Safe Bet (The Rules #4)(25)

“Right. They might be lurking outside the gate at this very moment,” she says as she pulls the door shut before I can say anything else.

Huh. Seems that someone is more nervous than I thought.

When I pull out of the gate, I notice a single nondescript car parked across the street, and a single guy sitting behind the steering wheel. I’m guessing he’s a photographer.

Good. We’ll put on a show. Give them what they want.

We drive into the city, making small talk as I navigate our way to the restaurant. Considering it’s a Friday night, the traffic is heavy, the streets backed up as we slow to a crawl the closer we get to downtown. The fading sunlight flashes within the truck’s cab as we drive, every once in a while, enveloping Sydney in a golden glow. I keep stealing glances in her direction, reminding myself this is only one night, and that everything we’re about to embark on, is fake. She feels nothing for me. I’m supposed to feel nothing for her.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

We finally arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes later than the reservation time I made, and I hope like hell we didn’t lose our table. I leave my keys with the valet and escort Sydney into the restaurant, clutching her hand once more as we walk inside. She curls her fingers tightly around mine and I glance down, noticing how my hand completely engulfs hers. She’s actually pretty tiny. And I’m the complete opposite of that.

“Does this feel weird or what?” Sydney asks after the hostess seats us at our table in the middle of the restaurant.

I glance up from the giant menu the hostess handed us. “Does what feel weird?”

“The two of us. Together.” She sends me a pointed look. “Can I confess something?”

“Absolutely.” I sit up straighter, my attention focused only on her.

“You’re not my usual type.” Her gaze drops to the table, her cheeks turning the faintest shade of pink.

The shy act is something I’m not usually attracted to. I like my women bold. I like it when they know what they want. But then again, Sydney isn’t my woman. She’s not even someone I’m interested in making my woman. I’m pretending to be interested to help some friends out. That’s it. I need to remember that.

“You’re not my type either,” I admit.

Her head jerks up, her wide gaze meeting mine. She looks offended, which is hilarious because she’s the one who started this conversation. “What’s your type then?”

“You really want to discuss this before dinner?”

Sydney nods. “Oh, I definitely want to discuss this before dinner.”

Great. I was ravenous not thirty seconds ago, and now my appetite is evaporating. “We’re pretending, so why does it matter what my type is?”

“It matters. We need to act like we’re attracted to each other, right? So what type of girl are you attracted to?”

How am I supposed to describe my ideal girl and not sound like a complete jackass?

“How about this,” she starts when I still haven’t said anything. “I prefer soulful types. Guys who like music so much they want to write it. My past boyfriends have been tall, thin, and they like to play guitar. Oh, and they usually have a piercing or two.”

“Who says I don’t have a piercing or two?”

Her mouth falls open, those cheeks turning even pinker. She looks shocked. Good. “Do you?”

I shrug. “You’ll never know, will you? Since this is all fake?”

She snaps her mouth shut, struggling to regain her composure. “Shouldn’t I know if you have piercings or not? Since I’m your supposed girlfriend?”

“Why? Who’s going to ask a question like that?”

“I don’t know, but someone could. And I’ll look like an idiot if I don’t know the answer to that question, especially since we’re supposed to have been—intimate with each other.”

“We could be like Russell Wilson and his new wife. Claim that we’re celibate until we get married. Reporters will eat that up.” I have my own feelings about Russell Wilson, but I won’t declare them out loud.

“Married?” All the air seems to have left her at my words. I think she might’ve even gasped. “That’s a little serious, don’t you think?”

“When the relationship is as fake as ours is, you can be as extreme as you want to be.” We’re already in this deep. What’s a little talk about marriage? Women usually love that sort of thing, though I should watch myself. I don’t want Sydney to get any ideas.

“Marriage is pretty extreme. Like, the most extreme that you can be.” She shakes her head. “Honestly? I’m not a believer. Marriage is more like a trap.”

I’m taken aback by her trap comment. She mentioned her parents’ marriage was pretty crappy. So maybe she’s thinking of that? If that’s all she’s ever seen, then yeah I can see why she wouldn’t believe in marriage. Hell, I’m not a big believer either. My sperm donor didn’t even bother marrying my mom. He knocked her up, stuck around until I was born and then jammed. Never to be seen or heard from again. “I only used it as an example,” I say, but she’s not even listening to me. She just keeps talking about it.

“I’m only nineteen. The last thing I want to be is married.” She practically spits out the last word, like it was something disgusting she ate.