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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DECKER

I like Lena.

Disappointment washes over me when she leans away. My body is instantly cold at her abrupt departure.

“Let me see.” She grabs my phone, and all at once I remember this is a photo op, Decker, you idiot.

That’s it. Stop drooling over the way she smells and feels.

She’s not thinking anything more of it. This is a business exchange, and mixing business with pleasure is never a good thing.

One of them always ends in a fiery crash.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if it would be worth it.

She clamps down on her pouty lip, chewing as she zooms in on the picture. “I didn’t realize you had freckles.” She leans in, and I hold my breath as she cranes her neck around to scope out the light smattering on my cheek. “It’s either sun damage or freckles.”

Sun damage? Attractive.

“Or both,” I say, deciding that self-deprecation might make me feel less awkward. At least she’s honest, I guess.

“It’s just a little hyperpigmentation. I didn’t even notice until now.” She tilts her head. “You really should start wearing sunscreen.”

“I do.”

She jabs a finger into my cheek, drawing attention to the spots again. “You don’t. It’s okay. We can work on that. I have some extra upstairs someone just sent me to try.”

“Someone sent it to you for free?”

“People send me stuff all the time, hoping I’ll endorse them. I’m sure after this little relationship is over you’ll have your pick of products too.”

“Products like skin care?”

“I’ve also been sent beef jerky, deodorant, blankets, and electronics, to name a few. Some of them are decent, too.” She nudges me. “When you open your shelter, I bet they’ll send you doggy care things. The sky’s the limit if a company thinks attaching themselves to your name will get them sales.”

I raise my brows, surprised at how confidently she worked my potential shelter into the conversation.

Lena shifts away from me again, lifting the phone to examine the photo. “Don’t act like you’ve never been handed something free for being part of the Vista City Kings.”

She’s not wrong, it’s just that anything I receive complimentary, I haven’t grown tired of yet. Even after almost a decade of being part of the Kings, it’s still exciting to see what people want to send my way. “Not very often.”

She rolls her eyes like I’m being modest, which maybe I am, but what’s wrong with that?

“Half the stuff I have to donate. I can’t travel with it all and don’t need most of it,” she says.

“You are quite the philanthropist, you know.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Suddenly, I’m even more self conscious than I was over my not-freckles.

“Like I’m some saint for giving away free clothes and electronics or peeling potatoes in some backroom of a church.”

“I mean, you’re also well known for your financial donations.”

She ducks her head, concentrating on the screen.

“What if I told you that I just give my team a budget and they’re the ones that make all those timely donations any time some tragic story pops up in the news?

Would you still be looking at me that way?

” When her eyes meet mine, there’s pain in them, like she’s somehow ashamed of the money she’s made and her ability to give it away on a whim.

“A donation is a donation. Your intent to help is there. That’s all that matters,” I say.

“Don’t make it something it’s not.”

“Do you like helping people?”

“Well, yeah,” she says as though it’s obvious.

“Then that’s it. You’re changing lives.”

“I have five houses, at least twice as many cars, and a private chef. Half my fans can hardly afford their gas, and I know some of them can barely buy dinner.”

This strikes a chord with me, one that I thank God I don’t struggle with anymore.

A chord that definitely won’t ever be strummed again if my agreement with her pays off the way we hope it does.

“I’ve been there. My family has been there.

We’ve gone without, and we made it through, but a little help from others never hurts. ”

The turmoil in her eyes softens as she stares at me with…

Is that pity? I never meant for her to feel sorry for me.

She’s got a softer heart than I realized, but I’m only stating facts.

I want her to know from someone who has been there that help is help, regardless of who or what form it comes in.

I didn’t mean to kidnap the conversation.

Lena shifts her weight on my lap, tilting her head as sad eyes cut into me. “I’m so sorry, Decker. I didn’t realize how… how you’d grown up.”

I lower my gaze, locking in on her, hoping she really hears my next words and that we can get off the subject of my financially unstable childhood. “You’re making a difference. Don’t try to act like you aren’t a good person. You may hate me half the time, but even I can tell you’re good.”

“Thanks.” She lifts a corner of her mouth, erasing the pity that had begun to cloud her vision. Leaning back in, she focuses on her screen as she uses her fingers to zoom in on our picture, and in a blink, we’re back to business. “This is honestly better than I expected.”

“We should probably take a few more though, just to make sure it’s the right one.” I worry I sound too eager when she smirks and arches a sharp brow, and I scramble to cover my tracks. “Or maybe in case Antonia and your mom wanna see?—“

“No. We’re choosing this one.” Her pretty smirk drops, and I lift my hands in surrender.

“I’m game. Next pose?”

She chews her lip as she thinks, finally handing my phone back to me.

Without warning, she leans in and plants a soft kiss on my cheek, the stubble I haven’t shaved in a few days an unwelcome barrier.

I almost forget to take the picture. At the last second I snap it, just in time for her to miss the heatwave sweeping over my skin.

Really, Decker? You’re blushing over a kiss on the cheek? How old are you?

The heated feeling intensifies as I turn to face her, my eyes drawing down to her mouth.

It always looked soft, but I didn’t realize how soft those lips could be.

And now I know. There’s no more wondering.

The worst part is… I want to feel them again.

In a very not-posed-for-a-photo op type of way.

My pulse rockets as I consider how far I should push this, which is immediately replaced by a question.

Why do I want to push this? And would she let me?

There’s a war in my brain as I battle between leaving our boundaries firmly within our guidelines or trying to feel out if this attraction is more than the obvious physical.

Something about her is different. I can feel it.

Lena isn’t that bratty girl I met backstage.

Beyond her steely exterior is a girl who cares—about her fans, about those in need, and even about Princess.

She has layers. I’ve witnessed them. She’s sweet and fiery, and I want more.

After the impromptu cheek kiss—the one she initiated, might I add—I want to know if she could want more too.

I drag my gaze up her face to meet her eyes.

She’s still staring down at me, smiling.

She doesn’t ask to see the photo. Then she reaches out and her fingers delicately graze my forehead.

I don’t flinch. I’m completely still, completely willing in this moment to let her do whatever she wants.

Her fingers linger at my temple. “Sorry, you had a piece of hair. I thought I’d?—”

The front door flies open, and she jumps, nearly falling out of my lap. I steady her, and she shoots to her feet, staring down the man in the entryway. The contents of a cardboard box tower to his chin, but I can see him. My stomach drops as I finally register who he is.

“Callum? What are you—” Lena’s voice sounds like someone is strangling it until finally it gives up and fades away.

Callum Porter treads onto the lush, cream and gold rug, not bothering to take off his shoes as he advances into the living room and drops the box on the coffee table in front of us, followed by a small set of keys. The scent of old cigarettes fills the room. “Sorry, love.”

Love? The endearment seems a little callous considering the whole he-dumped-her thing. Callum’s accent is thick. He sounds like a Bond villain. Kinda looks like one too.

His light brows crinkle as he scowls at me, then at Lena. “Did you two… Is this staged?”

Our wide eyes find each other, and I can sense the streak of panic ricocheting through her. It’s the same alarm that’s cropped up in me. The last thing we needed was her ex, of all people, to be the one to figure us out. How does he know we’re faking it anyway?

Lena sways from foot to foot. “Callum, we?—”

He holds up a tattooed hand, silencing her, his voice rife with accusation. “Did you tell me to return your things so you could prove to me you’ve moved on?”

Relief rushes over me.

“That was today?” she asks, picking up her phone and clicking on her calendar.

Callum gives her a look like he’s not buying it.

She frantically scrolls through her personal schedule.

He’s making her nervous. In her own home.

And I don’t like it. I stand, wrapping an arm around her waist. At first she’s so zeroed in on tapping around on her phone that I wonder if she even realizes I’m holding her.

Seconds later, she glances up at me and relaxes into my side.

“Bit pathetic, don’t you agree?” he says flatly, twirling a silver keyring around his finger.