Page 5 of Advantage Love

The corner of his mouth lifts. "In public, enough to be convincing. In private, we can do whatever you need."

Whatever I need. Holy moly.

"In private, nothing." I need to make this clear, even as my body remembers exactly how his touches feel. "This is a business arrangement."

"Agreed." But his eyes say something different. "Do we have a deal?"

I should say no, kick him out and figure this out on my own. Instead, I find myself saying.

"Two months," I say finally. "That's it. After that, we go our separate ways."

"Perfect." He pulls out a business card, sets it on the TV stand. "Come by my hotel tomorrow. We'll draw up the contracts."

"Fine."

He moves to the door, then pauses. "Wear something professional. For the cameras."

"I know how to dress myself."

"Yeah." His eyes drag over me one last time, lingering on my bare legs. "You do."

The door closes behind him, but his presence lingers. I grab the ice cream carton, now completely melted.

Two months. I can handle two months of fake dating Luke Mitchell. I've handled worse.

As I head to the shower, I can't shake the feeling that I'm about to play the riskiest game of my career. This time, love definitely means something.

Chapter 4: Avery

"Remember," Luke murmurs against my ear, his breath sending shivers down my spine, "you're remorseful but not defeated. Humble but still confident."

We're backstage at the Melbourne press center, minutes away from my public apology. The navy pencil dress he'd approved feels too tight and too warm. Or maybe that's just his proximity.

"I know how to handle the press," I whisper back, though we both know that's a lie. If I did, we wouldn't be here.

His hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm through the thin fabric. "Just follow my lead."

The touch is for show. We'd discussed acceptable public contact during this morning's contract signing. Hand-holding. Casual touches. A chaste kiss now and again. Nothing too intimate, but my body doesn't seem to have gotten the memo.

"Ready?" His thumb traces a small circle against my back.

I nod, not trusting my voice. He guides me toward the conference room, his hand never leaving my back. The familiar click of cameras greets us, along with the surprised murmurs at seeing Luke Mitchell at my side.

He pulls out my chair, the perfect gentleman. As I sit, his fingers brush my shoulder, another calculated move, I'm sure. Everything about Luke is calculated.

"Good afternoon," I start, voice steadier than I feel. "I want to address my behavior at the Australian Open."

Luke sits close enough that our thighs almost touch under the table. I feel his presence, making it hard to focus on my prepared statement. When I falter slightly, his hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently.

The gesture should be comforting. Professional. Instead, it sends heat racing through my body, remembering other things those hands can do.

"I let my frustrations get the better of me," I continue, forcing myself to focus. "My actions were unprofessional and disrespectful to the sport I love."

His thumb strokes my knuckles as I speak. Up and down. Slow. Rhythmic. Maddening.

The questions start flying as soon as I finish my statement.

"Will you be appealing the fine?"

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