Page 58 of The Invitation
It's slightly embarrassing that his praise feels so good. But really, it’s all I want to do in life—have a role, a place, a purpose. I’ve always felt like what I do is important to our athletes, and it’s always given me great satisfaction to help others get and stayhealthy. But no one has really appreciated it before. If they have, they’ve never said it.
I sit back in my chair and exhale deeply.
“Thanks for ordering for me. You really are my hero tonight.”
My breath turns into a throaty chuckle as I ponder this wild situation with Georgia.How in the hell did I wind up fake-dating the woman who hates me more than anyone in the world?
I’m not her hero, and we both know that. She’s playing her part just like I’m playing mine. But even though I know she’s saying things for the hell of it—to make herself look good and to try to bother me—it’s still amusing.
And it makes me curious.
She was nervous about placing her order last night. She’s always hesitant about ordering from new places. When our friend group goes to a new restaurant, or we’re at a bar, she always waits for someone to order first. Then, more times than not, she copies whatever they say. I wondered what would happen when it was just me and her.
When I pulled her chair out, she paused as if she was surprised. And when I told her she was beautiful, which wasn’t a lie, she basked in those words. And when I offered to order for her, she appreciated it.
My lips twitch.
Since our date, I’ve wondered what kind of guys she usually sees.Are they taking care of her? Building her up? Making her feel safe?
Not that I care, because I don’t. It’s just hypothetical. After all, she’s the reason my life went sideways.“I’m sorry, Mr. Brewer, but your scholarship offer has been rescinded.”
I force a swallow, ignoring the pit in my stomach.
“This isn’t complicated,” I tell myself. “It’s very straightforward. She hates me. I hate her. We just have to get through these next few weeks.”
I turn off my computer and stand.
Unscathed, hopefully.
Chapter Fifteen
Georgia
“Sorry to keep you waiting,”I say, flashing Ripley a smile so sweet that it might give him a toothache—just in case.
I’m flustered from the traffic on the way to the skating rink, nervous about skating, and I’m not sure if there are cameras aimed at my face. I tried to get in character on the drive over, but an old man flipped me off while we were going over the bridge and my character went fromgirl falling in lovetogirl on the verge of road rage.
I told Sutton I wasn’t the kind of girl you put on television. She should’ve believed me.
Ripley shoves off the half-wall in front of the skating rink in a pair of black joggers and a gray hoodie. A black bag is slung over his shoulder.
“Are you recording this?” he asks.
“Do you see a camera?”
He narrows his eyes.
“Are you?” I ask.
“Nope.”
My smile disappears. “Then, you know what, I’m not sorry for keeping you waiting. Shit happens. It’s not my fault.”
“Actually, itisyour fault. If you would’ve let me pick you up, I wouldn’t have been standing here for the past twenty-seven minutes.”
“Oh, did you learn to tell time?” I ask, teasing him. “It’s a little late in life, but I’m so proud of you.”
“The irony ofthe person who was latemockingthe person who was on timeis rich.”
