Fake Fiancée(41)

Why did I have to explain this to a grown woman?

She wrapped her arms around my waist, her hands landing on my ass. “God, you’re so sweet to be looking out for me. That’s why you’re my favorite. I want you so bad right now . . .”

I set her away from me and stared down at her, trying to make her eyes meet mine, but they kept bouncing around. “Sierra. Listen to me. I’ll cover your little accident this time, because I don’t want to explain it, but if you come to my house again, I’ll call the cops. Don’t even think about picking my lock. Don’t let Felix talk you into shit. Do you understand?” I bit the words out.

She blinked up at me. “This Sunny girl . . . she’s got you all tied up, huh?”

“None of your damn business. But stay away from her too.” A muscle twitched near my eye as a theory formed. “You didn’t leave a daisy at her place, did you?”

Confusion flitted across her face. “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous.”

“Whatever. Just stay away from her or I’ll make sure all your football players know how you like to wreck cars when you leave their place. Got it?”

She straightened her shoulders and slurred, “I don’t like you anymore.”

“Good.”

Her face fell. “I’m sorry. I do like you. I want you.” She leaned in and kissed me on the mouth, her tongue all over my face, licking and trying to get past my compressed lips.

I pushed her off, but not before she responded with her own laugh and flounced away, weaving from side to side as she made her way back down the hall.

I glanced over and Bart stared at me.

“What are you looking at?” I barked.

He said something to the girl he was with then came up to me, a hardness to his face that I’d come to recognize whenever we faced off.

He was tall—but not as tall as I was. I glared down at him. “You got something to say?”

“I heard what you said to the groupie.”

“Yeah, so what?” I shrugged, leaning against the wall, but make no mistake, I wasn’t relaxed. Nope. I’d be glad to ram my fist into his face and work out some of this frustration eating me up.

“I’m impressed . . . turning her down when Sunny’s nowhere around?”

I gritted my teeth.

He stuck his hands in his pockets, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I really thought you didn’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“You don’t know me—so don’t assume I’d dick around like you did.”

He stewed on that, his mouth flattening. He stared back at the girl he’d left near the banister, then he focused back on me and raked a hand through his auburn hair. “Just . . . be good to her, okay? Because I was a shit, and I didn’t realize it until it was too late. I’m trying to be better now.”

“You wish.”

“She deserves someone good. You better be it.”

I crossed my arms. “You still love her?”

He swallowed, looking away from my eyes.

And wasn’t that my answer?

“Fuck off,” I said and brushed past him, needing to distance myself from Bart and his feelings. It reminded me that someone had once been crazy in love with Sunny . . . and it hadn’t been me.

She’d had someone before me.

Someone real.

An hour later I was sick of the party and back home. I sat on my porch with my phone in my hand thinking about Sunny.

Drunk texting was never a good idea—so why was I contemplating it?

I glanced at my watch. Midnight. I checked her house from my seat on the steps of the porch. Yep. All the lights were out.

Are you awake? I sent her.

She didn’t reply.

I texted her again. Hello. Are you there?

This better be a freaking emergency. I was sound asleep until my phone buzzed.

I need you.

I pictured her sitting up in bed and staring at the phone with sleepy eyes.

Why?

I want to see you. Now, I sent.

You’re demanding.

I know.

And an asshole, she added.

I know.

But I like you.

A sigh of relief came from me. God. I’d needed to hear those words since the fake proposal. I closed my eyes, imagining her in her tank top and flannel shorts, her breasts straining against the fabric, her nipple piercing begging for my tongue. I groaned, shifting in my jeans. Down, boy.

I’m sorry, I said.

For texting me?

For everything. You can give the ring back if you want. I deserve it.

We’ve moved past that now.

You can keep it when it’s all over.

Is it real?

Yes.

Did you pick it out?

I paused. Tate did. One of the groupies works at the jewelry store.

A few ticks went by.

I asked her, Does that bother you?

Would you pick out your real fiancée’s ring?

Yes.

We’re fake, so it’s fine. Right?

It didn’t feel fine. It felt off and weird and I wished I’d picked it out.

Right. Can I see you?

What are you really saying? Spit it out, Quarterback.

I wanted her so fucking bad . . .

I’m drunk and I want to have sex with you . . .