Page 23 of Only Between Us

I fiddle with the anchor charm on my necklace, a gift from my dad for my twenty-second birthday. It’s nothing special at all—he’d bought it from a sidewalk vendor on the boardwalk. But every little thing feels like a big deal, a prized possession, when you make it thirteen years without a single birthday celebrated.

“Rule number one: no personal questions. This fake relationship stays as surface level as it gets.”

“If we’re trying to convince anyone that we’re on the brink of marriage, or whatever bullshit story Josh fed the Rebels, shouldn’t we know everything there is to know about each other?”

“Feel free to make up my life story. You didn’t have trouble doing it last time. We’ll keep our lives as separate as we can. You don’t meet my family and friends, and I don’t meet yours. If you can keep things discreet, you’re welcome to smuggle anyone you want into a back alley and vice versa—”

“No.”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me.” Brooks sits forward, pressing his elbows onto his knees. “Fake or not, my girl doesn’t fuck other people.”

There’s an edge in his tone that tells me this is a sensitive subject for him, but I don’t press for details, per rule number one, and he doesn’t offer anything more.

“You might rethink that when you hear the next rule: No intimacy whatsoever. We keep all physical touch to… I don’t know. Holding hands. Hugs. In public only. Not that we’d have the opportunity to do that in private, because rule number three is that we’re not seeing each other anywhere our picture can’t be taken.”

“Fine. As long as you don’t go looking for it elsewhere.” Brooks lifts a single eyebrow. “That a problem for you? Holding off for a couple months?”

My gaze floats over the field below us. I’m not sure what’s happened to the guy who used to get it on in public dark corners, but me? Cutting myself off for the next few months is rough enough. Doing it while pretend-dating Brooks?

When he forgets to metaphorically double-check that I haven’t made off with his wallet, I can’t deny that the man is hot as hell. Everything from the dark hair he keeps having to push off his forehead to the scar on his cheekbone. The tattoos and huge hands.

He hasI dare you to make bad decisions with mewritten all over him. And I’ve always been a sucker for bad decisions.

“Fuck. Okay.” I give up on the pen and paper, stuffing them back into my bag. “I need to break the news to Aidan.”

Not that I’ve had any desire to hook up with him, but I’m bound to bounce back from this libido slump eventually.

Brooks tips his head to glare at the sky, silently berating it for some unknown offense against him. I was right—this is definitely a touchy subject. “Aidan?”

“He’s a friend,” I explain. “He helps me around the shop sometimes and… we hang out, if you know what I mean.”

“End it.” It comes out like an order. He clears his throat, maybe trying to soften his tone when I raise my brows. “For the sake of the…”

“Fake relationship?”

“Whatever. Just end it. Would it help if you fired him, too?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not firing him—he barely even works there. I’ll end it with him tonight.”

Brooks cuts his gaze away, blowing out a breath that sounds suspiciously likefucking Aidan.

We sit in awkward silence a while, Brooks eyeing the field, me trying to make out the intricately inked lines on his arms out of the corner of my eye.

“So, is that it? We get started here, this weekend?” I get to my feet when he nods. “Then I need to get back to the shop.”

Brooks and I exchange numbers, and after an awkward beat in which we spot a group of guys shooting us covert looks, we figure it’s probably the right move to leave the stadium together.

We walk with several feet between us. He clears his throat when I head for the parking lot with only a nod in his direction. When I double back, it’s for an awkward-as-hell one-armed hug he scoffs at.

There’s no way in hell we’re convincing anyone we’re in love.

Chapter8Siena

The stadium parking lot is absolute mayhem.

It’s packed with pedestrians decked out in maroon-and-white Huskies gear, waiting at various food trucks and booths, and even though I haven’t been to one of these alumni games since Dad passed away, the chaos feels familiar. Almost soothing.

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