Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(56)

We’ve also gone back to pretending we don’t kiss.

Best that way, since I’m supposed to protect her, not be the next guy to break her heart, no matter what she thinks she wants from me.

Part of me wishes she was coming with us, because it would be fun to watch her freak out on her book launch day in two days, but the other part of me is glad she’s staying home.

It’s easier to not get attached if she’s not here.

That’s the deal. She pretends to be my girlfriend through the end of the season, and I become a guy she doesn’t fall in love with.

Realizing all the little, unexpected ways she’s attractive wasn’t supposed to be part of the package. And I have bigger things I need to worry about.

Namely, my job.

If we can sweep Boston, and if Toronto gets shut out in Seattle, we’ll be within one spot of securing ourselves a trip to the playoffs.

Not bad for a team that set a record for the worst losing streak ever in baseball last year.

And with so many of the guys’ dads along for the trip, we’re all in good moods, ready to take on the world.

Until we hit the hotel in Boston.

Everything’s normal at first—road manager handing out hotel keys so we can head in through the back entrance and straight upstairs, all of us grabbing our bags, giving each other shit, texting or calling home if we need to for the “I’m here” checkin—but then I walk through the door.

And come face-to-face with Nonna.

“What—”

“I’m your dad,” she announces.

Jesus on fettuccine.

This time last year, her announcement would’ve been met with utter joy and relief.

This year? With her putting The Eye on me?

I’m in for three straight days of Nonna badgering me about when I’m gonna put a ring on it, without Henri as a buffer, and yes, Henri’s a damn good buffer.

I fold my arms. “We’re not talking about my love life. We’re pretending this is my first trip to the Little League World Series.”

Her grin grows. “Of course.”

“Henri got left at the altar two months ago. No rushing it.”

“Luca Antonio Rossi, it’s like you don’t know me at all. And by the way, there was a mix-up with my hotel room. I’m gonna need to stay in yours.”

“TikTok Nonna’s in the house!” Cooper descends on us, bends to hug my grandmother, and lifts her in a spin-hug that has her rainbow hair flying behind her. “You gonna make us famous, Nonna?”

He winks at me while he puts her down.

Code for I’ll distract her, you play ball.

I love that guy. Sometimes I wonder, but not today.

He can’t distract her while we’re sleeping, though, and I wake up nearly positive she’s shrunk my junk again. I briefly consider texting Henri a dick pic to ask if she can confirm that, except we haven’t had sex.

But the good news is, thinking of having sex with Henri gives me the hard-on to end all hard-ons, so maybe she didn’t shrink my junk after all.

Wait.

Fuck.

None of this is good.

Neither is calling to check in on Henri, because she sounds distressed.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I can’t find my lucky Confucius shirt. I always wear it on release days, even when it’s not a release day for a Confucius book, and I can’t find it. It’s not in the laundry. It’s not in my luggage. It’s not under a bed, or in a cabinet, or mixed up with Dogzilla’s costumes. Except it probably is, and I’m overlooking it because I’m being a dodo and not looking clearly. And it’s just a shirt. It’s not like shirts have magic powers that can influence whether a completely different thing will go over well with my fan base.”

She blows out a few breaths that make me think of those medical TV dramas that occasionally feature pregnant women, and then Nonna walks out of the bathroom.

Wearing Henri’s Confucius shirt.

“Nonna.”

“She’s not here,” Henri says.

“I know. She’s here. I found your shirt.”

I glare at my grandmother.

She smiles back.

And Henri goes temporarily quiet before pulling a Henri and talking her way into this being okay.

“Oh. Oh. Wow. That’s—um, I mean, I’m so glad Nonna’s a fan. I’m sure Confucius will be with me in spirit. Do you think she’d do one of her TikTok videos while she’s wearing the shirt? Wait. That’s too much to ask. If she’s read my books and likes them, I’m honored, but I would never ask someone to endorse Confucius like that. I don’t use people.”

“Henri.”

“Right. Talking too much.”

“I’ll overnight the shirt back to you.”

“No! No. Really. That’s not necessary. You go play baseball, and worry about the playoffs. I can make new traditions on release day. And Dogzilla still has her mouse costume, and I should get a new shirt made with the cover model for How to Train Your Vampire instead. That would be so much more fitting. And I think there’s a local T-shirt shop not far from here.”

I can’t decide if I adore the way she’s bending and flexing to make new plans, or irritated that she’s not irritated that my grandmother blatantly stole her shirt.