes,” I said.

“Be sure you spell my name right too, Isabella Monroe. I-S-A-B-E-L-L-A and M-O-N-R-O-E.”

I quirked an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t exactly warmed up to Max since he’d sprung the proposal, but she was trying because I asked her to. I was committed to the fake fiancée stuff because I wanted Max to have everything he wanted. Mimi, on the other hand, continued to sing his praises.

Carrie made a note and moved on with her pre-approved questions, and I answered as best I could. My traitorous eyes kept drifting over to the fishtail dress. The model was a statuesque blonde and her hair had been swept up in a disheveled but utterly appealing style. A simple chiffon veil was attached somewhere in her hair. It trailed to the floor in a pool of white.

“You like that one?” Carrie asked softly, and I blinked, realizing that she’d put most of her stuff away and we were just having a regular conversation.

“I do.”

Mimi reached over and squeezed my hand. “Try it on, hon. It won’t hurt.”

“Oh, you’ve found one you like?” Bette exclaimed coming up behind us. She clapped her hands excitedly making me jump. I imagined she’d been hovering somewhere watching us the entire time. “Which one?”

I nudged my head at the blond model.

She sighed, her hand over her heart. She really was the perfect shop lady. “Ah, yes, Blythe Couture. Very elegant—and not everyone can wear that style, but you certainly could, Miss Blaine.”

“Oh, please try it on,” Carrie said in awe. “Just to say that I saw Max Kent’s fiancée try on a dress . . . it would make for a great line in my article . . . even if it’s not the one you end up wearing.” She blushed.

I twisted at the ring on my finger, thinking. Reaching over to the ottoman, I poured myself a full glass of champagne and gulped it down.

“I’ll do it,” I announced, much to the pleasure of Bette who beamed. I sent Isabella a pointed look as I stood and followed Bette to a dressing room. “Pour me another glass of champagne, girl. I’m gonna need it after this.”

Max

ON THE WAY HOME FROM our game, I texted Sunny after her interview to check in on her.

Can I see you tonight?

I need to study.

I exhaled, my fingers typing. We lost tonight. I need someone to talk to. I need you.

I settled for watching the passing trees out the bus window when she didn’t respond right away. I imagined her staring at her phone, debating. It was apparent she was pushing me away since we’d had sex in the basement—and there was nothing I could do about it, not while I was right in the middle of football.

I’ll bring sushi, I added, my hands gripping the phone tightly.

Okay.

I sat back, relieved I’d get to be alone with her, yet part of me still fumed at our first loss of the season—all my fault. I’d thrown two interceptions—freshman year shit. I scratched my gruff and leaned my head back on the vinyl of the bus seat.

I’d like to blame it on my twitchy ankle I’d gotten from the library a few weeks ago, but the athletic coaches had checked me out that day, put some ice on it, and it had been good. They told me to keep it easy for the rest of the week, so Coach had me sit out a few hard practices. The result had me feeling rusty, and today it had showed.

“Mate. Chill. We lost. We still have Appalachian State next week. Easy peasy,” Tate said from across the aisle.

I raised my head up. “I let us down. That guy came out of nowhere and snatched it . . .” Whatever.

“It was double coverage, dude,” Ryn said from the seat in front of me.

“Don’t sweat it. Next week. We got this.” Tate’s eyes went to my leg. “No more injuries, okay—even if you are rescuing a girl.”

Yeah, yeah. He was asking the impossible.

When she was around, I couldn’t think straight.

“Go ahead and be a hero anytime you want,” Felix called from the very back of the bus. Of course the team had heard about the rescue when I’d had to explain my ankle. “I’ll play next week.”

I flipped him off.

“Easy,” Tate said softly. “Don’t give the wanker the satisfaction of knowing he makes you mad.”

Coach sent us I have my eyes on you glares, and I tried to shake off the tension, which was way more than just a loss. I’d been on edge since the library, ready to jump at anyone’s throat.

God. I was tired. I leaned my head back against the seat and slipped in my ear buds, putting in some old-school Beastie Boys. Thoughts of Sunny niggled at me, pricking at my memories, and within minutes, I was out.