Page 23 of The Player's Obsession

“No, it’s not like that at all.” Crap, it is like that. How can she be so intuitive? “I like you. You are beautiful. You’re smart, and you have a sense of humor. I like that you’re not intimidated by me.”

“Should I be intimidated by you?” Her eyes search mine for confirmation. Good thing she hasn’t been on the receiving end of my dark moods this year.

“No, not at all.” I refill my wine glass and guzzle it. “It’s simply a business arrangement. We only need to be seen together for a month, and it includes a weekend away at a five-star resort. I’ll pay for everything. Thirty days is enough time to convince people we’re a legit couple. Then I’ll make an excuse for our breakup, and we can go our separate ways.”

“This is crazy, who would believe any of it?” She gives me a look like I am, indeed, insane.

“It happens every day. Don’t you watch reality TV? All those cat ladies love to watch garbage television about someone else’s life in the shitter so they can forget their own shit show.”

“This is madness,” she says, but I see the wheels spinning. Everyone has a price. “I’m no actress.”

She needs an incentive. All right, brother, I’ll part with the money. “I’ll pay you half upfront. It’s five figures. You won’t have to miss work.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“That’s not any concern of yours. The point is, I need to have a fake fiancée for the weekend. Now that I’m talking about it, my last game of the season is on Thursday. I’ll tell the guys I met a girl so they know you’re on my radar. My personal life has not been in the headlines lately, and I rarely talk to my teammates about my personal life.” There is no need for Penelope to know my name was trending on social media when my engagement was announced and again when it was called off, followed by loads of speculation about my fiancée dumping me for a teammate. My friends were sympathetic, and the team remained as neutral as Switzerland. I had no desire or inclination to make them take sides. It was just an unfortunate event in my life.

“Is this a media stunt?” She pauses with food on her fork. I love watching her enjoy her food with those ruby-red lips—the lips I want to taste.

“No, it won’t be broadcast to the media. That’s the point —your social media presence is a few posts from college. By today’s standards, it’s not much.”

“I don’t have much to say. Why would anyone care what I post? Besides, I want to live my life in real-time, not behind a lens. Don’t you have a best friend who would know your day-to-day life?” Penelope has come to the conclusion that my life is empty and that I’m lacking in socializing.

“I have my brother, we’re close. I participate in events like fundraising for charity and weekend cookouts with friends in the summer. I’m not lonely,” I state, but now, I realize I am.

“Mm,” she murmurs before she jabs the last piece of steak. She peers at me over her plate. “Are you off your meds?”

I let out a hearty chuckle.

“No, but thanks for your concern.”

“Are you always so blunt? You assumed I’d say yes when we met and begged me to go to dinner. Lord, Oliver Rowe has asked me out. Oh, yay.” She feigns glee. “When that didn’t work, you coerced me into dinner, and now, you’re making me a business deal?”

“I don’t assume you’ll do anything. However, you wouldn’t be bringing it up if you weren’t already considering it.” Her eyes flicker with lust or hate. I’m not sure which.

“I…” She falls silent, lifts her glass, and finishes her wine. Her dark brown eyes gaze at me, “We need more.”

I flag the server, with a wave of my hand, and he hustles to us. I asked him to bring us another bottle. He nods, leaves, and promptly returns with more wine, uncorks it, and fills our glasses.

I’m sweating like a boxer who’s gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. What is it with this woman? Why is everything a fight? And why does she think the worst of me?

“I’m not assuming anything. You are the one that’s intent on seeing my negative side. If all I wanted was to fuck you, I could have you eating out of the palm of my hand at this very moment.”

“I doubt that very much. You give yourself too much credit. I’m not one of those foreign ‘models’ who will only have sex with you if you buy her an expensive purse that she will sell on Poshmark and pocket the money for services rendered.”

“I never said I was a saint.” I sit taller in my chair. My heart pounds like I’ve run up three flights of stairs. Are we negotiating? “Sex is agreeable but completely optional. Thirty days, after all, can feel like an eternity, but I’ll respect your wishes and whatever you decide.”

“You’re getting better at this. Before, you couldn’t get me to agree to a date without holding my car keys hostage.” She lifts her chin and glares at me.

“It was faster and easier than coercing information out of your friend Lucinda,” I answer before realizing I tipped my hand.

“Oh,” she huffs. “You’ve been stalking me?” It’s kinda cute how she thinks she can win this battle.

“Not at all. This is all public information. By the way, there’s not much about your personal life on social media. Why is that?”

“I like it that way. I don’t need the constant adulation of fans to make me feel better about myself.”

Ouch. That hurt. She’s right. I want her to make me appear happier than I am—like all those social media influencers who post filtered photos and edited videos to make themselves look prettier, happier, and more successful. It’s all an illusion.

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