Page 41 of Tuxedos and Tinsel

She didn’t smile. So much for humor. He was mucking this up big-time. “Look, you’re smart. You’re cute.” Cute wasn’t the right word, he realized. She radiated too much class and intelligence to be labeled merely cute. Sophisticated? Maybe. Different?

Yeah, different. Unique.

“Bottom line is, I need your help, if I’m to have any chance of getting a network job,” he said. “Lorianne has already marked us as a potential couple. It would take a while to find another woman as qualified.” Not to mention one whose company he enjoyed as much as he did Susan’s, surprisingly.

“Why is being a broadcaster so important?” she asked. “Surely there are other jobs out there?”

“Because I think I’d be good at it. No, I know I’d be good at it,” he told her. There was more though. “Besides, football is the only thing I’ve ever known. I’m not ready to leave it behind.”

The field and the fans had been the only real home he’d ever had. Without them, all he’d have would be a handful of hazy memories of the glory days. He wasn’t ready to be kicked to the curb, unwanted, again. To go back to being nobody.

He blinked. Susan was frowning at him from over her drink.

“Were you even listening?” she asked.

“Sorry. I drifted off for a moment.”

“Obviously.” She took a long sip of her drink, which, Lewis noticed, was about a third gone. “You said on the phone this proposition would be mutually beneficial. You explained what you would get out of this ‘arrangement,’ but what’s in it for me?”

“Simple,” he replied. “You get seen with me.”

Thank goodness she’d swallowed before he spoke or she would have spit tomato juice all over the table. “You’re joking. That’s your idea of mutually beneficial?”

He leaned back against the bench, his arms stretched out along the back. “You disagree?”

Talk about ego. Like he was such a prize.

She took in his chiseled features—far more prominent in the light of day—and the way his cashmere sweater pulled across his equally chiseled torso.

Okay, hewasa prize.

Still, did he think her so desperate she needed a fake boyfriend?

Aren’t you?She ignored her own question.

“I think you have an extremely high opinion of your appeal.” She paused to sip her drink. Much as she hated to admit it, the combination of tomato juice and vodka was easing her hangover. The tension in her shoulders and neck were lessening with each sip. “Why would I care whether I was seen in public with you?”

“To quote… ‘my own brother didn’t want to be my date.’”

“When did I say that?” It was true, but she couldn’t see herself sharing the information.

“While we were waiting for the car.”

Susan thought back. Much of the trip home was fuzzy. She vaguely remembered growing angry when they passed the ladies’ room and going on a tirade about being single which may have morphed into a drunken pity party.

Oh, man, now she remembered. Stupid Christmas Wishes. “I was drunk. People say and do a lot of foolish things when they are under the influence, as I’m sure you would agree.”

“In vino veritas.”

He flashed a smirk as he reached for his water. “As for the value of my appeal…? There are a lot of women in the UK who would tell you I’ve got plenty.”

“Then why don’t you ask one of them to be your fake girlfriend? Oh, wait, let me guess. Oh, right, they’re all supermodels and party girls.”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you? I was trying to lighten the mood.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you clearly need me more than I need you.” Or the way it stung.

“You’re right,” he replied. “I do need you more than you need me.”