Page 20 of Win You Over
“Holden, how nice to see you again, sweetie.” Charlene greets me while wrapping her arm around Remington’s waist. “Areyou staying for dinner? You must! Remington’s never had a boyfriend over for dinner before.”
Boyfriend?
“Jesus Christ, Mom!” Remington yelps, his cheeks blooming a shade of red I’ve never seen on him before.
“What?” Charlene asks, looking between the two of us.
“We have plans tonight, so no dinner, okay?” He shakes his mom off before she can say anything else, grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs.
In the privacy of his room, I discard my bag on his desk and pull out a block of pink notebook paper.
Why does your mom think I’m your boyfriend?I scribble on the pad and hold it up for Remington to read.
His cheeks are still fiery red and he’s chewed his bottom lip to a shade that matches.
“Because I told her you are. I…um…I told my whole family we’re dating.”
Excuse me? I wouldn’t even call us friends! Why would he say otherwise?
With the way my eyebrows reach my hairline, I don’t even need to write WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK for him to know what’s on my mind.
“In my defence,” he starts, flopping down on his unmade bed, one hand grasping the sheets while he runs the other through his hair. “They cornered me and I panicked.”
I’m shaking my head as I write out another note. My hair keeps falling into my eyes, so I pause, take the hairband off my arm and tie the front ends back into a half-up, half-down knot before finishing my note.
I don’t even like you. And I’m not gay.
“Ha! Jokes. Everyone likes me. And you not being gay doesn’t matter because you’re not actually my boyfriend.” Remington opens both his hands wide, placing them on top of his knees.“All I need you to do is come to Italy with me, pretend to be my boyfriend for two weeks and then when we get back, we’ll tell everyone we decided to be friends. Simple.”
Pulling out the chair I usually sit on, I perch on the edge of it and scribble out a note. A longer one this time.
I’m not doing any of that. We’re not friends, or boyfriends, or anything beyond study partners. I’m not flying across the world with you to spend two weeks lying to your family. I’m not doing anything with you once this project is done.
Remington growls in annoyance, and I get this strange yet enjoyable sense of satisfaction at saying no to him. He throws me a look – lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, teeth grinding – and I wonder for a second if he’s about to throw a tantrum.
He stands, pacing around his bed and then back towards the desk, where he leans against the edge of it, muscular arms folded over his broad chest.
“What if we make a bet?”
I pick up my pen, but before I get any words on the paper, he lays his hand over the pad.
“Hear me out. Tonight, if I win, you come with me to Italy, pretend to be my boyfriend and be my date for my sister's wedding. And if you win, I’ll give you all the winnings I made from fights this year.”
He lifts his hand and nods towards the notepad. “What do you say?”
My hand gripping the pen stills, the tip a fraction above the pink paper. I’ve never beaten him, so there is a chance I will lose tonight again. Abigchance.But, the money I could win if I can get one up on him would change my fucking life.
I war over my decision. If I lose, I’d be resigning myself to my fate of spending two weeks away from home, in a foreign country, with a guy I’m trying really hard to dislike. I would needto take time off work, and would be leaving Theo behind when we always spend our summers together.
It’s a nerve-wracking thought, but it’s not like I haven’t done things that make me anxious before. I’ve moved countries, started new schools, moved away to university. If I lose, I’ll deal with it like I always do because when I do a quick sum in my head, my heart beating wildly at the thought of walking away with that much money, I know the choice I have to make. And when I win, fuck, we won’t have to eat ramen for a year!
“You in?” he asks, holding out his hand for me to shake. His cheeks have returned to their natural colour, and he’s wearing a smug grin. I’d hazard a guess that in his mind, he’s already won.
I take his hand in mine, not missing how soft and warm and kind of nice it feels, especially when he tightens his grip. As we shake on the bet, I’m secretly hoping I’ll be wiping that look off his face with a wad of cash by the end of the night.
Chapter 9
Holden
