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CHAPTER EIGHT

LENA

Gustav pulls out my chair with a screech, nodding before retreating to a nearby corner of the room.

Our table is situated toward the back of the restaurant, behind some decorative fountain with abstract shapes pouring streams of liquid into one another.

It looks like a modern art piece that should be in a gallery, not stooping to create some privacy barrier in the middle of a restaurant.

The rest of the place matches its motif with abstract neutrals and pops of red stretching from floor to ceiling, where massive, twisted gold chandeliers hang.

The whole place is too upscale for a casual meeting.

Stuffy, even. The kind of establishment I now realize refers to their cheese fries as pommes frites au fromage and dumps truffle flakes on top, like that somehow makes it fancy .

It’s familiar and contrived. If I’ve been to one, I’ve been to them all.

Did Decker pick this place? And if he did, is it because he likes it or because he thought I would?

Or worse. Did he think this would impress me?

The thought of Decker wanting to impress me makes me feel a lot of things. Annoyed. Amused. Flattered.

I sip my ice water, wishing it were something stronger.

As though she read my mind, a server stops by, placing a bottle of complimentary champagne in the center of the table, sent by the manager or something.

She smiles at me, popping the cork and pouring some into the flute in front of me.

I smile and sip as she deposits the bottle in the center of the table and freezes, her eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.

I turn and follow her gaze until I see what she’s gawking at.

Decker Trace’s massive frame is heading straight for us.

When he pulls out his chair and sits, he gives us both the same megawatt smile.

The waitress quickly pours the champagne into his flute, her hands trembling as she sets the bottle back on the table.

I smile at her, hoping to ease her rattled nerves.

She returns it, then promptly scurries away, too shy to stick around beyond that.

I was hoping I could get an appetizer, but when Decker winks at me, I’m grateful to have the bubbly to help me through this.

“Starting without me?” he asks.

“There’s still time to catch up.” I down the rest of my flute, buying time to think of what Antonia would want me to say. I bite back a tart response, and instead smile sweetly. “The night is young.”

“Isn’t that the name of one of your songs?”

“It is,” I say, pouring myself another glass.

“Is quoting your own stuff a normal occurrence for you?”

I grind out another smile. “I didn’t know I was meeting with a fan tonight.”

“Speaking of fans, I had no idea how much you liked the Kings.” He leans closer. “I’m flattered.”

My teeth feel like they’re going to crack as I clamp my jaw tighter. “I love football.”

“Well, you’re in luck because I got you something.”

He brought me a gift? That’s almost thoughtful.

The waitress returns as Decker reaches into a pocket concealed in his jacket. He pauses the motion, rattling off a few appetizers for us to share. I’m surprised when he chooses all the ones I’ve been eyeing.

When she leaves, he scoops out his gift. But it isn’t so much a gift as it is a permanent marker. I deflate as he grabs his drink napkin and scrawls his name across it before sliding it my way.

“Thought you might want that.” He winks.

I stare at it, unflinching.

“For the philanthropy thing. I thought you might want it for that.”

I snatch it from him when he waves it in my face. “You want me to give someone your napkin?”

He shrugs. “It’s signed.”

I roll my eyes.

“You can keep it for yourself if you want,” he says.

I let out a long breath. He’s just as insufferable as I remember. Did Antonia and my mom truly think this was going to work? Regardless of what they think, I can’t do this to myself. I won’t do this to myself.

“Thanks, but I think I’m good.” I push from the table, grabbing my handbag and stepping away, but something catches my hand. When I turn around I find Decker at the other end of it, his eyes softer, his face settled into something less cocky than it was five seconds ago.

“Wait. I’m sorry, I—” He lets me shake free and runs his hand over his hair. “Here.” He grabs up the napkin, flipping it over and placing my champagne flute on it. “Let’s just pretend I didn’t offer you my autograph. Sit down. Stay. Please?”

I glance back at Gustav, who is waiting for his cue to escort me out, but my mind flashes back to my mom and Antonia—to the entire reason I’m meeting with this big oaf—and I find myself sitting again. “Fine. My publicist will kill me if I don’t at least see this date through, anyway.”

“Date?” He perks up.

I shake my head. “Meeting. Whatever it is.”

I push a swath of hair behind my ear, unable to meet his eyes. Did I really call this thing a date?

“I mean, we could consider it a date.” He clears his throat, and when my eyes meet his, he backpedals. “If you want to. We don’t have to. I was just thinking that Jason might leave me alone about my personal life for a bit if I told him we had a promising date.”

“I feel that.” I slam down another flute, placing it back on the overturned napkin. “Do you ever get sick of people meddling with your life?”

His brow knits. “I mean, Jason’s pretty nosy, but I don’t know if I’d call it meddling .”

I watch the last few drops of champagne run down the sides of my glass like tears, my veins already buzzing as the alcohol fills my empty stomach. “I think my publicist—well, her and my manager both—wanted this to be a date.”

“Would that be so bad?”

I throw my head back in a too-loud laugh. “Since you’re a fan, I think you already know the answer.”

He arches a brow, leaning in. “I don’t mean to burst your little bubble, but I’ve heard maybe three songs of yours.”

Is it weird to find that endearing? It feels nice, like a fresh start.

I lean in too, lowering my voice. “Good. Because let me tell you, all of my songs are written about guys whose beginning and end started just like this.” I tap a finger hard on the table.

“Organized for one opportunity or another. Only made the mistake of completely falling for one of them.”

Decker’s eyes trail to where my pink nail digs into the soft wood.

Our waitress brings the appetizers, and he orders another bottle of champagne for us.

I waste no time scooping piles of steaming food onto my little plate. “Did you honestly think we called out of the blue for a random charity collaboration?”

“Crazier things have happened.”

The champagne fizzes up, overtaking the conversation. “They were hoping you’d be like all the other suckers and fall for their little scheme.”

His brow wrinkles as I shove a piece of fried calamari in my mouth.

“So you’re saying that all of your relationships have been planned?”

“Most of them. And not planned, per se, but suggested. Heavily encouraged for whatever that partnership could offer . ”

“So your publicist and your manager arrange your dating life?”

“Yeah, and my manager’s my mom.” I snort like it’s funny.

He presses his lips into a tight line, and I notice the auburn tint in his stubble in the low light. “You know, that’s kind of sad.”

“Thanks.”

Just when I begin to regret opening my blabbering mouth, he says, “So what’s one more?”

“What?” I say, chomping on a steaming, artisan cheese-smothered pommes frite —a pretentious cheese fry.

He picks up a few too, shoving them in his mouth, thinking as he chews. “If both our teams want to see this happen, then why don’t we make it happen?”

“Because I don’t like you.”

“So? Business isn’t always about liking people. If that were the case, I probably wouldn’t be here either. You aren’t exactly a ray of sunshine yourself.”

I stick out my tongue.

He ignores the gesture. “I think there’s something we can both offer each other to, ya know, help one another along.”

I arch a brow. “So you want to use me?”

“No.” He leans closer. “I help you. You help me.”

“Why do you need help? I’ve seen how lucrative some of those football contracts can be. You don’t need me.”

“What about after football?”

I lean forward, too, narrowing my eyes. “Greed isn’t a good look on anyone, Decker Trace.”

“I’m not greedy .” He scowls, spitting the last word like it’s poison. “I’ve just got things—people I want to take care of.”

The judgment I imposed on him falters for a moment.

It’s easier to say you’re going to share until the money is in your hands or your bank account.

I’ve been in this business long enough to know that once someone makes their first million, the appetite for more becomes insatiable.

Why would Decker be any different? I’ve been down this road.

Someone wanting a piece of the life I’ve built, of all the time I’ve lost, sinking it into my career.

I’ve had photos and documents hacked by those I thought I could trust. I’ve had stories made up and sold to journalists.

All of that betrayal for a quick dollar.

Why should I share my success—myself—with someone else simply because they think they have something to give me?

Am I so desperate to cover my tracks that I’m willing to take this gamble?

“People to take care of? That’s a pretty convenient excuse.

” I shake my head, tossing down my fries just as the waitress pops up and refills our glasses before setting the chilled bottle on the table and flitting away.

“Anything I’ve got, I earned it myself. I don’t need you to do a single thing for me. ”

“Just think about it.”

“No, I’m good.”

As desperate as I am to regain control of the headlines and salvage my reputation, I can’t stand the thought of it being him who saves me.