Page 15

“I bet you know where all the bodies are buried.”

I don’t say this to Heath Morris, the general manager of the New England Rebels, but the real body in question is that I never imagined Fitz could kiss like that. Or more, kiss me like that. If that was practice, I’m not sure I’d ever be prepared for the main act.

The irony, of course, is that it’s me with the backyard cemetery. But I don’t mind poking fun at Fitz for a bit, certainly not after he had the audacity to kiss me in a way that’s left my knees weak when I’m stuck in heels for the night.

I’m not sure if game on applies to football, but I give him a sly smirk that says it just before I reach up, brushing the tip of my thumb along his lips. The remnants of my lipstick are either gone or hardly visible in this light, but he doesn’t know that.

Then I look at Heath. “I’d never kiss and tell.”

Fitz is unfazed. Maybe it’s the bourbon, but there’s an aura of confidence circling him that sort of stuns me. I suppose if I looked that good in a tuxedo, I’d be pretty damn confident too.

“It’s nice to see him so focused on something off the field.” Heath turns to Fitz. “It’s a relief to know you have a life.”

Fitz chuckles and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me into his side. It’s innocent enough, so I’m not sure why I have the feeling that even fully clothed, it seems like we’re testing the boundaries. But I’ve never been one for rules anyway. If I’m going to have a gorgeous fiancé whose love language is apparently touch, I suppose I should make the most of it.

I sip my champagne. “I’m probably the least interesting thing in his life, especially after the Super Bowl.”

With all the eyes burning into me, I’m not sure if what I say has grounds to stand on. But I go with it anyway. Because as much as there is more on the line for me in this deal, I have to uphold my end of the bargain. Fitz needs something too.

“We do hope to see you more at games once the season starts. And of course, we’d welcome you and your team”—Heath’s eyes flick over my shoulder, and I’m sure he’s looking at Agent Samuels—“and your family as well. I know your father is a lifelong Rebels fan. But I gather he’ll have his hands full in the fall.”

I twist the thin stem of the champagne flute and place it on a waiter’s empty tray. “Funny enough, my father always manages to squeeze in extracurricular activities?—”

“Would you excuse us? We need to hit the silent auction before it closes.” Fitz guides me to the back of the ballroom.

“I wasn’t done talking,” I tell him, annoyed.

“Maybe this isn’t the best place to air your family’s dirty laundry.”

“That’s what you think.”

He might be right. But I push back because there’s not one part of me that appreciates being told what to do, even by Fitz.

“You’re about to be my husband. Take note. I’d never get on my knees for someone who silences me.”

I’m about to step away from his hold, but Fitz’s arm tightens, pulling me closer so he can dip down to my ear.

“When it gets to the point you’re on your knees for me, there will be nothing quiet about the lead-up.” His words leave tingles across the delicate skin of my ear and neck.

When . He said when, not if.

Fitz slips his hand in mine. “Come. Let’s put your new hobby of spending my money to a good cause.”

I lean all my weight into my heels. “I told you, I’ll pay?—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Parker. With me, you’ll want for nothing.”

I’m taken aback by his serious tone, and Fitz knows it. “What’s with you tonight?”

“What’s with me?”

“You’re awfully enthusiastic about this.”

“The auction?” he asks.

“Us,” I clarify. “You’re awfully…”

Into me , I nearly say.

“Bourbon and a beautiful woman would do that to you, Parker.”

My eyes widen.

“You can take the compliment. You’re beautiful. Do you need me to poll everyone in this room?” he teases. “I’ll only say this one more time. Since you’re mine, you’re going to be taken care of the way you deserve. Besides, you in that dress is already a return on my investment.”

“I still think you’re enjoying this a little too much.” I try to keep my tone kind of playful, but I still stand by what I’m saying.

This is more than I expected—more touching, more closeness, more effort even when it’s just the two of us. Then again, it’s not like I have other fake relationships to compare. Maybe this is how it should be. But there’s something about the way his finger rubs against my ring that makes me feel it carries more weight than the sum of its carats.

“I’m just making lemonade out of lemons,” Fitz tells me.

“Did you just call me a lemon?”

His mouth winds into a grin. “Yeah. When you’re added to something, you make it better. No matter what it might be.”

Fitz changes the subject again, pointing out a private whale-watching excursion on the auction table. But my thoughts are elsewhere, wondering if he notices how my hand grows sweaty in his as I try to decipher how it’s possible he remains so calm, cool, and collected against my nerves when I’m the one who orchestrated all of this in the first place.

* * *

“I’m surprised he let you out of the house looking like that.”

With my legs crossed, the slit rides all the way up my thigh. I shift in my seat, bringing the fabric to curtain together. I’m about to vomit a sea of excuses about how Fitz gave me little notice, but that wouldn’t exactly support our cause, considering Lo and everyone at this table believe we’ve been in a relationship for well over a year.

“I was so busy down in DC,” I tell Josh’s wife, Lo, “The gala completely slipped my mind. I had to scramble. I guess it’s a little boring.”

Lo throws her mane of bouncy blonde curls back. “Boring? The way that’s draped on you? I just meant, considering he kept you hidden away for all this time, maybe Fitzy is the protective type.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. I have no idea if Fitz is protective, but I go ahead and assume at least a little bit because, for the first hour we spent here, he didn’t go a minute without touching me in some way.

“I don’t blame you for not going to the games and all that. Seeing as, you know”—she looks at Agent Samuels against the wall—“you kind of have an entourage.”

I try to fight off the grimace. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’ve never had a friend with private security before. Josh doesn’t exactly ride with that crowd. But you have to promise you’ll come to games next season. We really have a lot of fun. And don’t let them fool you”—she motions around the table—"they act all macho and like their head is only in the game, but nothing makes them happier than having us there. They totally love it. Bonus points if you rock his jersey.”

I would’ve thought that who is watching the game is far less important than playing the game itself, especially for someone as focused and determined as Fitz. I glance at him to my right as he leans back in his chair with his head turned away from me. When Lo is called into another conversation, I place my hand just above Fitz’s knee. Like it’s instinct, he covers it with his own.

“Do you love it?” I ask, my question a whisper.

Fitz drags his face to mine. “What was that?”

I’m focused on the way my hand disappears beneath the span of his. When did that happen? Fitz was always taller, that’s true, but even on the last day I saw him, never was he so much. And it’s only now I’m noticing—not just the weight he bears in his thick, strong legs, or how his hand seems to have a wingspan all on its own—but the broadness of his shoulders, the span of his chest. His presence—after being separated for so long—somehow is inescapable.

“Parker? You okay?”

Fitz reaches across, tilting my chin up. Immediately I’m taken back to the car, remembering how he used just enough force to grab my chin between his thumb and index finger. He doesn’t bring my face closer to his, but god , somehow it feels the same. Just as electrifying. Just as exciting.

“You alright?”

It’s only when I nod that Fitz drops his hand from my face.

“You seem a little more relaxed now,” he comments.

His thumb makes a small sweep against the side of my hand that’s still on his leg. It’s another thing that’s so small and insignificant, but this is all so new—he’s so new—that it leaves me hoping for just a little more when I probably shouldn’t.

A waiter reaches to refill my glass. “Must be the champagne.”

“Or the dress,” Fitz suggests.

I try to ignore the way my cheeks warm. “You seem very relaxed.”

Fitz inches closer, bringing the smirk into clearer view before he shifts, the scruffiness of his cheek pressing against mine. “Must be the dress,” he whispers into my ear.

His smile against my cheek cuts deeper than I ever could’ve imagined.

“I hate to make you anxious,” he whispers. “But we’re being watched.”

I can think of a hundred other words to describe how I feel when Fitz reaches out to brush my hair off my shoulder. Anxious is nowhere on that list. But only one word comes to mind when the pads of his fingers dance along the skin of my shoulder, pushing away an invisible strand only he sees—entranced.

“Are we?”

“By the entire room.”

It’s amazing. In a room of a hundred, he somehow makes me feel like it’s just us.

And isn’t that how it’s always been? Us against everyone and everything. As kids, we were Peter Pan and the Lost Boys against Captain Hook. We were robbers taking on an entire crooked police force. And as we outgrew our imaginations and Rebel clubhouse, we still managed to find fun creating a ruckus, playing pranks on Maddy and scheming with Honey.

But this… the way his eyes hold mine, it’s different , so different that it’s hard to remind myself that even though we’ve grown up, we’ve gone back to the land of make-believe, that the way Fitz’s hand clamps mine against his leg isn’t as intense in reality as it might be in my head.

I’m not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse to feel so much in this pretend play.

“You asked me something before?”

Beside me, Lo laughs, and it reminds me of our conversation that happened just a minute ago, even though under Fitz’s delicate stare, it might as well have been yesterday.

“Jerseys.”

“Jerseys?”

I swallow heavily. “Do you like them?”

“They’re more of a necessity than anything. Hard to keep all that gear from flapping around,” he teases.

“I mean on me . Would you like me to wear one at one of your games? I’m trying to prepare for my football-wife era.”

Fitz cocks his head. “That depends. Would you be wearing anything else?”

“With millions of people watching, I might consider underwear.”

“Then I guess my answer would depend on what kind of underwear.” Fitz grins against the glass he picks up, and I don’t know why but it might be the greatest, unintentionally sexy thing I’ve ever seen. He lowers it after taking a sip. “There’s only one thing youcould wear that would top that. And you’re already wearing it.”

My eyes drop to the ring. The sapphire glows in the light that shines off its diamond counterpart.

“I was wearing your jersey the night I found you in the club,” I remind him, looking back up. “Probably a few other of the girls too.”

“Funny enough, you were the only one I noticed it on.”

I know this shouldn’t make me smile, but it does, even though I fight against it. Because I’m not sure what Fitz is trying to prove in this moment. I don’t need the flattery, especially not in a pocket of privacy. We might have eyes on us, but we’re not being eavesdropped on.

But I decide it’s nice to be flattered. It’s nice to be shown off and not hidden away, even under the false pretense of a relationship that doesn’t exist. I can enjoy this night of pretend, I decide. I can live in it as if it’s real.

“By the way,” he murmurs. “I didn’t bid on the whale watching.”

“I already forgot about that,” I say. “What a bummer.”

“I tend to get seasick.”

“Since when?” I recall a dozen times being on a boat out past the bay with Fitz. Sure, the sea out there was pretty mild in terms of waves. But seasickness is seasickness. “You never said no when I asked you to come out on the boat with me.”

He sighs. “I never really said no to you, did I?”

A shiver creeps up my spine.

“If you needed something, I’d never say no. Not for anything.”

“Do you still love to ride?”

I jump out of the past and right back into the present, where I find Fitz smiling coyly.

“Excuse me?”

He breaks into soft laughter that I swear is far too delicate to escape from his broad chest.

Fitz tips his head toward the back of the room where the silent auction table is. “Riding lessons for you. I’ll get the certificate when we leave.”

I’m touched, but my confusion makes it to the surface first. “It’s an auction . You could be outbid.” I remind him.

Fitz says nothing, just reaches for his short glass and tips the remaining liquor into his mouth. “Added an extra zero for good measure. Consider it an engagement gift.”

My eyes widen. “I get that I’ve never properly celebrated anyone’s engagement before, but don’t other people give the bride and groom gifts?”

“I prefer to be a one-man show when it comes to celebrating my bride.” Fitz doesn’t give me a chance to respond beyond my jaw dropping. Without breaking his hold on my hand, he stands. “Let’s have a first,” he says.

I let him gently tug me to my feet. “A first what?”

Fitz leads me to the ballroom floor just as the music slows. “A first dance.”

Of all the things we’ve done together, I find it hard to believe dancing isn’t one of them. “We’ve never danced?”

“Unless you include the Macarena in fourth grade,” Fitz says, pulling me against him. “No.”

I raise an eyebrow. We probably went to close to ten school dances between middle and high school. “Are you sure?”

Fitz leans forward. “Do you think I could forget?”

And for the next few minutes, I don’t search for seconds of truth in the running film of this grand spectacle we’re producing. Instead, I split myself, becoming both the actor and the audience, so that I’m able to enjoy both feeling and seeing what it’s like to be held by someone who believes I’m worth holding.

I can see how amazing it looks—how amazing we look—not just in this moment but over the course of a lifetime and all the stages of hand-holding we’ve done together.

I see us running in the lush, manicured grass of Captain’s Cottage as we battled imaginary enemies.

I see us sprinting off the dock and into the water even though we were told to come in for dinner, our hold not breaking below the surface.

I see us hours before I was taken, when Fitz grabbed my hand, leading me to the bleachers.

And then, I see who came after him when we were separated.

Fitz senses my unease. “What’s wrong?”

My eyes focus so hard that my head takes on a dull throb.

Fitz goes to loosen his hold on me and create space between us, but I dig my fingers into his shoulder. He grows tense, almost as much as I do, but he finally outpowers me, stepping back and brushing my arms. “You’ve got goosebumps.”

I can’t be bothered thinking about goosebumps. I’ve got all my attention directed across the room on an auburn-red mane fastened back into a perfect braid.

A Dutch braid. My eyes home in on the back of her head—Sarah’s head. I have to remember to breathe. But that isn’t easy when it feels like my heart is lodged in the middle of my throat.

“Parker?”

I don’t answer Fitz, and instead watch as someone approaches the server who is passing champagne and she turns, giving me her profile.

A breath rushes out of me with the speed of a train. I keep staring, just in case. My mind is telling me it’s not Sarah. But maybe it is. After all, when we knew each other, we were only bits and pieces barely strung together. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize me either.

But this woman’s nose, her polite smile, it’s different. Too different to be her.

“Hey.”

Fitz tilts my face softly back to him, and it’s wild that I find relief that he’s still here, still the same. His stare is curious, his tone no longer playful, but maybe that’s because I broke character and threw him off.

Regardless, he doesn’t question me or my odd behavior. I press myself against him, wrapping an arm around the top of his shoulders. He finds my other hand with his and brings it to his chest. And I know it looks the same to the room, but his hold as he welcomes me back into the place my role demands of me—in his arms—feels different.