Page 8 of Not By the Playbook

“Hey, this was your idea.” I shrug nonchalantly. “But if you'd prefer to take your chances, I can always tell Jenna that my girlfriend,”—I accompany those last two words with air quotes—“had other plans and couldn’t make it to her boyfriend's family dinner. How would that look?”

She sucks in her cheeks, preparing to argue, but I cut in, “Just to get her off my back while she’s staying here. Keep all the attention for yourself.”

Understanding lights in her eyes. “So that’s the trade? I keep her off your case? She won’t be suspicious?”

“Can’t hurt to try.” I lean back against the counter, shoulders relaxed. “We won’t be any worse off than we are now.” My jaw tightens, and I give her a grim look. “Just remember, this is a short-term thing. I don’t do relationships,” I warn. Becs isn’t my usual type, and I don’t want her getting attached.

“You don’t have to worry. You’re not my type.”

I lift an eyebrow at that.

“Not usually.”

We stare at each other, contemplating this new reality.

“We should probably get our stories straight, plan this out,” Rebecca says.

“I can’t right now. Got practice.” My mouth stretches into a grin some might call shark-like. “Besides, I’m more a think-on-your-feet kind of guy.”

Chapter Five

BECS

The restof my day is packed full of self-recrimination: How could I have gotten so drunk? How could I have gone home with a stranger?How could I have had a one-night stand? Of all the poor life choices I’ve made, this ranks in the top three. (Nearly electrocuting myself with the hair dryer at age six still holds the top spot.) And finally, running into my potential boss—though that one was by no fault of my own—just the universe topping off a crappy night with an even crappier morning.

I alternated between cursing my luck and praying that it was all a dream, but a phone call to Carrie quickly refuted that. Oh my God! You lucky, lucky bitch. No, it wasn’t a fluke that you went home with him!

God, what would my mother say? I’ve been avoiding her calls all day. She’ll want to know what happened with the interview, and I have no idea what to tell her. She’s already unhappy that I plan to stay in the city instead of returning to Michigan.

And to compound it all, I’ve embarked on this asinine plan to fake a romance with a self-confessed playboy in an attempt to salvage my chances at a job. No one’s going to buy it. I know nothing about football, except that there are goals and touchdowns and guys in tights that toss around almond-shaped inflatables they call balls.

I google Logan and the New York Titans. His resume is impressive—two Super Bowl championships and countless glowing write-ups. Countless women as well. Most photos I find online feature Logan with different versions of the same type—tall, blonde, and busty. There’s one woman who appears on his arm more than any of the rest. Kirstin Richardson. Huh.

In the end, I have to rush through my shower then frantically blow dry my hair before scouring my closet for appropriate clothing.

A bedful of outfits later, I’m in a black sleeveless shift dress that stops at a respectable length. I was saving it for my first day of work, but there might not be one of those if I fail to impress Ms. Barnes. I can’t think of her as Jenna.

At ten to seven, the doorbell rings. My heart rate ratchets up as I dash for the door, but my hand stalls on the knob. I shut my lids and suck in a deep breath.This is it.

I open it to six feet four inches of hot male muscle in a crisp white shirt with the top button undone.

“Hi.” His voice is low, husky and pure, unadulterated sex. My sobriety has done nothing to alter the impact of Logan Barnes. I am so screwed.

Maybe my eyes bulge or maybe he is a psychic pussy reader, because a slow grin spreads over his face. My brain short-circuits and ovaries gobam!

Blue eyes trawl up my body, and I’m gratified when they darken. Maybe Icanpass as a pro-NFL player’s girlfriend.

“Oh, hi. I didn’t expect you to come up. I mean, I would have met you at your car.” I manage to sound all breezy.

“You’re getting the full boyfriend experience.” He smirks. “And in any case, my mother would skin me alive if I didn’t do the gentlemanly thing of escorting you down.” His fingers come to the base of my spine, right above my butt. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through me, making my nerve endings come to attention.

Logan ushers me out to a low-slung red Maserati parked by my building and helps me in before going around to the driver’s side. He starts the car, hands confident on the wheel. “We need to swing by and pick up the Wicked Witch of the West from her office.”

Maybe Logan senses my panic because his voice is gentle, “This is your last chance to back out. You sure you want to do this?”

No.But I swallow. “Yeah.”

He’s not entirely convinced. “You sure? My sister is a pain in the butt. Don’t know why anyone would choose to be her minion.” He shudders and screws his face up in an exaggerated grimace.

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