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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LENA

“How did I forget about Princess?! What a sweet baby.” I can hear how shrill my voice is, though it’s hard over the panting and slobbering of the pooch in my lap. “She’s so much squishier in person!”

“Baby? She’s eleven. She’s a grown woman. Pay her some respect.”

I shoot daggers at him over my shoulder before turning back to Princess. “Don’t listen to him. You are a beautiful young lady.”

This earns me a sloppy kiss right over my mouth and Princess a scolding from Decker.

I can’t help myself. I pull out my phone and snap a quick photo of her squishy little pitbull face.

As she stares up at me, I stroke her velvety head, my nerves finally fully regulating from our run-in with the pushy fans earlier.

There’s something so therapeutic about loving on a dog.

If I ever have a chance to stay put somewhere longer than a few weeks, I’d love to have one of my own.

Decker extends a hand to me, his eyes warm as they catch on mine.

I grip his hand and push to my feet. Suddenly, I’m closer to him than I’ve ever been, and the gravity of it all hits me full force.

I’m alone for the first time with my new fake boyfriend.

I take a step back, just far enough that I haven’t lost sight of his deep green eyes, but enough space that the heady scent of his cologne has some room to aerate.

Surveying my surroundings, I realize how clean the place is.

Most of the guys I know struggle to keep anything straightened up on the home front.

I wonder if he has a maid. He’s handsome, clean, and has a sweet pup?

Before Callum, I would have been all over a guy like this.

If he weren’t a pro athlete. And if Callum hadn’t ruined men for me forever.

“What?” Decker asks.

“Nothing. This place is just like… super clean.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Kinda. You have a maid, right?”

He shakes his head and walks toward his expansive kitchen, Princess clipping his heels. Everything is stainless steel and creamy marbled surfaces. Dropping the bags of food on the counter, he says, “Nah. Why would I pay someone for something I can do myself?”

I raise my brows, a little surprised by his answer. Why? Because you can afford to , is what I want to say, but I don’t. It’s none of my business. As long as he doesn’t treat me as his maid, who cares?

“Doggy daycare is all the hired help I have, with the exception of my days off. I’m not here long enough to make a mess usually.

” Reaching into a bag, he pulls out two hoagie-shaped wads of paper and drops one in front of me.

“Besides, Miss Princess here is the messy one. It took me almost an entire year to teach her to put her toys away.”

“You taught her to put her toys away?”

He takes a huge bite out of his sandwich and nods. “She’s a smart girl.”

I reach down from the stool I’m perched on and pat her blocky, gray head.

Decker picks off a piece of ham and tosses it to Princess before standing and leading her toward the door. She bounces and barks as he hooks a leash to her pink collar. “So the real reason we’re eating here is because Miss Princess needs a potty break. Wanna join?”

“Miss Princess.” I smirk and check my watch. “I don’t have long, so I think I’ll stay and eat.”

He nods, guiding Princess out, and locking the door behind him with a click. Gotta love a guy who protects his home.

And his woman.

I take a huge bite of my sandwich, stuffing the sentiment down along with the urge to roll my eyes.

I am not his woman . I’m disappointed that I’d even let the thought cross my mind.

Even for a split, sarcastic second. I take another bite.

I have to admit, this sandwich is good. Like really good.

When I’m sure they’re both gone, my curiosity gets the better of me.

I grab my hoagie and set off to peruse my new surroundings.

I traipse across the dark hardwood floor, my footfalls echoing with each step.

The place is nice, though it could benefit from some warmth.

Everything is cool shades of gray and black, glass and metal, and concrete.

Even the floor is stained so dark it might as well be modeled after a blackhole.

It’s not that I don’t like the industrial feel, it just isn’t my first choice.

If we were actually dating, I’d have an interior designer in here in no time with some curtains and paint, and some velvet throw pillows at the very least. Continuing down the hall, I finish off the last few bites of half my sandwich.

It was never my intention to snoop, but when I find his bedroom, I can’t help but peek inside.

And then I’m at his window, peering out into the courtyard, straight down at him playing with Princess.

I never imagined someone who seems to treat their dates so coldly could be so warm to an animal.

I have to admit, it’s a little bit endearing.

He pats down her sides, which sends her into a spiraling frenzy.

She barks at him, jumping at his face as though she can reach it.

Even from here, I can see his eyes crinkle as he sinks to the ground beside her, raining kisses all over her head.

Then he stands and faces his window. I duck behind the wall, dropping to the ground to crawl from the room.

I don’t know if he was looking up here, but if he was, I won’t be caught spying.

That’s the last embarrassing thing I need right now.

His bed is made, his comforter a frosty white.

I wander over the thick black and gray rug to his closet.

As I pop open the door, I’m immediately met with a scent that is just so…

Decker. It’s like he’s standing here with me right now.

Whatever cologne he uses, it’s good . Woodsy and bright and masculine.

I back out of the closet and click the door shut, moving on to my next mission: find said cologne.

A girl has to know what cologne her boyfriend wears, right? Even if it is all a lie.

His bathroom is attached to the master bedroom, and when I enter the room, it’s in a state of disarray. Dirty clothes litter the floor, towels are hung over knobs and shower rods. Now this is what I was expecting from his entire place. It’s nice to see he isn’t some weird male drone at least.

Decker is human, after all. Look! He’s dirty too!

I pop open the mirror. Behind it is a little cavern housing bottles, lotions, and cotton swabs.

I pick up a cologne bottle, one of many, and read.

It says something about the vetiver on it, and I give it a sniff.

The title is etched green glass with gold details, and it looks expensive, but smells even more so.

I move on to the drawers—I’ve never been able to help myself when left alone.

Besides, I need to know what I’m working with here.

If there're any concerns I should have, I need to know now. Those concerns come in the form of a junk drawer, but not just any kind of junk. It’s all pink and gold and shiny and looks distinctly female .

Upon closer inspection, I find used lashes and lip glosses, concealers and powders, all of which are different shades of God’s brightest rainbow.

Little gold earrings and silver bracelets rattle around in the bottom.

These things belong to women. Yes, wo men.

Plural. He’s made a lost and found for all of his… companions.

It might as well be a time vortex because suddenly I’m pulled back to the moment I realized my ex was being unfaithful.

One crystal-encrusted earring that I’d never wear, floating aimlessly in a kitchen drawer.

For some reason, I believed him when he said his maid had lost hers, and I allowed him to gaslight me for another few months.

Never again. If I could go back in time and smack myself—and him—I would.

This drawer is just the reminder I need.

When the front door shuts down the hall, I slam the drawer closed and race back to the rest of my waiting meal.

It doesn’t matter how sweet a guy is with his dog, he’s still a guy.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned lately, it’s that no matter how sweet someone seems, they can still turn around and slap you in the face.

Every man has a drawer of secrets in some capacity.

They’re all hiding something. Decker and Callum are one and the same.

They’re guys who love the attention of women.

I can’t blame them, but I refuse to be the next conquest—for real, at least.

“Lena?” Decker calls.

“I was, uh… using the bathroom!”

He unhooks Princess’s collar, his brow knitting when I finally waltz up to the expansive island. “You know there’s a half bath right off the kitchen.”

“No, but I do now.” I offer a smile and jump back on the barstool to finish my sandwich.

He eyes me suspiciously as I sink my teeth into the other half of my sub.

It’s even better than I remember it being five minutes ago, but despite the delicious distraction, I can’t keep my mind off of the drawer.

Who does that? Who collects that crap like some kind of serial killer?

I wonder how many more habits he has like that, habits that could embarrass me publicly, could make me look even more like a fool than my little music hall encounter with Callum did.

Habits that could destroy my already threadbare reputation.

All this tells me is he’s way too wrapped up in his past for anything meaningful.

Which means he’s probably the type to string girls along.

What a dog. Princess strolls over and licks my leg. No offense to her, of course.

Decker leans over the island, unwraps his sandwich, and takes a bite so big herbed oil dribbles down his chin.

An awkward silence rises between us as I watch him stare down at his food, his jaw clenching and unclenching with each chew.

Nothing but the sound of mastication and Princess’s clicking claws fill the space.

As much as I don’t want to talk to him, I need to get back to the studio soon, and if I don’t build some kind of rapport with this monstrosity, I can pretty much kiss my cover-up goodbye.

All it takes is a few weeks, Lena. Maybe a couple of months at the most. Play nice. Save face. Keep everyone happy and move on.

Swallowing my bite, I clear my throat. “So.”

His green eyes meet mine from behind his sandwich. I can’t help but feel like he’s nervous for some reason.

I forge on. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“Besides practice?” A gusty laugh bursts from his lips. “I’m kidding. Karaoke.”

I freeze mid-bite. “Karaoke?”

“Yeah. Me and the guys go to The Malted Mule every Thursday.”

“Every week?”

“Well, we try to. We can’t always make it, obviously, but in the offseason, we do. And if we don’t have a Thursday game during season, we go.” He grabs a napkin and finally wipes the oil from his chin with pink cheeks. “Those usually suck though cause we don’t drink much during season.”

“Sober karaoke?” I stifle a laugh.

He lifts a shoulder, taking another bite.

“Yikes.” The laugh I’d been holding in finally explodes from my lips, and I try to rein it in. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

He runs a hand down the back of his neck, his rock-solid shell of confidence starting to crack. “It started when Aleki’s girlfriend was a waitress there. Before they were dating.”

“Aleki?”

He arches a brow. “My buddy. Maleko Aleki. He’s on our O-line.”

“Sorry, not a big football girl here, despite whatever my mom led your manager to believe.”

He frowns at me. “So you just let them say anything they want about you?”

I grab a napkin and subtly dab my own chin. “I’ve learned to let it ride. Everything’s easier for me if I just let them take the wheel.”

He snorts.

“What else am I supposed to do? Go out at all hours of the night doing karaoke?”

“Better than getting bossed around by a bunch of people who are using you.”

I drop my sandwich, unsure of how to respond.

Sure, my mother benefits from my job—I’m the reason hers exists—and yeah, I’m paying Antonia a hefty sum to keep my career and appearance afloat.

But all of it’s worth it. I’ve gotten what I’ve always wanted.

Writing my own music and performing has been my dream ever since I picked up my first guitar, and if the articles and sold-out shows are any consolation, I only stand to gain more popularity.

Whatever they’re doing—what I’m doing—is working. Who is he to say otherwise?

“Better than keeping a weird drawer of secrets in my bathroom,” I counter.

His eyes go wide, his jaw dropping. “Using the bathroom… Snooping in the bathroom… Synonymous, apparently.”

“I should know something about my new boyfriend ,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

“Then ask,” he says firmly.

My buzzing phone cuts through the tension, and I check my watch. I already know who’s calling, and I don’t think I’m going to like the conversation. Expletives fly from my mouth as I answer. Sure enough, it’s my mother, matching my colorful language with a spectrum of her own.

“Let me guess, they’re summoning you back,” Decker says when I end the call and drop my phone to the counter.

“Part of being successful.”

He shakes his head, not dignifying my less-than-clever jab with a remark. Decker Trace knows a thing or two about success, and as he leads me out of his opulent condo and down the hall, back to his car, it’s hard to stand here and deny it.