Page 15 of Faking the Shot
My temper is out of control.
I’m not a team player.
I’m heartless.
Cold.
Blah, blah, blah.
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.
I grunt as the burn in my arm threatens to become too much. The pain doesn’t bother me; it’s the peace I’m chasing—the kind that comes only after you’ve pushed yourself to the edge.
A shrill ring cuts through my concentration. My eyes dart to my gym bag, where my phone flashes and vibrates like it’s having its own meltdown. I sigh, dropping the weights with a thud, and dig out the phone.
Unknown number.
Great. Probably some spam call—or worse, a fan who somehow got my number.
“Yeah?” I answer, curt and impatient.
“Uh, hello?” A chipper female voice floats through the receiver, and instantly, I regret picking up.
“Who is this?” I ask, already bracing myself for bullshit.
“Is this Kaden Crawford?”
“You’ve got the wrong number.” I pull the phone away, my thumb hovering over the end call button when a frantic voice shrieks through the speaker.
“Wait. Don’t hang up, this is important.”
I groan, rolling my eyes hard enough to see next week. Reluctantly, I press the phone back to my ear. “How important can this be if you need me to confirm who I am?”
“Do you always have to be this rude?” she fires back, her voice somehow irritatingly upbeat, like a sugar rush wrapped in smugness.
“Probably,” I snap. “Now, seriously. Who is this?”
“It’s Valentina Holiday,” she says, her name landing like a lit match on the dry kindling of my memory.
Ah, hell. Valentina Holiday. Trivia Girl. My new babysitter. The girlfriend I didn’t ask for, not because she’s not cute and interesting, but because I don’t have time for her. And the future fiancée I don’t want.
Yesterday’s clusterfuck comes rushing back. I was pissed, half-asleep, and probably too stupid to realize what I was saying when I volunteered her as my fake girlfriend-slash-soon-to-be-fiancée.
Sure, she’s beautiful, smart, and—well, okay, she’s everything I shouldn’t be thinking about right now. But someone like her? She’s not what I should want, not with everything on the line. She’s the opposite of easy, the kind of woman who demands your attention without even trying. Someone like Brittany—shallow and uncomplicated—wouldn’t leave me second-guessing myself.
Valentina? She’s too . . . too much. Too captivating, too damn good at making me forget the game plan when I can’t afford to lose focus.
“How did you get my number?” My tone is clipped—not rude, just direct. I’ve already made up my mind to decline this whole fiancée charade.
“Jacob, of course,” she says, as if this is obvious.
I let my head fall back, dragging a hand over my face. Pulling the phone away, I let out a long groan before pressing it back to my ear. “Right. So here’s the thing. I slept on the whole fake-dating, big-life-changing-proposal thing, and . . . I’m going to pass.”
Silence. For a moment, I think she hung up. Then?—
“That’s a cute thought, but obviously unacceptable,” she says brightly, the cheerfulness in her voice borderline deranged. “We need to get some ground rules established and figure out how we’re going to salvage your media career. I’ve already made reservations for tonight at O’Neill’s. Seven sharp.”
My mouth drops open. “You what?”
