Chapter 4
Brooke
Leaning back against my car, I hug myself across my stomach with one arm and nibble at my thumbnail, ruining a really great manicure I got the other day. I’ve only been in Phoenix for a month, but I’ve tried to assimilate myself by doing things that I would have normally done back in New York.
Manicures were one of the few ways I’d pamper myself.
Luxury handbags were the other, but those were few and far between, and I could only afford them after scrimping for months.
My gaze travels down to my Stuart Weitzman pumps and then back up to my Moschino dress. Those I did not pay for. They were the perks of the job I left behind in New York working at a boutique magazine specializing in haute couture. I was the executive assistant to the editor, who was the best boss a woman could ever want, and not just because I got free designer clothes after various magazine shoots. Elizabeth Standish was a really great human being, and she saw potential for me in the fashion world. There were many things about leaving New York that make me sick at heart and still cause me to cry some nights, but leaving my former boss is the one that grieves me the most.
Then again, it was a no-brainer for me to come to Phoenix with my father. He simply needed me, and he’s the most important thing in my life. Far more important than my awesome job and amazing boss.
A car turns onto my father’s street and my pulse picks up. It will be the third one since I got here fifteen minutes ago, and each time it happens, my nerves fire into overdrive waiting to see if it’s Bishop. I arrived early so he and I could have a few moments to chat, but I still have no clue if he’s even going to show up or not. I had snagged his cell phone number from his personnel file—I rummaged through my father’s office while they were on the ice. I’d texted him this afternoon to give him the address as well as to “confirm” if he was coming.
He never responded.
It feels like my heart is going to jump out of my chest as the car approaches. It’s a dark blue sports car of some variety since I know nothing about cars. Subways are—or were—my preferred mode of travel.
When the car pulls behind mine on the street, the rumble of its engine seems to match the feeling deep within my chest. When the car cuts off, my throat practically closes off from nerves, and then Bishop is stepping out.
And God…why does he have to be so hot and tempting? Had I known who he was in that bar last night, I would have never, ever taken him home. It would have been tough, because he’s beyond sinful, but I would have held firm.
The man is tall and built in all the right ways. His dark blond hair is long—probably down to his jaw if I had to guess—but he wears it pushed back from his face likely held in place by some styling product. The stylish short-cropped beard makes him look a little older and more mature than his twenty-eight years. I didn’t learn that little fact about him last night but rather Googled him today.
And those eyes remind me of the green grasses of Ireland when I studied abroad there my junior year of college.
There is much credit to be given to him, not only for showing up to this ruse of a dinner, but because he dressed really nice for the occasion. Dark blue dress pants—slim fit with no cuffs—are paired with camel-colored oxfords. I don’t know men’s fashion as well as women’s, but he’s wearing pricey shoes. He didn’t go super dressy, but the pressed button-down shirt in charcoal gray with the sleeves rolled up two turns and opened at the base of his throat gives his appearance a confident casualness.
“You came,” I breathe out, my lungs not refilling very quickly as I note the grim press of his lips.
“There is no way he’s not going to see through this sham,” is how Bishop answers me, sweeping his hand toward my father’s house. “He’ll grill us with questions that we can’t answer and sniff out the lie in minutes.”
I shake my head and hold my hands out. “No, he won’t. I sort of padded our story a little bit this afternoon after your skate. He came back up to my office to talk about it.”
“What do you mean?” Bishop leans a hip against the back of my car—the first I’ve ever owned—and crosses his arms over his chest. His expression is skeptical and it dings my confidence a little.
“I told him we’ve only been dating a few months.” I give him a quick rundown of my conversation with my dad. “But that we fell hard and fast for each other. It was sort of whirlwind, so he thinks it’s all new to us.”
“You told him we were engaged,” he growls in reply. “That’s a lot different than dating a few months.”
“I know,” I concede, then continue quickly before he gets into his car to leave. “I backpedaled on that a little. Told him that you and I have been discussing marriage and that we’re sure we’re going to do it, but not in that big of a rush to do the whole ring thing. Most importantly, I told him we knew it wasn’t the right time, with us all coming out to Phoenix to start new careers.”
“And he didn’t think it was a little too soon to be talking marriage?”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off a building stress headache. When I drop my hand, I look at him and hope he hears the earnestness in my voice. “I know I fucked this up. But my dad is in a really weird place right now.”
“You said your mother died,” Bishop says softly, and for the first time, I get a look from him that’s not completely filled with anger or disgust over the situation I’ve put us in.
“Pancreatic cancer in February,” I say softly. It was brutal, but at least it was fast. “Maybe you can understand this, I don’t know…But my dad has not done well since she died. They were together for thirty-three years. They were soul mates. He really fell apart and wasn’t taking care of himself. I stepped in and got him going again, but it’s still a struggle. I’m really hoping this move and the new season are going to get him back on track. But I came to Phoenix with him, because I am still worried.”
Bishop’s gaze cuts over to my dad’s house, which he stares at for a thoughtful moment. When he looks back to me, he asks, “So what’s our short game?”
Relief causes my legs to go weak. “Oh, thank you for doing this. I’m—”
Bishop holds a hand up. “I’m not committed to this.”
My mouth snaps shut as I frown at him.
“If it goes south in there, I’m coming clean with everything.” I don’t distrust the promise in those words. “But if we can pull this off tonight, then the plan is we wind this thing down quickly and stage a breakup of this fake relationship that leaves me in a good light with your dad, correct?”
“Then let’s go,” he says as he pushes away from my car. Bishop snags my hand and it startles me so badly I pull away quickly.
His mouth curves upward, and I’d think he was genuinely amused if it wasn’t for the hard glint in his eye. He grabs my hand back and holds tight. “If you’re going to sell it, Brooke, you need to sell it. We’ll need to at least act like a couple if you don’t want your dad smelling out your bullshit.”
“Oh…of course,” I mumble as I allow him to guide me—hand in hand—up the driveway, across the sidewalk, and up the front porch of my dad’s house.
Before I can reach out for the knob, the front door is pulled open and my dad is standing there staring at us. His eyes drop to our hands clenched tight before going right to Bishop. To my surprise, my dad extends his hand and says, “Welcome, Bishop.”
Luckily, Bishop’s right hand is free and he takes my dad’s for a quick shake.
“Well, come on in,” he says as he moves backward into the foyer. Bishop releases me, only to bring a hand to my lower back so I can precede him in. I know my father will appreciate the good manners.
Dad leads us into the living room, where he has a small service bar set up in an alcove that separates it from the kitchen. He takes our orders, mixes drinks, and hands them to us. He and Bishop choose straight bourbon and I opt for a glass of white wine.
“Something smells good,” Bishop observes as he glances into the kitchen.
“Chicken marsala,” my father replies.
“Dad loves to cook,” I provide, internally cringing over the squeak in my voice that indicates my nerves are still stretched tight. “In fact, why don’t you two sit down at the table and I’ll serve?”
I manage to set my wineglass on the counter without spilling it from my shaky hand. As I pull plates from the cupboard, I manage not to drop those when my father says to Bishop, “Strange how the two of you met in a city of millions.”
My eyes snap briefly to Bishop, who doesn’t even look bothered. He merely says, “Small world, right?”
I set the plates down next to the stove, where my dad has the pan of chicken marsala and another of French green beans. I go for a light laugh, but it sounds strained. “Daddy doesn’t understand how popular Club Zero is in the city. If he did, he wouldn’t think twice about us stumbling upon each other there.”
Bishop nods and rolls with it. “Well, it was hard not to notice you in that crowd.”
That would be so sweet if it were true and not said under duress. I quickly fill up two plates, grab some utensils, and bring them to the table. Just as I’m setting the food down in front of my dad and Bishop, who are sitting adjacent to each other, my dad says, “I don’t get it. You two don’t look like you’re in love. And I know what love looks like. I had it for thirty-three years.”
Right then, my heart crumples in on itself. My dad’s voice is low and morose, and he didn’t say that because he’s calling bullshit on us. He said that because he does know love, and I suppose what we’ve built as a quickly developed relationship looks nothing like what he had with my mother, whom he still misses greatly.
Bishop looks up at me and I blink to dispel the tiny bit of wetness that had started to form. Clearing my throat, I put a hand on my dad’s shoulder and squeeze. “It’s still new for us, Daddy, and it’s a little awkward, since you’re just finding out. But you’re going to have to accept it. Bishop is important to me.”
Man, that lie tasted ashy on my tongue. Bishop is nothing but a one-night stand to me at this point in our short relationship. After this is all over, I’m going to be lucky if he doesn’t hate me once we part ways.
Apparently things must not be going all that badly, because Bishop seals his fate as a critical part of this deception when he says, “Your daughter is important to me too, Mr. Perron. I’m sure in time you’ll see it.”
My dad’s eyes bore into Bishop’s. The air in my lungs seems to freeze.
Picking up his utensils, my dad starts cutting into his chicken. “I look forward to seeing it.”
I have to force myself to let the air out slowly and silently as I turn back to the kitchen to get my plate. There’s no noise but the clinking of forks on plates while I do so, and by the time I sit down, my dad’s waving his fork in the air at Bishop. “You know none of this means I’ll go easier on you in practice. In fact, I’ll probably be tougher on you.”
Bishop listens while chewing his food, and after swallowing, he gives an affirming nod. “I wouldn’t expect anything different, sir.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Now my dad was going to bust Bishop’s ass harder at practice, and that’s all on my shoulders as well.
I’m in the midst of cutting my first piece of chicken when my dad says, “Brooke…when are you two thinking about setting the wedding date? Because it would be best if it could wait until next summer. You know…after the season is done.”
I look up to him slowly and give a tremulous smile. “Of course. Like I told you this afternoon, we’re not in a hurry.”
“Well, there’s a lot to do between now and then, even if you set it for next summer,” my dad continues as he attacks his chicken again. I turn to Bishop and his return stare is just as befuddled as mine.
“We have a new season to get geared up for,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Plenty of time to talk about weddings—”
“And a ring,” my dad cuts in on me, his head coming up and turning to Bishop. “It’s all well and good you’re talking about marriage, but you did it wrong. You should have gotten a ring for her, and that’s something that I expect will be corrected soon enough.”
“Dad,” I gasp with outrage as I drop my fork. “That’s none of your business.”
“Bullshit,” my dad says, stabbing his fork in the air first at me, then at Bishop. “Both of you must know I am not happy you hid this from me, or that I got slapped in the face with it today. But I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. Now that it’s in the open, I expect you do this the right way.”
His gaze turns to Bishop and he stabs his fork in the air again, right at him. “That means you do this the right way for my daughter.”
“Understood,” Bishop replies in a clipped voice, and my guilt over this whole fiasco intensifies.