Page 34 of My Pucking Enemy
“So you’re worried that with your heaps of charm, that poor woman would just fall head over heels in love with you—”
“Don’t be an ass. I’m just not builtfor that kind of thing. That was the whole point of the thing with Mandy—that I’m focused on my career. That hockey is what matters most to me. I don’t have time for relationships, for all that stuff. What if she doesn’t want to throw herself into the limelight, too? And what aboutme? I’m just supposed to spend time with some stranger—”
“Jesus Christ!” Wren laughs, throwing her hands in the air. “ThenI’lldo it.”
Silence falls between us and we stare at each other. Her chest rises and falls, and the joking smile on her face starts to fade the longer the silence stretches on.
“I mean—” she starts, her hands dropping, but I’m already sitting forward, realizing what a perfect solution it is.
“Actually…”
“No, Luca.” She holds her hands up in front of her now, laughing and shaking them. “I was joking—”
“But it would be perfect,” I interject, and now it’s my turn to stand up out of my seat, walking toward her. “You come to the away games. You’re around all the time, so it would probably even make sense to outsiders. I knowyou—”
“—because you had a P.I. following me!”
“—and Itrustyou.” I don’t mean to say it so seriously, but it comes out that way, and I can’t take it back. I don’t want to take it back.
Because it’s true. This woman I met just a few months ago—a woman I was certain was bad news—is one of the people I trust most now.
“It’s probably a bad idea,” she says. Then, “and what wouldIget out of it?”
“A Stanley Cup win.” I say it right away, clear my throat, adding, “I may have looked through your contract. I know you’ll get that bonus if we win.”
“So I should be your fake girlfriend.”
I take a step back, taking my turn to hold my hands up. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”
“I’m notuncomfortable,” she says, looking to the ceiling. “I-I’m just…don’t you think it’s going to be weird?”
“Two colleagues, planning out a strategy and enacting it. Manipulating the stupid fucking press who don’t care about the truth anyway. All in the combined effort of getting through this season, getting into the play-offs, and taking home the cup? You want it, I want it. What’s stopping us?”
She stares at me, looks away, bites her bottom lip, and finally, after taking a tour of the room with her gaze, returns to me. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I try not to sound surprised, but I am.
“Yes,” Wren says, sighing and grabbing her chair to sit down, pulling her notepad toward her. “But we are going to need to get some stuff on paper.”
“Stuff? Like what?”
“Rule number one,” she says, actually uncapping a pen and scrawling it down as she goes. “No hiring private detectives on one another.”
“You’re still not over that?”
“Rule number two: Understand that Wren isnevergoing to let that shit go,” she deadpans before looking up at me. “Sit down. We need to figure outexactlyhow we’re doing this.”
Wren
I shouldn’t be this giddy.
And I definitely should not be standing in front of the mirror, admiring the way my lipstick shines on my lips. Or the way I look in this little black dress, my hair actually cooperating today, falling down my back, perfectly straightened.
But I am. I look good, and I know it. Who cares if I’m happy about that fact?
It’s all according to our plan. Meticulously drawn up, designed for maximum efficiency. Exact time and place for dates. Expectations for how we dress and act. Much, I imagine, like Luca’s agreement with his ex-wife.
Tonight, our relationship—which up until now, we’ve been “hiding”—is going public.
