Page 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

corbin

My doorbell rings, and I’m expecting my sister. I call out, “Just a minute.” I put on a pair of shorts and when I answer the door, my heart rate instantly increases. “Oakley, I’m not in the mood to argue with you. I didn’t press charges; consider yourself lucky and leave me alone. I’m tired of being taken advantage of.”

She pushes past me. “We need to talk.”

“What do we have to talk about?”

“Well, first you need to cover that chest of yours… it’s distracting with all of the sweat beading up.” She licks her lips, which makes me want to taste her sweet warm mouth again. If I didn’t hate her, I would.

I smile on the inside, knowing she’s affected by only my skin.

“Please, put on a shirt.”

“Why? I’m nothing but a mark to you.”

“Oh please, I’m a twenty-one-year-old hair stylist, not an undercover agent in a James Bond film. It reminds me of that scene in Legally Blonde where she says, ‘Every time he speaks, my eyes wander down to his chest. It's like they have a mind of their own.’”

I reward her with a soft smile and slight dip of my head. I’m a little embarrassed at how she’s focused on my chest.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll grab a shirt, but I just got out of the shower.”

Oakley salivating is a dick-erecting sight.

I take the steps two at a time, grabbing one of my branded shirts that I’m the spokesman for, sling it over my shoulders, and pull it over my body.

When I get downstairs, I find her in my kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets with her head tilted back, surveying the contents.

“What are you doing?” I snap.

She snaps right back. “Looking for something to eat.”

“Oakley, you don’t come into someone’s house and scour for food like a mouse.”

Her eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms over her waist. Yep, seen this before. “You said to make myself at home, so I did.”

“I meant to sit down on the couch. You’re un-fucking-believable.” But then the gentleman in me takes over and asks, “I’m about to make a turkey sandwich. I’m probably going to regret this, but do you want one?”

“I mean it’s not bologna, but it’ll do.” Then she starts singing, “My baloney has a first name. It’s O-S-C-A-R. My baloney has a second name: it’s M-A-Y-E-R. Oh I love to eat it every day and if you ask me why, I’ll say… ‘cause Oscar Mayer has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A.”

I can’t help but crack a smile because Oakley has a unique personality and to be twenty-one years old, she doesn’t seem to care what others think of her. “Where did that come from?” I ask as I add the mayonnaise to the bread and pile on the meat and avocado.

She shrugs, then jumps her tight ass up and onto the counter. “My mom used to sing it every time she made a sandwich. It’s from an old commercial.”

I slide the plate to her, and she eyeballs it from all sides. “Did you lace it with cyanide? Should I be worried?” she asks.

God, this girl and her snark. I pick up her sandwich and take a bite, then trade her plates.

“Wait, maybe this is the poisoned one.”

“How did you find out where I live?” I ask.

She finally sinks her teeth into the food and coughs. Her face is turning red as she hits her chest with her fist. When I’m about to rush around the island and give her the Heimlich maneuver, she laughs. “Gotcha.”

Damn, this girl, showing up at my house, knowing I hate her and making me laugh.

“And you are a master manipulator. What are you doing here?”

Oakley holds the sandwich with both hands, looks at the meat, as if she’s determining the best location. “Well, I think we can help each other out.”

“I’m not helping you anymore. I’ve come to understand the old adage, ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

She slides off the countertop and damn if my mind doesn’t wander, thinking about holding her close and her sliding down my chest. Moving toward me, she puts her hand in mine. “Hear me out.”

A short puff of air leaks from my mouth. Has anything good ever come from someone saying, hear me out ?

“You’ve been seen fighting with a teammate in public. Leaving bars alone for months. You made it public that someone stole your vehicle.”

“Not someone…you.”

“Oh my God, quit saying that!” she scoffs. “Just listen.” She takes a deep breath and puts her hand in mine as if to tether me to her so I can’t escape. “We can help each other out. The Notes want you to settle down, not because you’re a party animal but because it looks bad that you’re single. You’re the face of the franchise, and they want the All-American guy leading them, not some single guy without any prospects who gets taken advantage of.”

Shaking my hand from hers, I lean back against the cabinets. Everything she says is true but whatever Oakley is cooking up in that pretty little head of hers is trouble with a capital T. “And?”

“Well, I need to be married so that I’ll have access to my trust fund.”

“Good luck with that,” I mock as I empty the water in my glass.

“Here’s my proposal. We get married, in name only. After a few weeks of dating, you get management off your back, and I get my monthly allowance which I desperately need.”

My voice climbs to a higher pitch. “Say what?”

Conflicting thoughts wind through my mind. She makes a valid point about what my single status suggests. My public image has always been that of a golden boy but with recent events piled on top of never being photographed with a woman is giving the press and the gossip mags plenty of fodder.

But am I capable of marrying someone under false pretenses?

“Don’t overthink it, Corbin. It’s a win-win. A marriage of convenience, that’s all,” she says, and I can see the desperation in her eyes.

She reaches out, touching my forearm, sending a jolt that feels like a lightning strike. I fight the urge to draw away from her hold. I can’t deny that she’s interesting, beautiful, and my body is drawn to her, but trusting someone with my career will take some thought.

What will my parents think of me having a sham of a relationship? Knowing Oakley is strapped for cash, I feel a hint of guilt, if I say no.

But isn’t everyone telling me to quit trying to save people?

“I need a drink.”

“Grab me one too,” she responds.

I grab two light beers from the fridge, pop the tops on the counter, and hand her one. “A fake marriage sounds like a recipe for disaster. I don’t like lying.” What I want to say is I don’t know if I can trust you to not blab that it's fake and continue the facade as long as necessary.

Oakley raises her shirt over her head, leaving herself in only a light-blue bra that matches her eyes. “If you don’t want to, I’m sure someone will take me up on the offer.”

I don’t doubt that for a second.