Page 72 of Playbook
“Kidding. I only make one thing. Luckily, I’m terrific at it.”
“Toast?” Her voice is still raspy from sleep, but her sarcastic humor is alive and well.
“Close.” I waggle my brows. “Frenchtoast.”
The smile she rewards me with makes me feel like I’m the king of the world.
Archer is leaned back against the counter watching us like we’re entertaining as hell.
I feel like I missed a few things last night,he signs, gaze sliding to London and then back to me in question.
Just making my fake girlfriend French toast, I sign back.
“Right,” he says quietly. Then signs,Are you sure it’s still fake?
NINETEEN
“You really didn’t have to do this,” I say for what is probably the hundredth time in the span of the twenty minutes since Brogan arrived at my parents’ house.
It’s been a week since I saw him last, but we’ve talked almost every day. Stupid things, a text to tell me about something one of his teammates did or to ask me to show him my work or a funny reel. I hate to admit it, but I kind of missed him.
“Are you kidding? I love family get-togethers.” He’s grinning so big that I believe he’s one hundred percent telling the truth.
I lead him through the kitchen and outside where most everyone has gathered. Sierra and Ben are in the pool, as is my aunt Corinne. Grandma is kicked back on a lounge chair with a big sun hat covering most of her face.
“Want to swim?” I ask him. He has on red swim trunks that show off his thick, muscular thighs.
“Yep. Are you wearing that sexy red lingerie again?”
“I have a suit,” I say, not bothering to mention, let alone think about, that night in the pool with him.
At the sound of the back door slamming shut, everyone turns. My steps slow. I can feel their gazes. Neither of my parents said much about me dating Brogan. I think they were too shocked and didn’t really know what to say.
“Too late to turn back now, sweetheart,” Brogan whispers, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. “They’ve seen me. Better act like you like me.”
“I do like you,” I say. Over the course of hanging out the past few weeks, I’ve come to realize what a good guy he is. A helpless flirt and an unapologetic playboy? Yes. But he’s hard not to like.
At my admission his features light up.
“I’m still not sleeping with you,” I add because I can read the look on his face. “But being your fake girlfriend isn’t so bad.”
He smacks my ass, trying to play it off as cheeky flirting, but the shock on my face makes it a little less believable.
“What the hell?” I whisper-screech. “What was that for?”
“For saying that being my fake girlfriend ‘isn’t so bad.’” He shakes his head. “I’m a fucking great fake boyfriend.”
“And so humble too.” A small laugh leaves my lips.
He winks. “Now be a good girl, sweetheart, or I’ll have to put you over my knee later.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” I narrow my gaze on him.
The look he gives me—he would. Hesowould.
By the time we reach the table where my parents are sitting with my uncle Steve, my face is poised back in a smile, and Brogan and I are holding hands.
“Hi,” I say as they stare shamelessly at him. “Uncle Steve, this is Brogan.”
