Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
It seems Stephen’s not interpreting the handbook the same way I am, and his interpretation is the one that matters.
“We ran into each other. I was with my sister, and he was with his friend, so we all saw the movie together,” I explain, feeling like I’ve been called into the principal’s office.
And I’m doing a horrible job telling Stephen I want to date Drew. I’m backpedaling. I’m untelling him.
I am the worst.
He waves a hand dismissively. “That’s all fine. The fake romance movie and the pics got me thinking. You two seemed like a real couple. And I thought, wouldn’t it be great if they were together? This happy couple on the team. Maybe even going to dinner tonight in Venice Beach.”
Ohhhhh.
Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“I thought we were having dinner with you tonight?” I want to be crystal clear on his meaning.
“You can take my reservation. Just the two of you. Let me be blunt, Brooke.” He clasps his hands together. “With all the shit this team went through last year, this potential love affair is looking to be a bright spot—the quarterback playing Skee-Ball with kids, and then with the woman he likes at a charity function. An upstanding, respected attorney. What a delightful story. Co-workers falling for each other. It made me think if I were writing a movie script, I’d craft this kind of romance because the press is eating it up.”
Oh, my stars. That’s why he sounds so…delightfully calculated. He wants me to date Drew? Or wait. Does he want me to fake date him? “So you want me to pretend date him? Or date him for real?”
Stephen smiles devilishly. “What a great idea you just had.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “But make it seem real.”
But it is real.
I try to make those words pass my lips, but he heads for the door, checking his watch. “I’ve got a call. The reservation is at eight under my name, and I’ll adjust it for two. Look natural if someone takes your pic. There’s little the public loves more than when the squeaky-clean quarterback wins the heart of a good woman, so carry on. There’s even that press tour next week of the new food booths here at the stadium. He’ll be there. You’ll be there. I’ll make sure HR knows, so everything’s on the up and up,” he says as he walks away, dropping the mic and leaving me to fake-date the quarterback with his blessing.
Or real date?
I don’t even know which one. Or if it matters. But I know this—I’m expected to be seen with him tonight at eight.
I sink into the chair, shell-shocked, trying to figure out how in the hell that happened. Then I open my phone to send Drew a text.
Brooke: So, this is an unexpected twist. Stephen got a vibe from us, he said. He wants us to be fake dating. Or maybe he thinks we’re real dating. It doesn’t matter. I was so shocked when he told me he thinks we’re adorable together and that it’d be a great idea if we were together.
Drew: Holy fuck, that’s all that matters, honey! Because we are.
Brooke: This is so surreal. He even changed the dinner reservation this evening so it’s just for two.
Drew: Except it’s the real world, finally. We’re not in the parallel one any longer, and tonight, I’m taking you out.
I guess I didn’t screw this up. At least I don’t think so.
21
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
Brooke
“Can I interest you in wine?”
It’s a simple enough question from the server at Max’s, but I draw a blank.
I glance at Drew, then at the goateed server, then back at Drew. Am I supposed to order liquor? Is that acceptable for a fake date? A fake real date? Should I order lemonade instead?
I’m…flummoxed
Drew lifts a brow. “You like chardonnay usually, right, honey?”
He must think I’ve spaced out.
But if I order wine, will that make me sound like a lush in the sports press? Is the media going to say I have a drinking problem?
“I’ll have a Perrier,” I choke out.
“And for you, sir?” the man asks Drew.
“Same,” he says with a smile, so natural when I’m so not.
When the guy leaves, Drew shoots me a curious look. “You okay, Brooke?”
“I’m great,” I chirp.
But do I look annoyed? Wait. Do I look appropriate? I’m wearing a red blouse and jeans. Is that proper fake dating attire? Should I have worn a boho dress? A cute little hat? A slouchy top?
Where is the handbook for this, Stephen?
“How was your day?” I ask Drew, pasting on a smile. Like we always have cheery, PR-y, media-friendly conversations. Not like we play with innuendos, talk dirty, share stories, or chat about hopes and dreams and orgasms.
“It was good. Worked out, ran with Patrick, practiced. I told Patrick about us,” he says, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes bright.