Page 56 of His Jersey

The billionaire’s son paid me to be here. The fake girlfriend gig wasn’t included in the original price, but we’ll call it even since he’s also paying for my room and board tonight.

When I found myself stranded on Jewel Island with next to nothing to my name, I tried to come up with ways to get home and pay Dad’s enormous healthcare bills.

At first, I was only going to work at the resort long enough to make enough money to get home, but it was better than any of my old jobs at entry level, so I stuck around. Now that I’m back on the mainland, I don’t know what to do or where to go. It’s not like I have a place to stay or the means to remain here. It’s still a long way from Pennsylvania. I’ve done the math. If I remain at Jewel Island, I can get ahead and find a room to stay in around the port area. Probably. Tension gathers at the base of my skull, the forerunner to a headache.

My heart sinks because, like any rational human, I rather enjoy having a home and a job where I don’t have to use every cent to pay bills. And I’m a fan of having a guy in my life who is generous and thoughtful, who listens with interest and thinks of me, makes me feel special, cherished even. It doesn’t hurt that he’s gorgeous with his strong brow, blue eyes, and full lips.

Kissing Jack is a great bonus.

Being his fake girlfriend for a night wasn’t so bad, either. It turns out there was a different sort of catch to our arrangement. One neither of us want to name, neither one of us saw coming. Would I feel differently if I had?

It was thoughtful of him to get me the phone so we could keep in touch. I power it on, not because I have any intention of signing onto social media to see photos the puck bunnies were posting—who knew there was a thriving high school-esque hockey world popularity contest? It could be a soap opera. Tune in tomorrow forThe Days of Hockey Lives.

Yeah, I must be hyper-tired because my mind repeatedly peels off in different directions with wild ideas, including one about being Jack’s real girlfriend.

Not going to happen.

I’m an unknown quantity or whatever it was he said after the game.

The phone is glossy and has that distinct brand-new electronic device smell. Except there’s one smudge, which must’ve been from when Jack programmed in his number. He’s already left his fingerprints all over my life … all over me.

I can’t say I mind.

However, I cannot let myself be fooled like I was with Slater. Then again, Jack wasn’t lying or boasting. He really does have a big yacht … and a billionaire father. He’s also really leaving for Nebraska.

Why does this whole thing make me feel sad?

Because I’m not Cinderella or Ella Bella. I’m just Ella.

And I smell popcorn.

22

ELLA

It’s midnight,but maybe Jack is a night owl … or he can’t sleep either.

I creep out of the guest room. The television is dark. Only the twinkling city lights beyond the big windows illuminate the living space along with Jack’s silhouette.

I sit down on the couch. Bark Wahlburger lets out a little sigh as if wondering what took me so long.

The sound of popcorn crunching abruptly stops. “Midnight snack?”

Jack holds out the bowl for me. I help myself to a handful.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks.

I nod. “Why couldn’t you?”

“I’ve been ignoring Carlos’s texts and thinking.”

“I take it he’s still pushing the fake dating idea.”

“He’s ringing the wedding bells. Mostly, I think that’s because nothing would make him happier than saying ‘I do’ to Marisol. Ten to one it doesn’t happen. Then again, the guy is persistent.”

“My dad used to say you can’t lose if you keep playing.”

Jack’s expression turns thoughtful as if he’s contemplating the meaning of winning and losing.

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