Page 8 of False Start: Chicago Engines (Gridiron Warriors #3)

Gia

My hand shook as I swiped on another coat of mascara.

Should I change my dress?

I’d opted for a forest green sheath dress to compliment my hair, but maybe I should have gone with blue to bring out my eyes.

I had to look perfect so I didn’t embarrass Weston at this launch.

Lydia had sent through the details with advice on what to wear and how to behave at the event, and I’d studied the instructions until the words no longer made sense.

If I messed this up, I’d do it publicly.

Weston would end our arrangement, and Shifting Sands would stay nothing more than a dream job that was forever out of reach.

Breathe .

I glanced at my phone where a red dot announced a notification awaited me.

What if he was cancelling?

The thought had me equal parts terrified andstrangely relieved.

The Weston I’d spent the night with a week ago hadn’t been present in the texts he’d sent me since we agreed to our arrangement.

He’d sent practical notes like confirmation of the time and place we would meet tonight, and tickets for his first game of the season.

The lack of warmth, while not surprising, hurt more than I cared to admit.

I’d openly proposed I use his fame to further my own career.

Nowhere in there had he agreed to be nice to me.

It didn’t stop me craving the flash of connection I’d felt with him that night.

Taking a deep, centering breath, I unlocked my phone and found a short text.

Weston: On my way. Will text when I’m out front. It will look better if we arrive together.

I sent a thumbs up and checked the mirror again for any imperfections.

A buzzing echoed through the small bathroom, and for a moment I wondered if Weston was calling to chat. An unwanted thrill ran through me, extinguished almost as quickly when I checked the screen and the name Mom flashed across it.

“Not today, Lucifer,” I muttered, rejecting the call and wandering into my closet to find my shoes.

I knew I’d have to talk to her eventually, but my anxiety was high enough without her particular brand of ‘rip you down to build myself up’ love.

I wondered if Duckie felt the same way about her, or whether having Dad as a buffer meant she didn’t feel as utterly worthless as I did.

My phone buzzed with a notification, and I breathed a sigh of relief when it was Weston’s name that appeared.

I slipped the device into my purse, then pulled on my shoes in a rush, worried any delay would upset my date.

The noises of the city crashed over me as I stumbled out the front door of my tiny apartment complex.

Car horns, raised voices, the rush of tires over asphalt, all of it built to an overwhelming crescendo that faded into the background as I noticed a towering figure leaning casually against a black SUV.

The gray suit fit him like a glove, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the trim cut of his waist, even in his relaxed pose.

Beneath the double breasted collar, a forest green shirt peeked out — a perfect match to the dress I had chosen.

He’d forgone a tie and left a couple of buttons undone at the base of his throat.

My stomach warmed at the sight, and I had to send a reminder to my vagina to behave.

She wasn’t getting a redo with this man. He was doing us a favor. That was all.

A very sexy, unattainable favor.

He glanced up from his phone as I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of him, and I had to swallow past a nervous lump as his eyes took a slow sweep over my body.

Did I look appropriate? Should I write off the entire night and go hide under my blankets upstairs?

“You look beautiful,” he said, tucking his phone away as he straightened and opened the car door. “Are you ready to go?” He held a hand out toward me, guiding me into the seat.

“Thank you. And yes, please.”

Yes, please?

He jogged around the front and slid into the driver’s seat a moment later.

“Have you been to one of these events before?” he asked, merging seamlessly into traffic and heading toward downtown.

“Umm… I catered one once. When I first moved to Chicago. I haven’t attended as a guest, though. I’m still working on getting my name out there.” I cut myself off as I realized I’d stumbled across the elephant in the room. My name was going to be out there now. Because of him.

“Showbusiness is pretty cutthroat, huh?” he asked, but I couldn’t read anything in his tone.

Was it condemning? Or was I just hyperaware of the circumstances we had found ourselves in. How were we going to sell this relationship if I stressed over every interaction we had?

“We should talk about how tonight is going to go,” I said, picking at the hem of my dress. The more I thought about the event, the more images of us being called out on the fallacy of our relationship danced through my anxious brain.

“What if people know it’s not real?”

Weston slowed the car as we approached a red light and turned in his seat. “No one has any reason to suspect it’s fake. We can talk about limits in public, though. I want you to be comfortable. Are you okay with hand holding? Is there anywhere you would be uncomfortable with me touching you?”

“I’m ok with anything.”

He frowned, glancing at the still red light before refocusing on me.

“Anything is a very broad term. Would you be comfortable with a kiss?”

I hooked my fingers beneath the hem of my dress and pressed my nails into my thighs.

“Anything is fine, Weston. I’m an actress. Boundaries don’t exist for us.”

“So I could fuck you in the middle of the red carpet and that would be fine and dandy?”

I pressed my nails in harder. Beside me, he was statue-still, his eyes intent on me despite the green light coloring the interior of the truck.

“Whatever you want.”

Weston cursed, throwing himself backward in his chair as he forced the truck into gear and accelerated through the now-yellow traffic light. We drove several blocks in silence before Weston cursed again, shaking his head.

“Everyone has a right to boundaries, princess. The only people who would tell you differently are taking advantage of you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

His jaw was set, his eyes resolutely on the road as he steered us around a corner and over the Chicago River.

“I know,” I said, wanting to touch him. To impress upon him how much I meant what I was saying.

“I trust you.”

I had met a lot of men in my life. Predators, and protectors, and everything in between.

I’d become adept at identifying men like Denny Hayes, who would take more than you were willing to give in the name of career progression.

Weston Naylor was not one of those men. I knew that from the moment he ordered me to breathe outside Bar 103.

His face softened, and he flicked a quick glance at me before returning his attention to the road.

“Tell me something about you,” I blurted, eager to move away from the vulnerable moment we’d created.

“Like what?”

I thought for a moment. What did I want to know about him?

Everything.

We hadn’t shared personal details on the night we shared together because the mystique had been part of the fun — though in retrospect, sharing some very basic details might have been helpful — but in the days since then, I’d become an avid researcher into the life of Weston.

Unfortunately, it turned out that apart from a career threatening injury, amazing playing statistics, and a public relationship breakdown, there wasn’t much to find.

“If you had one day off to do whatever you wanted, what would you do?”

He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, humming in thought as we slowed at another corner and turned away from the water.

“I’d do a sunrise hike — maybe Indiana Dunes, or Starved Rock — then go for breakfast with my buddies.

I’d talk them into doing something fun, like a round of paintball, or laser tag, or maybe head out to Lake Michigan and spend the afternoon kayaking or kicking a ball around.

Maybe make time for a bake-off with my neighbor and chill at home for the evening.

Get the guys around and do a cook out, or something.

I dunno, I guess a day off would be spent having fun with people I love. How about you?”

The truth was, if I had a day off, I’d either spend the entire day in bed, binge a podcast, or hyperfixate on a new hobby that I’d half finish and never pick up again. Seeing as it sounded the least depressing, I chose option C.

“Probably learn something new.”

“That’s cool. What kind of things do you like to learn?”

I hadn’t planned for follow-up questions.

Luckily, we reached our destination, and his question was lost in a flurry of handing the car over to the valet and posing for cameras as we entered the event hall. Weston’s hand was like a brand against my lower back. Warm. Welcome. Dangerous.

Inside, the walls were plastered with larger-than-life photos of athletes in sportswear wearing smoldering expressions I assumed were supposed to entice the average person to purchase compression shorts and brightly colored tank tops.

Across the bottom of each image in obnoxiously big letters was the slogan Set your own Pace .

“That’s the best they could come up with?” I murmured, eyeing a picture of a beautiful woman with masses of braids cascading over her shoulder wearing a lime green sports bra and matching leggings.

“Amara? What’s wrong with her?” Weston asked, his voice guarded.

“What? I’m talking about the slogan. It’s lazy. The model is stunning, the clothing sets off her skin beautifully, and then it just says set your own pace. Like, geez. Did someone sleep through their deadline?”

Weston huffed, just the ghost of a laugh as his shoulders relaxed.

“I’m not sure, but they were probably well paid, and if you’re lucky you might be able to tell them they suck to their face tonight.”

I pulled back from him, unable to tell if he was joking. A server who had been walking close behind me stumbled, barely recovering his tray of drinks as Weston pulled me to safety.

“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” he asked. The move had put us chest to chest, and I wondered if he could feel how hard my heart pounded as I tried to maintain eye contact. He really was a beautiful man, especially with his blond hair loose around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sliding a cautious hand up his chest. “I don’t want to embarrass you tonight.”

He dipped his head closer to me, the scent of warm spice with a hint of… cookies? Or something sweet wafted over me. Why did I feel so safe with this man?

He ran a hand up over my shoulder and loosely collared my throat like he had the first time we met. The move made my knees weak, and his arm tightened around my back as he took my weight.

“Good girl,” he muttered, his hazel eyes dropping to my throat. “You won’t embarrass me. I’m proud to have you on my arm tonight. Besides, fuck these guys. I genuinely wouldn’t care if you offended them. They’re all assholes.”

I nodded along, pretending my panties weren’t growing wetter by the minute as we stood together in our bubble. The crowd moved around us like we were invisible, and I had no problem with that. At all. Especially if he continued to call me a good girl.

“Have you eaten today?” he asked, breaking the spell.

“Wha…? I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

“You need to eat, Georgie girl. Your hands are shaking. Come on, let’s check out the canapes.”

We followed the crowd into a large ballroom that was full of people mingling over champagne and finger food. I picked up two flutes from a nearby server and offered one to Weston. In return, he passed me a small piece of toast loaded with tomatoes and basil.

People began to approach us in ones and twos, asking the same questions about Weston’s shoulder and his career plans, and I tried to stay inconspicuous at his side.

The pretty sidepiece who didn’t cause a stir.

Every time a new plate of food passed, he interrupted the conversation to retrieve a piece of food and offer it to me until I had to beg off before I exploded.

It felt… unusual. Someone taking care of me, even in such a small way.

I was used to judgment and competition, but he was different.

And I didn’t hate it.

As the night wound down, Weston guided me toward his truck with a hand on the small of my back.

“Our first game of the season is next weekend. Will you come?”

I knew nothing about football, but after having spent the night in his company, I’d accept any excuse to see him again.

“I’d love to.”