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CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

carter

I walk into the hotel room I share with Lowesy with the bag draped over my shoulder.

Boston spins in the desk chair to greet me.

Lowesy perks up from his spot on his bed.

I instinctively pause, not having thought this through enough. Both of their eyes snap to the closet door, where my game-day suit is hung up in its bag.

“What do you have there?” Boston asks, pointing at the garment bag in my hands.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Declan asks, cocking a brow. “You ran out of here the second you had the chance. Where’d you go?”

“Mind your own business,” I grumble, walking to the closet to slip this little secret behind my suit. I glance at Declan when neither of them speak, then at Boston. They are both staring at me. “Our flight leaves in an hour. Why are you guys sitting here, sniffing your fingers?”

“Because we have an hour to kill before our flight,” Boston says slowly .

I look at Declan just in time to catch his eyes flickering back to the bag.

His gaze snaps to mine, and I see his thoughts on his face a fraction of a second too late.

I jump toward him, but he’s already up and off the bed, blocking me with his body.

I slam into his back, but he’s managed to scoop the second hook from the bar and duck away from me, clearing his own bed before I can spin around and chase him down.

That little fucker has always been way too fast.

And honestly, what’s the point?

I roll my eyes, dropping my hand while Declan tears the zipper down and peers inside.

His brows skyrocket.

Boston is silent beside me, definitely curious.

“Stunning, Fork,” Declan says breathlessly, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “But I don’t know if green is your colour.”

I give him a bored look. “Every colour is my colour.”

“You already have two green suits,” Boston reminds me.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Boss.” Declan grins, dimples popping through his stubble. He pulls the garment bag open, showing Boston the long-sleeved, silk dress inside. “He doesn’t have anything that will show off his legs quite like this.”

Boston glances at me, deadpanned. “Is that what you’re wearing to the engagement party?”

I give him a cold look.

“You bought her a dress?” Declan asks, glancing back down at it. “Why?”

I shrug. “I saw it near one of the shops by that coffee house. It was hanging in the window, I thought it’d look good on her.”

“For the engagement party?” Declan asks.

I nod, and Declan and Boston exchange a look that I hate. A look like they’re aware of something I’m not. I know what they’re thinking. I’m not fucking dumb.

“It’s nothing.”

Declan swoops his hand inside and lets out a whistle. “Unless twenty-four-hundred dollars is nothing.”

“Two grand?” Boston barks out, his eyes zero in on the dress. “There isn’t even two grand worth of fabric there!”

“It’s nice!” I argue.

“I’m sure that she’ll love it, but that’s not nothing,” Declan says, slowly zipping up the bag.

“I just want her to have something nice. She’d never spend the money on something like that for herself, you know? Plus, she helped me earn my spot back on your wedding roster. It’s a token of my gratitude.”

“A token of your gratitude,” Boston says slowly, nodding. His tone is clear. He doesn’t believe me.

I don’t even believe me.

“Give me the fucking dress,” I snap, and Declan hands it over without question.

Arden’s face falls when I place the bag in her hands. For a moment, I wonder if I fucked up. Maybe girls who aren’t really dating you don’t want nice dresses. Maybe this was too much. But when she pulls it out of the bag and her mouth falls open, a wave of relief washes over me.

She likes it.

“Carter,” she whispers, running her fingers over the fabric. She can’t take her eyes off it. I think I knocked it out of the damn park.

I step in behind her, glancing down at the dress while she admires it. Long-sleeved, not too short but not too long, either. The top has a corset-like design, and I know it’s going to look insane on her. Especially with that red hair of hers.

“You don’t have to wear it this weekend, but it’s yours,” I say quietly.

Her fingers keep skimming the dress. “I can’t accept this.”

“Yes, you can,” I tell her. “You deserve pretty things, Red.”

“Carter,” she whispers again.

“Try it on,” I encourage her.

“Why did you do this?” she asks, resting it on my kitchen island. She peers up at me. “What’s it for?”

“Do I need a reason?”

Her throat bobs. “Yes.”

“I told you while we’re doing this, I’m going to treat you properly. It’s a gift because I saw it and thought of you. That’s all.”

“It’s expensive.”

I shoot her a look. We’re not having the ‘I’m rich’ talk again. I’m rich. I have more money than I know what to do with. A two-thousand-dollar dress is nothing, and she knows that, even if she’s never had this kind of financial freedom before.

“I can’t.”

“You’re keeping it,” I tell her. I place my finger under her chin and force her watery gaze to me. “Non-negotiable, alright? I asked Penny for your size, but she told me it was a guess, so make sure it fits.”

Arden glances back at the dress, a wistful look on her face. Her hands reach for it again, touching, exploring. A small smile touches my favourite mouth, and she scoops it into her arms, squishing it to her chest like she would Stinky.

And I’m fucking putty. Down bad. Out of the game. I’m digging my fucking grave as we speak. My chest physically hurts watching her.

Her eyes meet mine. “Thank you, boyfriend.”

My heart sputters at the title, at the gratitude on her face. One thing I have noticed over the last few weeks is that she’s lighter. Her smiles are more frequent, her body less tense. She sleeps better. There’s just a tangible sense of peace in her that wasn’t there before.

I know it’s because of my money. My money has given her some much-needed relief and the chance to breathe.

But it’s more than that. It’s also us, together.

Me and her. We get each other. We have fun together.

We bring out this strange sense of stillness in one another.

Even in the chaos, I look at her and feel a tranquillity and calmness that is unfamiliar to someone who was born with buzzing in his brain.

She looks at me and feels safe.

She skips off to the bathroom to try it on and I find myself staring after her long after she’s gone. I need sex. Badly. Except I don’t want it from other women. When she suggested it, I thought of two people who might be able to keep it a secret, but I couldn’t fathom the possibility.

I want her.

I want Arden.

I want her lips, her body, her smile. I want all of her glares and every single sharp word from her tongue.

I want her .

My heart beats like a drum, calling to her.

It’s a song that only she can hear. One that reflects the rush of certainty I feel when I look at her.

She’s not really my girlfriend. Sure, whatever.

That doesn’t change the fact that I want to make my fake girlfriend come for the first time in years in a very real way.

When she pokes her head out of the bathroom with a big smile and tells me it fits, but refuses to step out so I have to see it the night of the party, I have to mentally tell both my heart and my dick to calm the fuck down.

This arrangement is slowly becoming unbearable.

Boston Black may have been right about everything.

Isn’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard?