Page 95 of Playbook
“It was really,reallyfun,” I admit.
“So are you going to keep enjoying the benefits of your not-so-fake relationship, then?”
My phone pings with a text and I glance over to see Brogan’s name on the screen. My stomach flips and my insides turn to mush.
“Is it him?” she asks.
I nod. “He wants me to go to a dinner thing tonight.”
“And?”
“Help me pick out something to wear?”
Brogan picks me up an hour later. I meet him downstairs because we’re running late, but he still gets out of the truck to come around and greet me.
“Hey.” His smile is so big and genuine that I can feel my own growing wider as he envelops me in a hug. He rocks us back and forth, continuing to squeeze me like he hasn’t seen me in days or weeks.
“How was your day off?” I ask when he pulls back. His hands remain wrapped around my lower back.
“Good. How was work?”
“Fine.” I shrug. “Kind of boring.”
“Should have stayed in my bed.” He uses his hold on me to press our bodies together. His cedar and citrus scent and the warmth of his body makes my head spin.
Before I can come up with some witty reply, he steps back and takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s see if we can’t turn your day around.”
At the restaurant, a hostess leads us to a back room where some of his teammates are already seated. Just teammates, around eight of them. I don’t see any girlfriends or wives. And the guys are dressed casually, some in shorts and T-shirts, others in jeans, but the whole atmosphere is low-key.
Brogan and I take the two empty seats at one end. No one bats an eye at me being here. Archer tips his head, and Tripp smiles and winks.
I lean over to whisper as soon as it seems like people have gone back to their conversations and aren’t looking at us. “I thought this was a team dinner?”
“It is. Well, sort of. Cody played his hundredth game with the Mavericks last weekend and we’re celebrating. This is his favorite place.”
Well, that’s nice, but I still feel awkward. “ShouldIbe here?”
Brogan’s brows pinch together, and he glances around the table like he’s just now noticing what I did the second we walked in—I’m the only non-football player. “Huh. Weird.”
“I can go.” I start to push my chair back, but he puts a hand on my thigh under the table.
“No, don’t leave.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
He keeps his hand glued to my skin. “Not for me. I missed you all day.”
I tilt my head and let out a small laugh. It isn’t that I think he’s lying. It’s just too bizarre to be true.
“I did,” he says, angling his body toward me. “I like spending time with you. You’re fun, and smart, and gorgeous.” His gaze scans over my face and his fingers come up to rest on my cheek, then stroke down to my chin. “These guys might have left their women at home, but that’s not my style.”
“You’re a very good fake boyfriend,” I tell him, keeping my voice low enough that no one can overhear.
He beams with the compliment. “You make it easy.”
We keep staring at each other for a beat, then I ask, “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” His fingers push back into my hair. “Just one question.”
