Page 8 of Your Rule to Break (The Play Caller #2)

Chapter 8

Zack

I don’t know what it is, but when Emilie’s cheeks flush red like that, it makes my dick twitch. The color spreads across the bridge of her nose, hitting her cheek bones.

For fuck’s sake.

“Please,” she answers, her shoulders relaxing as her back rests on the bar behind her.

Emilie kicks her feet out, the gold straps sticking out behind her foot.

I lightly reach around, realizing each shoe has two straps, much longer than I thought they’d be.

“They wrap around my ankle before buckling on the side.” Emilie’s soft voice makes me look up at her.

She’s wearing that red lipstick, the one that makes her lips look completely fucking kissable. It’s never too much with Emilie; she knows exactly what she’s doing—one of the only reasons I ask her opinion when it comes to clothes.

I lightly take the thin straps in my hands and wrap them around her ankle. My knuckles brush her skin, and it's as soft as I thought it’d be. I hold my breath. The clasp is delicate; I move my head to get a better look.

I’d be lying if I wasn’t thinking of what it’d be like to kiss up these legs. I sneak a look up and see her, lips pursed, leaned just a bit forward to see what I’m doing .

When I successfully manage each strappy heel, Emilie kicks her feet, probably making sure they’re not going to fly off. My breath, which was held hostage in my lungs, finally escapes as soon as I create a little room between us.

“What do you think?” Emilie stands, doing a quick half turn while kicking up one of the heels. “Not too boring?”

Ha! Boring is never a word I’d use to describe her.

“Definitely not boring.” I bite my lip, taking her in from the red hair pulled back down to the tip of the heels. “You’re really something.”

Emilie smirks and grabs her white bag from the table. I offer her my hand, fake boyfriend things and all, and she shakes her head before taking it.

The Trivium Food Company is my favorite kind of place: good food, better drinks, and an eclectic menu. Serving small plates only, most of their food spins a classic on its head.

“Up next, we have a soup designed to make you think of dipping your french fries into vanilla ice cream.” Our server, Tori, lifts the top of a dish and steam escapes. She reaches into a small sack-bag, kind of like what you’d get at elementary school for a field trip, and pull out a small container of fries, before laying them out—just so—on the plate.

“Dip the fries in the soup, at least for the first bite.” Tori sets down two tiny spoons for Emilie and me. “Enjoy!” She claps her hands, almost every inch covered in tattoos, and heads back to the kitchen.

I take a deep breath and it oddly smells like sweet vanilla, and of course, salty potatoes .

“These are like, ridiculously thin. Perfectly straight. ” Emilie picks up a fry, examining it. Sitting across from me in a booth for two, she takes the fry, dips it into the soup, and pops it into her mouth—careful not to drip anything on her dress.

“MMMMMohmygod,” Emilie moans, closing her eyes. I’m surprised I can hear her because most openings like this are chaotic and obnoxious. Seems like Trivium has it figured out.

Wanting to see what all the fuss is about, I dip my own fry into the soup before putting it in my mouth. It’s bizarre because it’s exactly as they’ve described: vanilla ice cream, but soup? Hot vanilla ice cream? It feels like it shouldn’t work but it does, and it’s fucking fantastic.

“How the fuck do they do that?” I ask, dipping another fry in the soup. All of a sudden I’m calculating how many fries are left compared to the soup ratio—I don’t want to use a spoon.

Emilie replies, “It doesn’t make sense but I love it. You know?” Another fry from the plate bites the dust before I can blink.

When we both reach for the last fry, it’s like the press gods have shined their nosey light upon us, because a photographer is getting shots at our table. Typical for an event like this—let everyone eat and as the food wraps up, come out of the woodwork to get the PR shots.

“It’s like that Disney movie! The one with the noodle and the dogs,” I joke. Lines crinkle the corner of Emilie’s eyes as she lets out a small laugh but doesn’t give up the crispy potato.

“I’m the lady.” She leans in, her eyes golden in the dim light. “And you can be the tramp.” She pops her lips at the end, hitting that P hard. It makes me laugh and tip my head down, giving her the perfect opportunity to snatch the last fry.

Shaking my head in defeat, I joke, “You’re cold. ”

She shrugs her shoulders and finishes her drink. Like clockwork, Tori is at the table with fresh drinks for both of us: an Aperol Spritz for Emilie and a vodka soda with orange for me.

“Look how cute we are. A couple with the same garnish.” I shake my head, teasing, before picking up the rocks glass. I feel the bubbles on my nose before the smooth vodka and light citrus hit my tongue.

“Meant to be, I guess.” Her hand reaches over and squeezes mine, her fingers soft and nails painted her usual inky black. Emilie moves her fingers back and forth over my knuckles before catching my eyes. When she raises her eyebrows and a corner of her lip in a smile, my stomach bottoms out.

The way it sometimes does when she looks at me like that. She’s got one hell of a smirk and, fuck, if that red lipstick doesn’t make me think of where she could leave smudges on me...

Stop. This isn’t legit. Plus, Emilie isn’t the type of woman to waste her time on someone like me, romantically at least. I'm the fun friend, a good time, the one you call when you need a break from the heavy.

I’m just the guy who couldn’t keep my mouth shut. This whole fake dating thing seems like it could be fun—certainly no regrets here—but it feels there’s more at stake than me showing up as a plus one. Maybe Emilie wishes I would’ve left it alone, or that someone else would’ve stepped in?

“Do you know her?” Emilie asks, interrupting my self-deprecating rant.

I look to the woman who is clearly approaching our table. I shake my head. At first, I think she works for Trivium, but she’s not wearing a uniform.

She walks right by our table, leaving a folded up piece of paper near my drink glass .

“What in the world?” Emilie laughs and leans forward. “What does it say?”

I open the wadded up piece of paper to find a scribbled phone number.

Emilie sits back and shakes her head. “Does that happen a lot?” she asks, looking to see if the woman is around.

“Sometimes,” I tell a little white lie.

I leave out the part where, when I go out with the team, I sometimes get so many numbers that I'll draw one out at the end of the night, and that’s who I go home with.

I don’t think Emilie would be impressed with my version of phone number roulette. I mean, sometimes I embarrass myself when I think about it. Part of me knows I’m smarter than the antics and it’s always louder than the part questioning my plan for an end game.

Finishing the rest of my drink, I take the unsolicited phone number, ball it up, and put it in the leftover ice.

“That’s cold, Zack,” Emilie jokes, barely able to stifle her laugh when she takes a drink of her spritz.

I laugh at her cheesy pun, put my head in my hands, and peek through my fingers at her. She’s chewing her straw, glowing, and looks so unbothered.

Why would she be? No one saw it happen and this is just for looks.

Right?

“Ready?” I reach my hand out for Emilie to take. I turn to find her a step or two behind me, her legs on display thanks to that fucking blue dress. The one she’ll be wearing in my dreams, which may or may not involve her removing it slowly. Not that I'll tell her that.

The press buzzes about twenty feet from us. They’re outside the front door of the restaurant, perched and ready for their shots. At openings like this, there are only a couple floating around inside. It’s like an unspoken deal: we’ll let you eat, with minimal disruption, but be ready for the exit, baby.

She slips her fingers in mine right before we walk out the front. The contact warms me from the inside but puts my brain on high alert. How is it that this is the first time we’ve done this? It’s effortless and not at all like we committed to being in a fake relationship a week ago.

You’d think with today’s technology, we’d get rid of the incessant click of cameras. How haven’t we fixed that? It’s a barrage of clicks, flashes, and the occasional snap from the asshole who needs more of your attention.

When we know everyone has a picture of the two of us holding hands, Emilie steps in closer, turning her body and leaning into mine. Her hand touches my stomach, and before I can adequately appreciate her fingers touching me like this, she turns and looks up at me.

Not looks—fucking beams. Her lips, still bold and red, wear that smirk as her eyes find mine. She scrunches her nose before turning to face the paparazzi.

Zack! Over here! Is this your new girlfriend?

Who is she?!

Wait, that’s Emilie Hayes! Willow’s assistant.

Zack! Emilie! Over here.

They are eating this up. Damn, we’re good at this.

Just as we’ve fulfilled our paparazzi quota, I tip down and put my lips on Emilie’s temple. She leans in further, our body like magnets. Something pulling us in, a string, something I could almost reach out and grab.

Something definitely not fake.

Fuck .