Page 9 of The Fake Boyfriend Fiasco

“No. I’m a footballer. I’m a retired footballer.”

“Well, Jesus, pick a wealth source. That’s just greedy.”

He blinked. “The hotel isn’t mine. I don’t—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, never mind. Look, I don’t know what you want from me—”

“But I told you. I want you to be my scary fake girlfriend during a week-long party at Alvaro’s house in Marbella.” He grimaced. “I’m not good with social situations, to be honest. If it weren’t for my position and my…” He waved a hand in the air, probably to indicate his excellent body, beautiful face, and general sex appeal. “Truthfully, I’d never get anyone into bed. I don’t know how to speak to people. All I do is kick balls around and make bad decisions. I certainly have no idea how to let people down gently.”

He managed to say all this in a manner that sounded slightly self-deprecating, mostly amused, and somehow appealing. Or maybe that last part was more related to his smile, with those full lips and that strong, square jaw, and the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners. Whatever.

“If I’m honest,” he said, leaning forward in a way that made his broad shoulders seem like a brick fucking wall, “I have lived a charmed life. It has made me quite thoughtless, I think. I would sit back, and sex would fall into my lap. So, I took it. But really, that’s no way for a grown man to behave, now, is it?”

As if hypnotised, Aria found herself shaking her head slowly. “No,” she murmured, while her brain shouted, Why are you agreeing with him like any of this makes sense? He is everything you should be wary of in this world, and he is feeding you the biggest crock of shit you’ve ever been fed!

Well. Except for the crock of shit Simon had fed her. Because nothing, Aria thought, could ever be so terrible as finding out that her boyfriend was actually a murderous stalker. So maybe she shouldn’t be too hard on Nik right now.

“So, you agree!” he said. “You understand!”

Of course she didn’t bloody understand. How could anyone possibly be so bad at saying No that they needed a fake fucking girlfriend to protect them from sex?

But then she remembered the panicked look on his face when she’d first seen him last night. And the way that soft, smiling mouth had turned grim when he’d thought he’d have to speak to whatsherface—Melissa. And, come to think of it, the way Melissa had chased him down, despite the fact that he was quite literally running away.

Maybe there were some downsides to being rich and gorgeous. And, Aria realised, potentially famous. She had no idea. She wasn’t into football.

“I kind of see where you’re coming from,” she admitted. “But ‘understand’ might be a strong word.”

He smiled. “Fair enough.” For a moment his expression turned oddly serious. It transformed his face from sweet and gentle to painfully intense. She didn’t like intensity. Except, apparently, on him. “It’s just that this party is important. I want to see my teammates again and pretend my life hasn’t turned on its head. That’s all. I don’t need the complications.”

Now, that she could understand. Aria was astonished to realise that she was starting to take him seriously, starting to actually consider this proposal. Which was absurd. And ill-advised. She shook her head irritably. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not running off to Marbella with some random footballer.”

“I’m not random,” he said hotly. “I’ve never missed the World Cup squad.”

She pursed her lips to hide a smile. “That’s great. Well done, sugar. I still have no fucking clue who you are, and ‘double-wealthy playboy beloved by all’ is not the greatest character reference.”

Surprisingly, he seemed enthused by that rather than offended. “Get to know me, then. We have six weeks. Spend them with me.”

Spend six weeks with a guy who’d gotten her wet with a single fucking kiss? And then spend another week as his fake girlfriend at some millionaire party in Spain? Aria had a history of making poor decisions—very poor decisions—but she wasn’t completely lacking in brain cells. “No.”

His face fell. “No?”

He looked so adorably disappointed, it almost hurt her heart. In fact, it did, like a tiny little arrow digging into vital flesh. Which was odd, since she didn’t actually think she had a heart. Just a gaping hole in her chest that was always ravenous and eternally empty, no matter how hard she tried to fill it.

See, this was why she embraced the whole princess of darkness thing. Sometimes, her brain came out with shit so depressing, it was almost poetic.

Still, the look on Nik’s face was unsettling enough that she found herself trying to fix it. “Maybe we could… email?” she offered. That was safe, right? Because, sure, when she looked at him, her pulse hummed with a rhythm that sounded a lot like Mine—but if he wasn’t actually there, that pesky beat would stop.

“Email,” he agreed. “Yes. Yes. Let’s do that. You’re smart.”

Aria had been fawned over by many men, but never one quite so handsome as him. Definitely not one who radiated raw sexuality like it was fucking cologne. The experience almost distracted her from the question she’d finally thought to ask.

“I’m assuming this… position would be paid.” She knew it would be paid. It better be paid. Because he was clearly loaded and slightly soft, and she had bills to deal with. So, so many bills.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ve never really done this before, but I was thinking £100,000.”

She shoved a forkful of eggs into her mouth to hide the fact that her jaw had dropped. Then she thought about the fact that, since Jen had moved out of their shared flat—and since a murderous stalker had covered their walls with blood—Aria was now living with her parents. Her Bible-bashing parents who quoted Leviticus every time she got a new tattoo, along with her teenage sisters, who were, at best, shrill. Then she thought about the tattoo apprenticeship she’d completed, and, for that matter, how much she wanted to open her own studio.

Also, she thought about the latest lip gloss collection from Dior.

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