Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(34)

“Are the nicknames necessary?”

“It’s called having a sense of humor.” I poke him with my pen. “Try having one.”

“Be funny, and I will.”

My eyes widen, and he smirks while sipping his champagne.

“Oh sir, you better watch yourself.” He laughs some more while I focus back on the napkin. I clear my throat and continue, “Puck allows Lipstick full access to his home gym. Puck agrees to answer any question about hockey, even if it seems like a dumb question.”

“Can’t wait for that,” he says.

“Puck agrees to attend any event/outing/date requested by Lipstick as long as his hockey season schedule allows.”

“It’s going to become quite sparse when the season starts.”

“I understand that.” I hand him the pen. “Please initial next to each line.” He initials, then I take the pen from him and do the same. “Okay. Lipstick will deliver the following to Puck. Attend any and all events requested by Puck. Lipstick will dress as slutty—within reason—as Puck wants to make Sarah last name unknown, from here on out known as Witchbag”—Silas snorts—“jealous.” I glance up at him. “What else do you want?”

“Nothing,” he replies. “That’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” I say. “There has to be something else I can do for you.”

“Everything is already done for me.”

“What about something like social media? Do you need help with that? Or a website? I know how to make one. Or I can help you with any lifestyle things like . . . how to, uh . . . fold a fitted sheet.”

“I’m good.”

“Ugh, come on, can’t you think of something? I mean, I’d offer sexual favors at this point.” He raises one brow in question. “But as we established, this is a business transaction, not a whorehouse.”

“Maybe you should write that on the napkin.”

I tap my nose with the pen and point at him. “You’re right.” I leave a space for him to put in another request, then underneath that, I write about not being a whorehouse. I hand him the pen. “Initial, please.” He initials and hands me back the pen. “Okay, so now that we have no sex written in stone, we need one more thing for you.”

“I want nothing.”

“Urgh, you’re infuriating,” I say as the room around us erupts in laughter. We both glance to the right where Roberts has walked into the room. “Shit, my boss. Make it quick.”

“I told you, I don’t need—”

“Lipstick owes Puck one favor not related to events. Lipstick must comply. There,” I say, dotting the sentence with a period. “Now sign here.”

I give him the pen, and as he signs, he says, “You realize I will never cash in on that favor.”

“Your problem, not mine.” I sign the napkin as well and then seal it with a kiss.

“Is that your version of notarizing the document?”

“Yup.” I place the napkin in my purse just as I feel the crowd part behind me, and Roberts steps in.

Tacking on a smile, champagne flute in hand, I turn toward the right, where Roberts waits. “Mr. Roberts, so nice to see you,” I say, feeling awkward since I saw him just this morning. “I’d like to introduce you to my boyfriend, Silas Taters. Silas, this is my boss, Mr. Alan Roberts.”

Silas sets his champagne down, snags his arm around my waist, and then holds his hand out for Roberts. “It’s a pleasure,” he says. “Ollie has said nothing but great things about her internship with you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Roberts says with a huge smile. A smile so large, it almost seems like he’s fangirling. “Please, come over to my sitting space. I’d love to get to know you better.”

Ooo, sitting space. He makes it sound so luxurious.

“Of course,” Silas says as he slips his hand into mine and guides me through the crowd, sometimes pausing to shake a hand or two. It’s probably one of the most surreal experiences I’ve ever had. I went into this thing with Silas completely blind, not knowing a damn thing about him and hockey or his presence in this city. Yet here I am, pretending to be his girlfriend as grown-ass men and women fawn over him as he walks through a crowded room. No wonder he tries to hide his face when he comes to my dorm. He doesn’t want to be mauled.

When we arrive at Roberts’s sitting area—a small section of the ballroom blocked off by fern trees and bushes and decorated in rich black velvet couches—Silas helps me down to one of the couches. Roberts takes a seat across from us, and a beautiful woman in what I can only assume is her fifties takes a seat next to him.

“This is my wife, Gloria. Gloria, this is Silas Taters, as you know, and his girlfriend, Ollie Owens. Ollie works for me as an intern.”

“Lovely,” Gloria says while folding her hands on her lap. I wonder if she knows about Roberts’s affair. If she’s compliant about it because she doesn’t want to start over or lose the luxury of being with someone like Roberts. “How long have you two been dating?”

“Just a few weeks,” I answer, my nerves spiking immediately because we didn’t really talk about that. As I opened my mouth to answer, I just prayed that Silas didn’t answer at the same time. That could have been disastrous. “Still newish. We just actually told our friends we were dating.”