Fake Fiancée(20)

My teeth snapped. She was with her ex.

Tate whistled. “Cheating already? Bloody hell. That’s got to be a record.”

I sucked down my beer.

Tate shrugged. “Her car’s in the shop. Perhaps he just gave her a ride—no pun intended.”

I sent him a death-glare and he snorted.

I stared at Bart, my body wired as I set my bottle on the concrete edging of the porch. I stood and paced, weaving around the bushes, my eyes detailing every muscle twitch from the two people across the street caught in the spotlight of headlamps. I studied them, trying to get a read on how they reacted to one another.

He eased her bag back onto her shoulder, and then they stood there staring at each other.

Had something happened between them while I was out of town?

She said something to him and then went inside, shutting the door gently. GENTLY. What did that mean? In class, since our run-in, they’d never even spoken to each other again.

Ah, but what happens when you aren’t around, Max?

Why did I care?

I was way overanalyzing this.

Bart just stood there, staring at her closed door. My fists tightened.

Scrubbing my face, I got to my feet and stepped out on the grass, being sure to stay in the shadow of our porch roof so he couldn’t see me. It helped that our porch light was out too.

“Before you lose your temper and go over there half-cocked, remember she’s your fake girlfriend,” Tate murmured, his tone slightly sardonic.

“My head’s on straight,” I said. “And mind your own business.”

“Bugger, you are my business. My mission is to keep you out of trouble. I’m your checker. You asked me to do that shit freshman year, and I take it seriously. I will not let you screw up.”

“I’m not in trouble, and this isn’t a football game,” I said curtly. “I’m just watching how she deals with her ex. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh.”

As I watched, Bart seemed to come to a decision. His shoulders slumped as he turned from Sunny’s door, stalked to his car, and drove off.

Good riddance.

I grunted. I should cool off and deal with her tomorrow. I should go inside and watch game tapes. I should take a hot shower . . .

Screw that.

I gave her five minutes as I paced. Giving her time to get settled . . . maybe turn on the television. It also let me chill out.

Tate made an exasperated sound as I headed her way.

I ignored him.

I stood at her door for a few minutes, debating. Again. It was late. We had class in the morning. I could talk to her then. I should wait.

Fuck it. I knocked.

“Who is it?” she asked, her voice quiet in the silence of the night.

I let out a deep exhale. “Max.”

“Hang on,” she called. I heard lots of flapping and scurrying around.

A few minutes later, she flung the door open, and whatever I’d been going to say got clogged in my throat.

I hadn’t seen her since Friday morning in class, and the effect of her took me by surprise.

She’d changed into a skimpy white tank top (no bra) and a pair of tiny flannel shorts. Her wavy hair was up in a messy bun with long strands curling around her face. And was that a nipple piercing poking through her shirt? Hell, yes.

My body hummed. I tucked my hands in my pockets—just needing something to do with them because part of me wanted to . . .

“What were you doing with Bart?” I said, keeping my voice cool. I held it together well considering we’d made a deal for five thousand dollars and the check was in my back pocket.

Her hand went to her hip. “What happened to hello and may I come in?”

My lips flattened. “Guess I’m not up for pleasantries.”

She paused, a little wrinkle on her brow, and shook her head as if to clear it. “Wait. Are you jealous?”

“No.” My arms crossed. “He was a complete dick in class on Monday and now you’re in a car with him. I’m annoyed as fuck. Plus you’re dating me. If people see you with him, I look ridiculous. Been there already with Bianca. If you wanted to screw your ex on the side, you should have been upfront with me.”

Her eyes flashed. “You don’t understand. I can explain—”

“No lies.”

Her head tilted. “Bianca really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s called empathy.” She propped herself against the doorjamb just enough to show me a little bit more thigh. I tore my eyes away. “You never told me why you broke up. I mean I know you had a crazy relationship and—”

My jaw tightened. Just thinking about her reminded me that I didn’t need to get involved with anyone. “We broke up because she wanted me to propose after we’d been together for eight months. She told me she was pregnant—but when I asked her to go to a doctor and she refused—I knew something was up. She finally admitted she’d lied to me, and when I broke it off, she reacted by trying to make me jealous. She screwed some of the players who weren’t really my friends. She wanted to hurt me or maybe she thought I’d come running back—but I didn’t. Maybe she cared about me; maybe she didn’t. Either way, it left a bad taste in my mouth.”

Her expression softened. “She’s not the one for you.”