Page 11 of Winning Match (League Valencia #1)

Marlowe

“If I do this, pose as your fake girlfriend, I want you to help me woo José Costa. Not just a meeting but whatever it takes to secure his account for my family’s company. For my future,” I say, standing from the sofa and walking in front of the window.

My mind is going a mile a minute. This could be the opportunity we need to gain José Costa and his sailing team as a client.

If everything Grandpa alluded to is correct, this account could save Prescott Sail, even with Brown University and Lawrence Sailing not renewing their contracts.

“Done.”

“I’ll still need to work while I’m here,” I continue. “I can’t be on a full-time hiatus, posting on social media and baking cupcakes for your team or whatever girlfriends are supposed to do.”

Ale chokes on his coffee as he laughs. “Baking my team cupcakes? Mi nina , if you do that, they’ll expect me to marry you.”

I chuckle and raise an eyebrow. “I’ve only ever dated a sailor.”

“That was your first mistake. Gerard spent too much time at sea to notice what’s right in front of him.”

My blood heats at the look in Ale’s eyes and I roll my lips together, recalling with perfect clarity the way he kissed me at the club. The way his palm grazed my curves, his fingers threading through my hair.

“So, we’re good?” He claps his hands, standing.

“Wait.” I hold up my hand. “I can only commit to staying for two months,” I say, calculating how long I can stay away from Dad. God, even eight weeks feels like an eternity. How many pieces of him will slip away, forever, in my absence?

“Three,” Ale counters, sitting back down. “We’re trying to overhaul my reputation. Eight weeks still feels like a fling.”

I sigh, seeing his point. “Ten weeks.”

He bites the corner of his mouth to keep from smirking. “All right. Ten weeks. Long enough to be believable, not long enough to catch real feelings.”

His words cause my chest to tighten but I don’t admit that they affect me. Instead, I say, “You’re a terrible negotiator.”

“You shouldn’t admit that during the discussion of terms.”

I snort, he grins, and I admit this is more fun than it should be.

“Are we telling anyone the truth?” I ask.

Ale sighs and I can tell this portion of the ruse weighs heavily on him. He shakes his head. “We can’t risk it. We need to be all or nothing on this. And the only way to keep our lie safe is to…”

“Lie to everyone,” I finish.

“What do you think?”

“I hate it, but I think you’re right. My grandpa, not to mention the Sewing Circle, would be heartbroken if they knew I fabricated a relationship to get ahead in business.”

“Papá may never speak to me again.”

A moment of tense silence passes between us before I ask another question.

“How do I become your fake girlfriend?” I ask.

“We’ll have to make it look real,” he reminds me.

“Yes, but what will it entail?”

“For the most part, you enjoy your time in Spain and do whatever you wish. Work for your family’s business, join the sailing club, hang out with Bianca.”

“That sounds like a vacation.”

Ale grins. “Why do you think so many Americans are moving to Spain?”

I laugh. “That’s it? Hang out and have fun?”

“I’d like you to come to paella at my parents’ house one Sunday,” he says slowly. “It doesn’t have to be this weekend, but soon. Attend events with me. Appear at a few games.”

“I can do that.”

He stands from the couch and meets me near the window. Holding out his hand he says, “Ten weeks, Marli. I’ll get a meeting lined up between you and Costa in the next month. Did you get your credit cards sorted?”

“I’m calling my bank next.”

“I’ll make sure everything you need is taken care of,” he vows.

“That’s insane. I’m?—”

“My girlfriend,” he cuts me off, his eyes serious. “I’ll take care of you while you’re here, at my request, in my city.”

I shake my head slowly, disbelief rolling through me. But I hold out my hand and admit, “I’m trusting you, Ale.”

“Alejandro García,” he murmurs his full name as he wraps his fingers around mine. His hand is big and strong against my grasp. “And you can.”

“Marlowe Claire Prescott,” I offer, my heart flip-flopping, my body warm. “And I hope so.”

He pulls me closer into his frame, wrapping his arm around me before pressing a kiss to my temple. There’s a safety in his embrace—a reassurance—that settles me.

“You need to eat, and I need to call my agent,” Ale says, guiding me toward the trays of food. “I want you to understand that my life is often half-lived in the media. That’s why those two men met me at the club last night. I called in extra security since there were so many eyes on us.”

“The black SUV that picked us up at the back entrance of the club,” I breathe out, understanding dawning.

“Yes. Our dates, our interactions, even you going out to shop with Bianca will probably end up on social media. People will comment about us, about you, and sometimes, it’s hurtful.”

I grin when I see the stack of pancakes. “I understand, Ale. Not from firsthand experience but…listen, my family, my grandpa and my dad, they’re everything to me. If I can take the burden off their shoulders by securing José Costa as a client, I can take whatever comes with it.”

Ale hesitates for a beat before nodding. “Sometimes fans are…intense.”

That pulls me up short and I turn to look at him. “Intense how?”

“Fan mail that crosses a line by sending naked photos or intimate items. Fans showing up at restaurants and hotels, before I arrive. I had two stalkers in the past.” At the alarm on my face, he sighs and reaches for me.

“I want you to know what you’re getting into.

Once I make this call…we’ll need to issue a press release and there will be no turning back. ”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

“No.” He snorts. “God, no. But I want you to understand that parts of this won’t be easy.”

I think about Dad and the memories that slip from his mind. About Grandpa and the exhaustion of keeping a business afloat in one’s eighties. About the Sewing Circle—the women who have stepped up for me in the wake of every wave of grief. I cannot let them down; I won’t. “I understand.”

“Vale . Okay.”

As I enjoy my pancakes and coffee, I watch as he calls his agent.

I study his bright green eyes, broad shoulders, and long, strong legs.

I bet Ale could easily lift me, carry me into the bedroom, and toss me on the bed.

I roll my lips together, wondering how it would feel, the weight of his frame hovering over mine.

This gorgeous man is going to be my boyfriend for the next ten weeks.

Fake boyfriend. A fake relationship.

Shit. Can I really pull this off? With him, looking like that, and showing me so much consideration?

I snort to myself, shoveling another forkful of pancake into my mouth.

I can’t get caught up in the moment; I need to keep my wits about me.

This is certainly the fastest path to speaking with José Costa, to saving Prescott Sail.

The trickiest part will be keeping Dad stable while I’m out of the country. But I know Grandpa and the Sewing Circle will step up. I just hate asking them to sacrifice more of their time on my account.

“We’re all set,” Alejandro says, sitting on the opposite side of the sofa.

I set my cleared plate on the tray and tuck my legs underneath me. Angling my body toward his, I blow on my coffee. “What did your agent say?”

“PR will release a statement in the next few hours. I’ll send you the final language so you can approve or make any changes.”

“Thank you.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I’ll speak with my family as soon as we wrap this up.”

He nods jerkily, averting his gaze. “Do you want me to stick around for that conversation?”

As touched as I am by his thoughtfulness, I don’t know him well enough to bring him into my family fold yet. To tell him the truth about Dad. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“All right.” He glances around the suite. “You can’t stay in the hotel suite forever. We’ll need to make arrangements and?—”

“One thing at a time,” I cut him off. I need to speak to Grandpa before I contemplate living scenarios. “Can I…call you later?”

He winces and I hate that I effectively dismissed him.

But I need some time to sort through things, and his being here—looking like he does and showing me considerations no man ever has—is distracting as hell.

Ale stands and asks for my phone number. I rattle off the digits and he plugs them into his phone, giving me a missed call. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” I say, meaning it.

“Want to have dinner tonight?”

I shrug. “I have no idea how this whole thing is going to go.” I gesture toward him to encompass everything—the media, our fake relationship, news of our dating. “Do you think we’ll be able to go out for dinner?”

“Yes,” he says simply. Resolutely.

“Okay.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby at nine?”

It will take some getting used to eating dinner at the time I usually go to sleep. “Nine.”

Alejandro holds my gaze for a long moment, and I feel his worry down to my toes.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I say, standing to walk him to the door. I pull it open, but his hand catches it.

Gripping the edge of the door, he bends down, pressing a kiss to each of my cheeks. His cologne washes over me and I close my eyes at his nearness. “Thank you, Marli,” he whispers, his breath a caress over the shell of my ear.

Ale pulls away and I force myself to meet his gaze. “We got this, García.”

He smirks. “I know.”

Then, he’s gone. The bravado I clung to in his presence swoops from my being and I press my back against the closed hotel suite door and slide to the floor.

Holy shit. I have a fake boyfriend.

And not just any guy, but a futbolista .

What an interesting term. Like fashionista but for a sport.

I groan. “Of course, it’s a sport I know absolutely nothing about,” I mutter to the empty space.

I would have hit the jackpot if he’d been a sailor. I could have held my own if Ale had said tennis or golf or even American football. Maybe.

But soccer?