America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(20)

“Yes. And he’s not going to forget your name.”

“We still have nothing in common.”

“Holy shit, that’s a really fucking cool Firefly print. Like when they were babies. Where’d you get that?” Beck calls from the kitchen.

Mackenzie smirks. “Yep. Nothing at all in common.”





Ten





Beck



I hate being an asshole.

Yet here I am, falling in love with Sarah’s kitchen and knowing we’re doomed. I can’t stay here forever with her shoestring fries and real center cut bacon and this fucking amazing artwork from my favorite space cowboy show.

And when she finds out why I’m here, I’m basically losing her forever.

Her and her kitchen.

And those big dark eyes.

It’s like the taser totally glued them to the front of my memory lobes, and even knowing that I have a really bad track record with women, and that Sarah has secrets, I still can’t help mourning the loss of her and her house and food and impeccable taste.

“No, no, no!” Mackenzie moans from the living room. “Beck! Get back here! They’re losing while you’re not watching!”

Sarah’s cat sashays into the room, gives me a disdainful look like she knows I’m supposed to ask Sarah if she’d consider doing another video with me, or go out in public with me, or make sure to use the magic phrase we’re just friends whenever anyone asks this week.

I want to tell my team to fuck off, that this is a terrible idea, except it’s not.

Vaughn bought the video too. Hook, line, and sinker. We chatted an hour ago, and now that he’s not pissed and calling me a backwoods woman-hater, he asked if I’m actually into her, or if I’m just doing it to clear my reputation.

I can’t honestly tell him I don’t like her. I do. Do I trust her enough to date her? Not so much. But I like her.

And I want this foundation to work, so when he told me to keep her happy, then you’re damn right I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep her happy.

Do I feel guilty? Yeah. It’s not cool to keep dragging her into this.

But it’s for kids who don’t have the same opportunities I had when I was growing up. Kids who need support and help to get involved with team sports and have a place to go after school, and who wouldn’t have a chance to play on a team without us.

If everything falls to hell, if people quit buying RYDE clothes—and the clothes from my other lines too—I’ll be okay. I have plenty of money. Plenty of options.

After what I did Friday night, I could just disappear into oblivion, but I don’t want to go out like this—the most hated man in America who pulled a shithead move with a really bad joke that I thought my sister would appreciate.

Especially when if I can fix it, I can keep putting my money to good use to help the kids of the world.

So I’ll be the asshole who uses Sarah, even if I don’t like it.

I double-check that the oven’s heating up and I head into the living room with a can of Barq’s root beer to reclaim my place between the women on the couch. Score’s one-nothing in the bottom of the first. No outs, no runners on base.

“Lead-off home run for Tampa?” I ask.

“Shut up and do something for good luck,” Mackenzie grumbles.

I glance at Sarah, who freezes mid-chew on a mouthful of popcorn.

“She doesn’t mean kiss me,” she says around another mouthful of popcorn.

I’m pretty good at translating full-mouth talking, mostly because it’s my first language.

Also, now that she mentions it, I wonder how much luck a kiss could really bring.

Probably not much. Especially once I finally force myself to ask her if she’ll pretend go out with me.

Plus, superstitions aren’t really my thing, but I’m happy to humor two lovely ladies who believe in them.

I force a grin and settle back against the couch. “Luck comes from all kinds of places,” I tell her.

Probably not from doing the Hollywood cop-out of taking a girlfriend to make you look good, but definitely from other places.

Sarah slides her phone out of her pocket, and I go momentarily tense until I realize she’s not planning on snapping a picture of the three of us to post on social media, which wouldn’t actually be a bad thing for my image. I’m just falling very quickly out of love with the entire word image, and after almost having to pay a woman off to not post a sex video of me pre-second-paternity test, I still get jumpy.

But she’s pulling up a YouTube feed of a giraffe eating in a concrete enclosure.

Duh. She doesn’t want pictures with me. Or videos with me. She wants to be left alone.

But here I am, not leaving her alone.

“Is that the giraffe at the Copper Valley zoo?” I ask her.

“Pregnant and due anytime in the next six weeks,” she confirms. “Her name’s Persephone.”

“Is it bad luck to watch a pregnant giraffe when you’re supposed to be watching the Fireballs?” I murmur while I watch the giraffe chewing on grass out of a feeding bucket right at her head level.

“It would be worse luck for giraffes to go extinct.”

“Whoa. Did you see the size of her tongue?” I lean in closer to get a better look at the screen. She has an older model phone, one of those smaller devices that Ellie’s always telling me fit better in a woman-size hand and a woman-size pocket. I catch a whiff of caramel and coffee, and when my arm brushes hers, she tenses.