Page 27

Evie

Don't forget you haven't given me an answer.

That's the last thing Wild said to me. Two days ago.

Now we're having a couple promotional shoot. My stomach is not in knots. I'm cool, like a cucumber. All lies.

It's my first time doing a promo shoot. Obviously. I didn't expect there would be so many people. And they are constantly moving.

I think of all those sweet, magical moments captured on magazine spreads or social media. There's nothing sweet about the behind-the-scenes.

Just lots of people. Who never stop moving.

And we get treated like dolls. Turn this way, that way, and back again .

I'm mortified.

Not Wild.

He's a cucumber. A real life one. Or a robot.

When they call out an instruction to move, he moves. And moves me with him.

There's no sign of the man I walked, laughed, and talked with two days ago. He is unreadable. A stone. Solid as ice under my palms. Even when they urge us to get close so our faces are inches apart, I'm disintegrating, twisting inside, but he's okay. It's torture, pure torture.

Has he changed his mind about us? Maybe he no longer cares about me that way. And if he does, he's come to his senses.

I haven't given him an answer. We haven't even started, and I'm spiraling.

But he adamantly refused to remove his bracelet even when the photographer asked nicely.

The wacky bracelet will get its own mention during the interview as a special gift from me to Wild. Obviously.

The photographer calls for Wild to put an arm around my waist. I swallow, holding my breath as he obeys. His palm is vast and all-encompassing across my hip. They call for us to look at each other. I sneak a 'you have to be kidding me' look at the nice photographer. But no one is paying attention.

So, following their directions, I lift my hand and slip it up his shoulder. He's so tall I feel like one of those dainty, tiny-waisted heroines on old romance covers. I target his lower jaw and fix my eyes there. There. No one will suspect I'm not looking into his eyes like I'm lovestruck.

But unfortunately, Wild can tell.

His palm moves across my back once. Twice. "Hey." He grumbles when I don't respond.

"Evie Cassandra," he murmurs.

And I react like Jackie when she hears the sound of her plate. I look up. My mouth goes dry, and all my senses stop working to stand at attention.

Where is my chant when I need it?

I can't stop looking at him. His eyes are so blue, and he needs a haircut for the coming season opener. If I don't take in oxygen in the next milliseconds, I'm going to faint in his arms. And I'm never going to hear the last of it.

"Guys!"

The call seems to come from far away, like the buzz of a distant house fly. Then my mind echoes the call, and I snap out of whatever spell Wild cast on me. I jerk away, injecting space between us.

Wild is blinking at me. Was he as spellbound as I was? I don't want to think about it.

When we face the team, they stare at us with varying degrees of stunned expressions. They clear their throats, shuffle in place, and shake their heads like they are seeing something unbelievable.

The photographer fans her face with her palms. "I would kill for someone to look at me like that."

"Thanks guys. I think this is the easiest shoot we've done. But one more!"

My face burns with embarrassment. If the team asks for another 'get lost in each other' pose, they are on their own.

I'm steeling myself for the fight and not paying attention when they call out the next instructions. Super focused, Wild glances at me, raising a questioning eyebrow. My eyes shift from the expectant-looking team to an even more expectant Wild.

It's like being the only ignorant one in class.

I nod.

And Wild adjusts me to the needed position. I'm putty in his arms, a doll. Or worse. I want to die from embarrassment, but the room is loving it.

I shouldn't feel betrayed. But I do. I brought donuts for them, after all. That should be enough to get them on my side, even if the club is technically paying their salaries. I mean, donuts are the ultimate bribe.

We're wearing matching sweats, and I feel Wild ’ s hands will leave a mark when we're done. I quickly peek at his face, and I'm annoyed to find him looking fine.

We take a break, and I dive for the safety of my phone. I'm like an over-pumped balloon. If I don't talk to someone in two seconds, I will burst. I should be in the dressing room, but a break is a break. I'm using it for break things.

Wild looks focused like it's game seven of the finals, and he is taking the last shot. He's nodding at Lila, who has him beat in the competition of super-focused people.

I haven't told anyone about Wild wanting more. The truth is, I have no one to confide in who won't get that knowing, smirky, 'I already knew' look.

Especially Kristyn.

But when I unlock my phone, the first message I see is from Kristyn. Two words: I'm scared.

The Wild-induced buzz in my head instantly stops. I read the words once. Twice. Then I text back.

Evie: On my way.

My phone chimes with a text.

Kristyn: Don’t hurry. I’m fine.

Evie: You’re sure?

Kristyn: Totally.

"You seem busy," Wild says with the kind of casual that will have a detective knocking on his door at midnight.

"Are we done yet?"

"Have somewhere else to be?" Wild asks, annoyed.

"Yes, actually." That's the only message she sent? I'm scared?

"Then report to Lila, and then you can go."

Is he pouting?

I find Lila and learn I've done 'spectacular work' as the fake fiancée. Not that she expected any less, of course, since Wild is a good judge of character.

Wild will be signing an official contract with the club soon. A few more months of keeping up appearances, and we're done.

With the energy he was putting out, I'm surprised to find Wild waiting to drive me. I'm too busy channeling warm hugs and light to Kristyn to care about the muscle ticking along Wild's strong jawline.

My mind starts a deep dive into all the ways I've failed Kristyn.

I've been so irritated with her commentary on my fake engagement with Wild that I've purposely shut her out. My mouth fills with bitter regret and anger at myself. I should have known and understood she was teasing. It's no excuse for ignoring my best friend.

"Can you stop at the floral shop?" I tell Wild.

"Floral shop?" he asks with a sharp glance at me.

I nod.

The muscles along his jaw leap out again. I ignore him.

Two degrees or not, I only have enough brain power for Kristyn and nothing else.

A quick Google search tells me pink roses are the best flowers I can get for Kristyn. They represent gentleness, grace, and gratitude. I've always loved the beauty and symbolism of flowers. Kristyn is the perfect combination of gentle grace and gratitude, and I know her child will be the luckiest to have her as a mother.

I pause at the counter, thinking of how to word my message. Unfortunately, playing dinosaurs with three-year-olds and less hasn't prepared me for my two-minute shift as a wordsmith.

After an eternity where I worry Wild will abandon me for his many commitments —I know he won't—I decide to keep my message simple and straight from the heart.

You're beautiful like a goddess, and it's even more impressive because I know all that beauty comes from deep in your heart. You're annoyingly sweet—even when you think you're right. You're an amazing wife—honestly, I get tired of hearing about it from your dear husband. And you're the greatest friend.

It's okay to be scared. And whatever it is, I'm here—one hundred percent.

Pink roses symbolize grace, gratitude, and gentleness--you.

To my friend and mother to my godchild,

Kristyn.

Wild feels like a rumbling volcano for the rest of the ride. He takes the long drive to my brother's home very quickly. I don't mind. The second he stops, I'm out, thanking him for the ride.

Charlie opens the door with a glass of wine in hand. "Little sister," he greets. "I already know the flowers are not for me. You couldn't have brought something for your older bro—" He spots Wild behind me, and his grin widens. "Dude."

I'm trying to walk around Charlie to find my best friend when he stops me. "Hey, wait."

"I'm here for Kristyn, not you."

"Believe me, I know where your loyalty lies."

I raise an eyebrow that says, then why waste my time?

Charlie clears his throat and lowers his voice. "About Wilder."

"What about him?"

"Lower your voice." He hisses. Then his voice lowers conspiratorially like he's about to impart some secret that I should be paying my life savings for, but since I have a protective older brother looking out for me, I'm covered. "You know how long me and Wilder have been friends?"

Seriously? "You better have a good reason for this trip down memory lane."

"You know everyone in my fancy boarding school and the country club were calling me a bastard and how my mother is a home wrecker and a prostitute."

My heart twists in sympathy for little Charlie. I forget sometimes that he doesn't come about his grumpiness naturally. Life forced him into donning a protective, thorny shell. If I weren't holding onto the flowers and impatient to join Kristyn, I would hug him, especially since my brother isn't the type to get sentimental.

"I was a bit of a jerk those days."

I nod. From what I've heard, teenage Charlie was the jerk to cancel all jerks, like he could have lectured jerks on all the jerkiest ways to be jerks.

"First time I met that wild man." He nods towards Wild. "We got into a fight. Well, I caused it, and we fought. And he gave me a serious dressing down after knocking me out."

"He knocked you out?" I half shout.

Charlie's hand lands over my mouth with lightning speed, and his jaw clenches in irritation. "What's wrong with your hearing?"

"Like he swung his fist, it landed where—on your jaw or head? And you saw the stars and darkness and light and fell?"

"No, he swung his handkerchief.” Charlie mutters. "Just go, you're annoying—"

"Tell me," I beg.

Eyes narrowed in warning against further interruptions, Charlie continues, "When I wake up, he's waiting for me. He apologizes and promises he might hit me again if I don't stop."

I bite back a laugh. That's Wild—jolly on the outside, but don't mess with him.

"Then I got invited to dinner because even jerks deserve to taste his mother's cooking to change their ways. We became grudging friends. Then that weekend, he had this big basketball game, and guess who was there?"

"Your bullies?"

"All of them," Charlie confirms. His eyes and voice skip to the past. "There were eight of them, and we ended up under the stairs of the stadium parking lot." His expression turns fond as if he wants to go back in time to face down those teenage bullies. "We stood together, backs against the wall, and fought those idiots together."

Charlie is back there, split lips and bloody knuckles and all. I have to clear my throat twice to get his attention.

"I'm sorry you suffered all—"

"That's not the point," he says, waving off the fond memories. “Wild is a great guy. He's a man's man, you understand?"

What's this all of a sudden?

“You won’t find a better man than him.”

"Charlie," I start, taking my words one at a time like I do in the classroom, "we're not like that." Yet. Or maybe never.

And how does my dear older brother respond to my seriousness?

He takes a sip of his wine. “So, you feel nothing for him?"

"I don't know," I say truthfully.

He rolls his eyes and drinks more wine. "Just remember what I said."

"What you just said, you don't have to tell me. Remember, I've had him in my life almost for as long as you have—"

"Just remember what I said."

"Should I salute?"

"Go and meet your friend you brought flowers for while bringing nothing for me." He grumbles.

With a snicker, I walk past him to their bedroom. And then the nursery. As I walk, I realize Kristyn is always in the nursery. If you ask me to guess where Kristyn will be in the house, I will say the nursery. And I will be right. Before her text, it would have been normal behavior.

When I stop at the nursery door, there she is. The walls were painted the mildest cream after Kristyn and Charlie fought over pink and blue. Kristyn wanted blue. Charlie wanted pink. So, they settled on cream.

It’s not easy keeping the sex of your unborn child a surprise.

They got an exquisitely hand-crafted wooden crib from Wild and a never-ending pile of baby clothes from me.

Now, the clothes, toys, and many things I can't identify are scattered everywhere like a storm went to work on the room. The storm is Kristyn, who stands with her hands on her waist, frowning at the cutest baby shirt, shorts, and matching shoes—my gift.

"You don't like it?" I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.

Kristyn's hand goes to her hair in a knot on her head. "I do...I just...I don't know."

First things first, I hand over the flowers. "For you."

Her green eyes finally lose some of their dullness. "I didn't send the text to drag you out of your date with Wild."

Apart from her eyes, Kristyn is glowing. Her skin is sparkling and smooth like a newborn's, and her nails are painted a gorgeous pink. I look around the room, and I still have no clue what Kristyn is always doing here.

"Evie," she calls quietly.

It's the kind of quiet that demands instant attention. I immediately focus on her. She's holding my note in one hand while she breathes deeply.

"I'm not going to cry."

"Okay."

"Not even a single tear," she says defiantly.

"Okay."

"Because I know, I've been irritating, and you hate me—"

"I don't hate—"

"You do." Her chin wobbles. "And my baby will hate me too. Maybe."

Oh. I break.

And Kristyn immediately follows like it's all the permission she needs. As we throw our arms around each other, the door opens, and Charlie is there. His eyes are wide with fear and concern for his wife. It takes a slight shake of my head to get him to leave us.

Over his shoulder, Wild holds my eyes for a second, andthen he leaves.

An hour later, we sit by the window while I repaint Kristyn’s nails, a dark blue color. It reminds me of college and bonding over our fears for the future. Of course, that was before Kristyn got her happy ever after with Charlie, and I was stupidly secure in what I thought I had with Parker.

I hold Kristyn's hand and tell her she would be a great mother—a hundred times. Yes, we count. She tries to laugh it off, but her eyes are serious.

Then I urge her to talk to Charlie and maybe a professional.

She squeezes my hand back. "Thank you."

When we finally leave the room, we're shocked to find the men—yes, Wild hasn't gone—waiting in the living room. It's late, and I know he has meetings, what with the season opener around the corner. He should have left.

Charlie hurries to his wife.

I shift away from Kristyn to give them privacy. "You shouldn't have waited," I say.

Wild doesn't move. His eyes are the softest blue, searching mine like he can see into the heart of me. "Are you okay?"

I swallow the tightness that 'look' gave me and nod.

He and Charlie exchange glances, and Wild returns his attention to me. He sits on the arm of a couch and takes my hand, bringing me close. "I was a jerk earlier. I'm sorry."

Because I need to go home to Jackie, I nod quickly. "Okay."

His thumb presses down on my hand, demanding my attention. " I am sorry."

I hold his gaze and let him know I'm listening. "Okay."

I get that look again. My pulse races. He makes me feel like I'm the only woman in the world. Like I'm his everything. It makes me want to say yes to everything he has to say.

"I want you at my season opener wearing my name and number." He lowers his eyes and gives me a shy glance that unpeels the years to the boy Charlie just told me about. "I'm inviting you officially to come as someone very important to me."

My already racing pulse is flying now. I can't think of a reason to say no. But... "As part of our arrange—"

"No. I'm inviting you because I want you there," Wild says in no uncertain terms. "Lila doesn't know you'll be there, and she doesn't even have plans for you being there. This is between you and me."

You and me. How can those simple words be both scary and sweet? "But I don't have an answer for you yet."

"I know. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

His eyes are burning hot. His thumb on my palm is the only thing I can feel. I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth and attempt normal speech. "Okay."

"Okay," he whispers back.

Then he lets me go. I move away with uneven steps. I fiddle with my hair and run both hands down my sides. Wild doesn't stop staring at me.

He should stop.

But I've used up all my powers of speech.

I turn, and Kristyn and Charlie unashamedly watch us like we're the number one show on Netflix. "I'm leaving," I announce to the room.

Or maybe specifically to Wild.

◆◆◆

You know what's dumb? Walking on cloud nine because I got invited to a basketball game by my fake fiancé.

It's not my first time watching Wilder Carrington play basketball. And unless we have an epic falling out, it won't be my last. I've watched Wild train, play pickup games, and even go to the basketball finals. I've had court side seats to most of his games. It's not a big deal.

Tell that to my pounding heart.

But don't blame my poor heart for acting out of wack. After a hellish week that ended with a knee scrape from the playground, I slept deeply, only to be awoken by insistent knocking on my door.

I drag myself off the couch to sign for a gift box. From Wild. Inside the box is a carefully wrapped jersey with his shirt number and sneakers. And a hair tie in his new club colors.

Somebody should remind the man I have like hundreds of his sportswear. Without a single squeal, acting like I unwrapped gift boxes for lunch, I model my new fit in the privacy of my bedroom.

I get a text. From Wild.

It ’ s a link to an ongoing press conference. There ’ s Coach Billy and Larry, the general manager. They welcome Wild back to the North Cats–where he belongs, a reporter jokes.

With a grave expression, Coach Billy thanks the fans for their support but promises a permanent ban and further punishment for any kind of behavior the club deems extreme.

Tears filling my eyes, I cover my hand with my mouth as I watch the rest of the press conference.

I text Wild.

Evie: This is more than good.

Wild: It ’ s all you.

Now, I'm seated in the VIP section, and because of all the buzz Wild signing for the North Cats is generating, and people are staring.

I'm grateful for Lila and Richard sitting with me.

Any kind of basketball game is loud. It's 'block your ears' loud. It doesn't matter if it is a pickup game or training. It is loud.

The heckling is the worst. Because there's no barrier between the fans and the court, fans can scream choice words at players.

And boy, do they.

I wish I can say I'm a dignified fan. I'm not.

I'm on my feet, shouting and pumping my fists like the others. Richard shoots me a look and shifts so there's enough space between us so he can deny knowing me.

Wild is great. During a time-out, fans nearby start arguing whether he's really here to stay. I've heard the same argument three times this week from all the sports channels.

"He just wants a paycheck," one says.

"At least he'll give us a hundred percent, unlike some people," another replies.

"He's not loyal." The first fan is not budging.

“ A year is all we ’ re getting from him.”

Lila shakes her head subtly, telling me to stay out of it. But years of watching games with the Carringtons and Charlie have beaten proper sporting behavior out of me. "He's staying this time," I tell the fan.

"He's never stayed true to one club, and nothing says he'll start now."

"How about marriage and starting a family?"And I hold up my engagement ring as confirmation.“And he signed a contract for four years not one.”

The news sends a ripple through the crowd. Lila's face is as pink as her hair, and she hisses at me. In the next second, I realize my mistake. The engagement is not news. Lila has done her job well. It's me. The fans will go on social media and unearth everything they can about me.

"Sarah's tweet," I whisper.

"I've taken care of it,"Lila assures me. "But from now on, just sit tight and look pretty. Like Richard,"she adds.

I can't help snickering. Richard sticks to his story of 'never met her before'and doesn't look my way.

They win and Wild gets the post-game interview, but he keeps it terse.

Richard leads the way from the VIP section to the main hallway, where Wild awaits. He's sweaty even with the towel around his neck. And heavily muscled.

It's an effort to keep my eyes trained on his face and not an inch lower.

"You played great,"I start. "You're not going to shower?"

Wild shakes his head. "Let's leave."

"Now?"I assume there will be more interviews. And Lila looks like she's gearing up for a protest.

"Please,"he says. "I want to be alone with you. We can get ice cream."

I do not get butterflies from his words. None. "Okay,"I whisper.

But Lila is glaring. "You know what commitment means?"

I have the grace to look contrite. I feel like a bad influence.

But Wild takes my hand and tugs. "Just today, please,"he says with a hint of exasperation.

Coach Billy seemingly appears out of nowhere. He stares through us like he had stared at the opposing team from the sideline.

I sidle closer to and behind Wild.

"Don't you have a locker room to manage?"Lila snaps at him.

Coach Billy glares right back. "Stop showing off and let the children go."

"I was going to let them go, and FYI, it's not a showoff if you can back it up."

"FYI," Coach Billy mutters, shaking his head like it's the most ridiculous thing he's heard.

Lila caves, but it's grudging. "You've worked harder than a mule these past weeks. Take a break."

We run down the hall, past the whistles from his teammates and the reporters waiting for an interview. Holding his hand and feeling the adrenaline spike through my bloodstream, it feels like I'm skipping class.

In the parking lot, Wild waves off his driver. He drives us to the same ice cream parlor as the last time.

I'm shamelessly licking my spoon and sighing in pleasure when his quiet hits me.

I look up. He's staring, and his blues aren't the gentle, softness I love. It's the steely that gets my pulse racing and makes my mouth dry. I finish my ice cream in silence.

Back on the road, he keeps darting looks my way. Then he says, "I like you wearing my number. Thank you for wearing it."

"It doesn't mean,"I start, "you know—"

"I know. You made my night."

Wearing his shirt number and allowing myself to be seduced by his presence doesn't make me a tease. But I feel like one. But I'm not ready to give him an answer yet. After Parker, I don't trust my judgment. And even if I did, there's the fear Wild will come to his senses.

Like Parker.

I know he's nothing like Parker. I know he means it when he says he's ready to commit.

But my heart doesn't believe it yet.

When we get to the house, Wild follows me to get Jackie from Mrs. Izaacs. Jackie goes wild with excitement to see me. It feels good.

But not so good to hear Wild whispering in my ear to let Jackie use her legs sometimes. So, I let her down with regret.

But then tiny Jackie places her paws on his legs, and Wild goes down on one knee. And under my disbelieving eyes, he lifts her into his arms. Then, man and puppy cuddle. Jackie's licking at his neck and jaw, and her little tail is doing a happy frenzy.

"Whatever happened to letting her use her legs?" I ask.

"Just for today,"he says.