Page 96 of Play the Game

Scottie is glaring at me now. “What?”

With my back to her, I say, “Oh, did I forget to mention that?” I glance over my shoulder because I have a feeling she’ll try to throw something at me in a second. “My parents are waiting for us at the house.”

Forty-One

SCOTTIE

“I could have been arrested!”I seethe quietly while following Emory out the door. I avoid eye contact with everyone in the dress shop because I’m mortified.

But am I?

I bare my teeth to my subconscious.Shut up.

Emory pulls his sunglasses onto his face and hoists up the dress bag so it doesn’t touch the ground when we find ourselves on the busy street. This is the first time he and I have been in public together that doesn’t revolve around hockey, and I’m noticing more and more looks from random strangers.

He laughs under his breath at my irritation. “Jail isn’t so bad. Take it from someone who’s been there.”

His comment is a slap to the face. I know he’s kidding, but it hits me in a way that it wouldn’t hit most. I jolt backward with the thought of William and remember why I’m in this predicament in the first place.

Emory steps forward and grabs onto my upper arm, shaking me out of my thoughts. When he lifts his glasses up, he bounces his eyes back and forth between mine. “I was just kidding,” he says. “Why are you pale all of a sudden?”

A rush of anxiety moves through my stomach over the fact that, in less than a year, Emory and I will be nothing but a memory, and I’ll be in and out of the lawyer’s office again, spending every last dime he gave me on even more legal fees.

“Hey.” Emory’s face comes into view, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look worried before now. He didn’t even look this concerned when I cornered him with a photoshopped picture of us that could have destroyed his career even further. “I wouldn’t have let anyone put you in handcuffs.”

For some reason, I actually believe him.

His gentle smile turns devious after another second of staring at me.

“If anyone is putting you in handcuffs, it’s me.”

Then he winks, and I have the urge to laugh, but instead, I playfully roll my eyes and place my hand out. “Give me my keys.”

“No,” he argues, putting his arm around my shoulders to walk down the street. Knowing we’re in public, I slowly wrap my arm around his waist, and we walk a little ways down the sidewalk before he explains why he won't give me my keys. “What are my parents going to think when we show up to the house in separate cars?”

“That wemustbe in a contract marriage, obviously. There is no way that we could have been out doing something without one another, right?” I’m full of sarcasm, and he snorts.

“You’re all jokes now, but just wait until we’re at my house and in front of my parents.”

I pause when we get to his car. “What does that mean?”

Emory unlocks it and opens my door. I want to make a joke about how gentlemanly he’s being, but when he lifts his sunglasses up and pierces me with those blue eyes, my stomach tumbles. “It means you better get your game face on. I don’t want my parents to know that we’re in a fake marriage.”

“Why not? Surely they wouldn’t go to the media.” It’s an assumption, of course, because I know better than anyone that we don’t get to choose our parents. I have no idea what kind of people they are.

I slip into the passenger seat and gaze up at him, waiting for his answer. His arm rests on top of his car, and he shakes his head. “Of course they wouldn’t…”

He glances away, and there’s a tug on my heartstrings. I sit on my hands because I want to reach out and comfort him, which is…very confusing.

“They worry too much,” he finally says. “With my sister’s diabetes diagnosis and then my recent stumble with the media… I just don’t want them to be bothered by this. They won’t approve.” He shakes his head quickly. “They won’t approve of a fake marriage, I mean. I’m not referring to you.”

My features soften. This may be the firstrealthing Emory has ever told me about himself. It feels like I’ve won the lottery when he rounds the hood and climbs inside the car. He’s quiet, and I wonder if he’s angry that he let me see a layer of himself that no one else has.

When we’re on the freeway and the silence has gone back to a comfortable quiet, I make the decision to say something I no longer want to keep to myself—not now, anyway.

“Your sister was wrong.” I feel his stare, but I continue to look at the blurring yellow line of the highway.

“About what?”

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