Page 3 of Hard to Fake

This time it’s at me.

The heat of embarrassment clashes with the numbing cold of the pond.

I wouldn’t have fallen in if someone hadn’t shown up and pulled focus from the entire editorial shoot.

The water ripples in front of me, and a hand appears. I grab it, desperate, and pull myself upright, spitting out a piece of lily pad that got plastered to my mouth.

The hand is attached to a man. One who towers over me now that I’m standing, his athlete’s body hard and powerful in jeans and a bomber jacket.

Topping it all off is the most regrettably attractive face I've ever seen. Medium-brown hair with thick brows. A square, smooth-shaven jaw. A wide mouth tipped up at one corner. Eyes that have no business being so goddamned blue.

Excited murmurs go up from the models and crew. Every person here knows he’s world champion Denver Kodiaks shooting guard Miles Garrett. The sexiest man in sports, possibly the world.

Women want him. Guys want to be him.

Sure, he’s objectively bangable, with a killer grin, huge hands, and a body that makes you want things you can’t say in front of your grandmother.

But he’s also Jayden Ellis’s righthand man, an extension of the basketball world I’ve been trying to escape from for years.

"C'mon.” His voice is low and amused as he turns, motioning toward his broad back.

He must be joking.

“I’m not riding you like a horse,” I scoff, picking a leaf out of my hair.

He grins, the smile of a person who enjoys it and knows he looks good doing it.

I crouch and feel for the bottom of the pond, biting my lip to hold in a whimper as the soggy, frozen cashmere plasters itself to my body.

“What are you doing?” Water soaks up to the knees of his faded-wash jeans.

“I need to find my phone.” It was in my skirt pocket, and now it’s not.

I bite my lip, swallowing the panic that wells up.

My life is on that. My work. My world.

The water is dark and opaque, and my foot slips. I keep searching.

On the shore, Giovanni paces. Aliya folds her arms, tapping a toe impatiently.

I take another step, feeling the bottom, and slip on something on the liner of the pool.

“Hurry up. I need to finish this shoot!” the photographer calls.

My would-be rescuer grabs me to keep me from falling. “We stay here any longer, we’re going to turn into frogs.”

“Only princes turn into frogs, so looks like we’re both safe.”

My teeth clack together from a sudden shiver that rips through me as the cold water settles into my flesh, my bones.

“Brooke Tamara Ellis.” He’s suddenly serious. “Your brother’s going to kill me if I watch you freeze to death. Get the fuck out of this pond.”

I blink at his commanding tone, my chin lifting. “Or else what?”

Before I can respond, he’s hoisting me up over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold.

He grabs my legs, locking them against his chest as he straightens to carry me back to shore.

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