Page 9

CHAPTER 9

WHY ME?

EMORY

I keep myself calm until I'm inside Lily's old house—my house for now—and then I finally let the anger boil over. "I'm here?" I hiss. "That's all I am to him?"

I knew he was a jerk, but this is so very far beyond that. And the worst part is the fun I was having with him before that. I thought maybe Lily was right when she told me he's a good guy. Clearly not. I slam the key on the counter so hard my palm hurts as its edges dig into me. He's an athlete, and I've learned my lesson when it comes to that.

Here? Each inhale gets shorter than the one before it.

The door squeals behind me, and I spin around to find Kayden pushing it open and following me inside. "Red, please, I didn't mean it like that. At all. I just have so much going on right now, and?—"

" Don't fucking call me that! You think packing up and moving here out of the blue is easy for me? Giving up everything I ever had to move to Salt Lake City where I know exactly one person and have exactly no job?" My heart pounds against my ribs. "I have to hope the bank doesn't mind if I miss a few of my insanely expensive student loan payments, because it's either that or go hungry. I don't even have my own place to live. I'm crashing in the house of my best friend's dead dad. Does it sound like I don't have much going on right now?"

He crosses the entryway toward me. "Emory, I'm sorry. I was selfish and wasn't thinking."

I back up until my butt collides with the kitchen island and then hold out a trembling hand to stop him. I have to force the breaths now, and my heart is jackhammering in my chest.

Not today. Please not in front of him.

I turn and grip the edge of the counter as my vision goes black at the edges. I pinch my eyes closed, willing myself to not pass out.

"Emory?"

"Go away." I pant out the words, and I'm not sure if he can even understand them.

"You can hear me, right?" He's beside me now, and his voice is different. Calm, quiet. It's the same voice Mom and Dad learned to use when this happened to me growing up. "Just listen to me. It's okay. You're okay. Can you open your eyes?"

I shake my head.

"That's fine. You don't have to. You know the five-four-three-two-one method? You already hear my voice. What are two other things you can hear?"

It's hard to hear anything over the breaths I'm pushing through my pursed lips. "A bird chirping…" It feels like a minute passes before I can hear anything else. "A car driving by."

"Good. What can you feel?"

"The counter. Sweats." I rub a hand down my leg. "The hard floor under my feet. Um… I don't know what else."

I gasp when something warm cups the side of my neck. "Me. You can feel my hand on you. Two things you can smell?"

I focus on the deep breaths I'm drawing in. My heart is slowing now, and it no longer feels like I'm going to pass out. "Stale air because the house has been closed up."

"Good. What else?"

I take another breath. There's a different scent now, blocking the odor of musty house. Something that smells like a mix of vanilla and forest. Is that him?

"I smell stale athlete."

He chuckles. "There's my girl. Feeling better?"

I draw in one last deep breath and then nod as I open my eyes. I knew he was close—close enough that he could touch me. Close enough to pick up his scent—but he's so very close. Too close.

I step back from him and walk to the living room, dropping onto the couch and letting my head fall into my hands. My entire body is shaking and exhausted now as I come down.

He kneels beside me and rests a hand on the arm of the couch. Several inches away from mine, but I focus on it, wondering if he's going to try touching me again. Wondering why I hope he does.

"Do you get panic attacks often?" He's still using the calm voice.

I shake my head. "The last one was at my high school graduation. When I had to see him again." I wince as soon as I say it. I don't want to talk about that right now. And definitely not with Kayden Bouchard, of all people. Never with him.

"How do you know what to do?" I ask. "Do you get them?"

He stares at me for a second, and my pulse picks up again as I hold my breath. Please don't ask me more about my last time. Finally, he looks away.

"My mom used to get them. A lot." It seems like he wants to say more, but he doesn't.

We sit in silence for several minutes, and I'm surprised at how comfortable it feels. But when it seems like it could stretch on forever with neither of us minding, I know I have to break it before I begin feeling something I'll regret.

"When you helped her, did you always take things out of order? You did the three-four-two method on me. Poor five and one never even got a chance. Research shows that's not nearly as effective."

"Oh really? There's been research on that?" he asks, and I nod. "It seemed to work just fine for you."

"That's because—" I stop the joke I was going to make. " It did work. Thank you. I'm glad you were here." I touch a fingertip to the back of his hand, and shockingly, nothing bad happens. Neither one of us is overcome by sudden, uncontrollable illness. The roof of the house doesn't collapse. "Why do you need a girlfriend?"

He motions toward the other end of the couch. "Do you mind if I actually use the furniture?"

"What if I do mind?" I tease as he goes to the other end and sits.

"Oops. Too late." He draws in a long breath. "I need a girlfriend because the team owners don't want to re-sign me."

I wait for him to go on, but he just watches me like I should have some reaction other than confusion. "So you need a woman to support you because you're not going to have any money? You are barking up the wrong tree here. Maybe in ten years I'll have extra money. Right now, I don't even have enough for me."

He smirks. "I have plenty of money. I could retire today and be fine for the rest of my life. Maybe that's what I'll do. Retire while I'm the best player in the league."

"You don't think much of yourself, do you?" I make sure he sees me roll my eyes, but he just shrugs.

"It's not my opinion. It's just the truth. It doesn't make me better than anyone else."

"That's literally what being the best means."

"Best on the ice. When I'm off, I'm not better than anyone else. Is that better?"

"It's best," I sneer. Does he really expect me to believe that? Every athlete thinks they're better than everyone else. Especially if they're as good as he says he is. "You still didn't answer my question."

"The team has new owners this year. They don't know me as well as the old owners did."

"And?"

"And they have the impression that I'm a playboy who likes to sleep around."

"And the reason they have this completely wrong opinion of you is… "

He sighs. "Because it's not exactly wrong. At least, it wasn't before I… But it's not like they think. I mean, I do love women, and I love sex."

"Oh, I know. I think we both know just how much you love sex." Heat rises in my core as I remember the evening we spent together. I've never been with a man who made me feel anything like that. Not just the orgasms, although those were the best I've ever had, but the way he was devoted to me from the time we walked into that hotel room.

A grin spreads over his face. "I seem to recall you liking it too."

"I, um…" I clear my throat and focus on the empty white bookshelves in front of me, trying to picture them filled with books. Anything to force my thoughts away from that night. "So the new owners correctly think that you're a playboy. They didn't buy the 'not all playboys' argument you made to them?"

He leans his head back until he's staring at the ceiling. "I didn't try to argue. What's the point when they're right? They're a close knit family, and that's the image they want for the team too. They want to show they can win and still have players this community can be proud of."

I bristle at the unspoken accusation against him. That somehow this town can't be proud of him. "You don't believe that, do you?"

His jaw works for several seconds before he turns his head to look at me. His eyes are glassy, and seeing them makes me want to wrap my arms around him.

Fuck me. I'm not doing this. I'm not letting myself have reasoned and rational thoughts about this man.

"It doesn't matter what I believe. They're the ones who get to decide my fate."

I compromise with myself by scooting closer. Close enough that I could hug him, but I don't. And I won't. "These people sound like assholes. You shouldn't care what they think."

"I don't. But I care about this team. Those boys beside me on the ice are my family, Emory, and I'll do anything to stay with my family. "

"And you think having a girlfriend will help you do that?"

He lifts a leg onto the couch so he can face me. "It will show them I'm not the playboy they think I am. I already haven't been with anyone since—it doesn't matter. But I've been single for a while, and now, seeing me with the same woman for more than just a couple of weeks has to prove it to them. They only need to think I'm reformed long enough to offer me a new contract. Then you'd be off the hook."

I can't believe he actually thinks I'm going to do this. I can't believe I'm not just telling him no. "If you're a playboy, you obviously have no problem getting women. Probably perfect women who are a perfect five-seven and wear a perfect size zero while somehow still having perfect hips and boobs. Why me? We barely know each other."

His eyes flick along my body before coming back to my face. He slides closer and wraps his index finger around mine. "Why do you think it's okay to put yourself down?"

"I'm just stating facts."

"No, you're telling me that other women are better just because they're shorter or smaller than you. That's not true, Emory. And as long as I'm around, I'm not going to let you think that. You're beautiful and smart and funny and amazing. That's what matters. Not your size."

In my mind, I know everything he's saying is true. I say the same things to myself and mean them. But my heart is different. My heart always has a doubt. It always has a brief flash of jealousy when I see someone who doesn't have to shop at plus size clothing stores or who doesn't have to worry that pants and tops will be too short or too tight for them.

"So that's why you want me to be your pretend girlfriend? Because I'm just so amazing?"

He must hear the skepticism in my voice because he wraps his finger tighter around mine. "Yes. Plus the fact that you don't like me."

I stand and put as much space between us as possible. "So I'm a conquest, just like I've always thought. The only woman in the world who doesn't fall at the feet of Kayden Bouchard, and now you're determined to win me over? Oh, and if it means fooling the new owners into thinking that you're a good person, that's even better."

Of course he wouldn't actually think I'm pretty or amazing. "Maybe you should save those lines for some woman who's going to believe them. Maybe whoever you say them to next will agree to this idiotic scheme."

He's across the room and in front of me before I have the chance to turn away. "Look at me." He puts his hands on my cheeks and holds my attention on him. "You are all of those things, Emory. Beautiful, smart, funny, amazing. Any man with eyes and a brain would know that you are. But trust me, it's better for you if you don't like me."

"Why?" He's so close I can feel the warmth of his words on my chin. Too close. I twist my head away until he gets the hint and lets go. "Why is it better if your fake girlfriend doesn't like you?"

The way he looks at me makes my face burn, but he doesn't make a sound. Finally, he turns away. "Just trust me. It is. Let's get this place cleaned up. It's been almost a year since anyone has lived here, and you can tell it. I'll clean the fridge while you dust?" He goes to the kitchen and opens random cabinet doors until he finds the cleaning supplies Lily must have left here.

"What are you doing?"

"My first act as your official fake boyfriend. Helping my fake girlfriend clean her new house."

"I didn't say yes."

"Then tell me no, and I'll walk away right now. But until you do that, I'm going to clean."

I glare at him as he opens the refrigerator door. He immediately jerks backward and scrunches his face. I hope Lily left rotting food in there. It would serve the arrogant jerk right. But he only hesitates a second before dropping to his knees and scrubbing the bottom shelf.

Would it be so bad if I agreed? He cleans without having to be asked. That's already a billion bonus points in his favor. And I guess spending time with him isn't quite as awful as I thought .

Plus, Dad is already angry because he thinks I moved here for a man. How furious would he be if his suspicions were confirmed? Maybe this fake dating scheme isn't such a terrible idea after all.

"I don't even know anything about you, except that you think way too highly of yourself."

"It's called an accurate self-assessment, Emory. You could learn from me. As for anything else, just ask me what you need to know."

"It's not like I keep a list of questions tucked away in my purse for all the fake boyfriend interviews I conduct."

He looks up, and perhaps there is a part of me that enjoys seeing this man on his knees in front of me. "Then you can find out more about me tonight on our date."

"Our date?"

"Our date." He turns back to scrubbing the refrigerator as if there's nothing more to say about the topic.