Boyfriend Bargain by Ilsa Madden-Mills

12

Sugar

There are two breeds of girls from the South: Southern belles with their debutante balls, cultured pearls, monogrammed napkins, and big fine houses, and then there are girls like me who were raised in a trailer park on the wrong side of town with a strong tenacity to claw our way out. Don’t get me wrong, Mama was good to me, and she worked hard even though those last years she got a little lost. She got up every morning, made me a big breakfast, took me to school, and went to work. Week after week, she worked, bouncing from one hotel/motel cleaning position to another. We lived near the interstate, and Lord knows there was a slew of them to pick from. She never stayed anywhere long, though, and sometimes I think maybe that was my fault because she was a single mom and it was hard for her to take care of me. She used to tell me she dreamed of going to beauty school, and it killsme that she never got to fulfill her dreams.

I think back to one of the last conversations she had with me.

You have to live life fearlessly, Sugar. Recognize that things are scary and uncertain but jump in anyway. If you don’t, how will you ever know?

And it’s her voice in my head as I stand in Zack Morgan’s kitchen.

He’s just kissed my hand and now he’s staring down at me, waiting for me to tell him what I want. “Why are you really here?” he says, his tone soft.

I pull my hand out of his grasp. My heart is beating double time. Part of me is seriously annoyed that he has this pull over me while the other side just wants to throw him down, saddle up, and ride him like the thoroughbred he is.

I take a deep breath and go for it. “I need a fake boyfriend who plays hockey, specifically you.” I let those words sink in.

His brows go straight up, surprise on his face. “Didn’t see that coming. Why?”

I huff out a laugh, struggling for words. “I—I applied to Vanderbilt Law School and was waitlisted.”

He nods, crossing his arms. “That sucks. Go on.”

“And there’s this interview thing in Nashville this spring where you have dinner with the admissions faculty. Mostly it’s to see who still has them on their list and who’s moved on to another school—which I won’t. It’s Vandy or nothing. I can bring a guest. Maybe you?” I hold my breath.

His eyes analyze me. “Why me?”

“William Fitzgerald is the dean of admissions and a huge fan of the Predators.” I twist my lips. “It’s public knowledge from his social media. He’s constantly posting about how excited he is to see you join the team in Nashville this summer…”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“And…if he thought I was your girlfriend, he might give me a shot.”

“I see.” He paces around the small kitchen, his brow knitting. I study him while he isn’t looking, tracing the lines of his angular face, taking in the shadows under his eyes. I pause, wondering what keeps him up at night. There’s more to him, something deep and dark—

He lets out a deep exhalation and rubs a hand over his lips. I think I’ve blindsided him.

Shit.He’s going to say no.

I start talking fast. “It would just be for that event—if you would go with me. Plus, we don’t even have to talk to each other until then. We can just say we’ll do it and shake on it…or something. It’s a trip out of town, but I can pay for it. I’m working extra shifts and I’m not splurging on any extras.”

“Will this plan of yours push someone else out of a place?”

“No, this event is all about who is willing to not apply to other schools and maybe snag the spot of someone who’s dropped out at the last minute. With my scores, I could get in without you, I just…” I sigh, stopping, that familiar anger rising. “Look, I scored a 178 out of 180 on the LSAT. That’s insane, and there’s no logical reason they turned me down. I could snap my fingers and go to Harvard with that score.”

“Then why not go to Harvard?”

I shake my head. “My father’s entire family went to Vandy.”

He scowls. “These are the people who think you’re not good enough for them?”

“Yes, and I want to prove I am. Plus, it’s also one of the top law schools in the country and I want to move back to the South…where I fit in.”

“You fit in here,” he says.

“Do I?”

His gaze drifts over my face. “Yes.”

Oh. I glance down at his books. “I know the idea sounds crazy, and I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need in exchange.”

“Anything?”

“Not that,” I say.

He smirks. “There are other things you can do for me. Let’s figure it out.” He takes a seat at the table and indicates I should do the same. I sit and watch as he grabs a notebook from the chair and opens it, turning the pages. “I think we need to get some ideas on paper, establish some rules. Sound good?”

My stomach flutters with excitement. I like where this is going. I nod. “Rules?”

“Yeah. We need parameters, what you’ll do for me, etcetera.” He taps the pen against the paper and watches me. “First, going out of town—that’s like asking me to give you a leg. I hate to travel, and Coach will be pissed if I miss any postseason training sessions.” He thinks for a moment and then drops his bomb. “I want you to be the girl of the month, starting today and going for four weeks, which technically puts you in the middle of February.”

I shake my head. “I’m not having sex—”

“So you’ve already insinuated—”

“Because I’m not.”

His face looks unsettled. “No reason to remind me you don’t even like me.”

I sigh. That really isn’t true. He brought my coat to me, and I enjoyed our banter in class, and I think…I think I see kindness in his eyes now as he looks at me.

“I do like you,” I say.

“And you did bring a pie, although I can’t eat it.” He gives me a sheepish grin.

“I had no intention of bringing up the fake boyfriend thing until you asked,” I add with a sigh. “If we set up an arrangement, what do I have to do for you?”

“Hang out in public, spread the word that we’re together—that kind of thing.”

Really?“Why?”

He leans in over the table. “I need to focus on my game and training. Women are constantly finagling their way into my life, and honestly, I need a break.”

“Poor you.” I shake my head.

He laughs, and I take him in, enjoying how he looks with a smile curling his lips, the way his hand rakes through his hair. “I want a championship.” He glances down at the pile of textbooks, and I see our poetry book. “And I could use some help in our class.”

“That class is easy!”

“I’ll be missing it for hockey reasons and I may not be back.” He shrugs. “The TA is helping out, but you can keep me updated.”

Oh. Disappointment hits at the news that he won’t be there.

“No fringe benefits?” Geeze. Does part of me want him to ask for “extras”?

Another grin. “I wouldn’t throw you out. Whatever happens between us will have nothing to do with our agreement.”

“Fair.” My heart flies at the prospect of him being inside me again, his hands in my hair, his lips on mine—

Stop the madness.I clear my throat.

“So, let’s proceed, then?” His lids have lowered, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

I nod, feeling a little dizzy with excitement, the idea growing. This…this can work.

“Want me to write it?” I ask, leaning over to watch him scribble. “Contracts are exciting to me.”

“I’m in charge,” he murmurs, his head bent over his paper. I hear a little bit of command in his tone, a wisp of authority—and it makes me hot.

What is wrong with me?

He looks up. “I want you to kiss me in public at least a couple times a week—just so everyone knows.”

“What?” I feel flushed. “That’s like eight times.”

His pen stops. “May I write that down?”

I inhale. “Yes.”

“I’ll also need you to attend parties with me. You didn’t seem thrilled about the Kappa house.”

“How about one party?”

He drops his pen. “I want all the parties.”

I hold my hands up. “No! Wait—okay, yes, but I have to study too. Just remember that.”

He gets this triumphant look on his face and scribbles away.

I clear my throat.

He glances back up at me. “Is there something you wanted to add?”

I tap on the paper. “There’s no falling in love.”

He pauses, his lips parting as he gives me a fascinated look. “Do you think that’s even a remote possibility? You, a pre-law student, falling for me, the douchebag hockey player?”

“I never called you a douchebag to your face, and yes, I’d like to have it down. It’s the number one rule.” My voice is firm. “And write down no more baby or babe or sweetheart. Never again. It makes me crazy.”

He chews on the pen. “Boy, you’re really racking up the rules, but I have to have a cute nickname for you.” He gives me a look. “I reserve the right to come up with a nickname later.” I hesitate, and he guffaws. “Seriously, you’re second-guessing this over a nickname? What are you afraid of?”

“Fine. And this girl-of-the-month thing stops at the end of four weeks—strict, no extensions.”

“Girls beg for extensions.”

I narrow my eyes. “Not this one, bud.”

“Y’all working out a sex agreement thing in there?” Eric calls out, his gaze on the TV. “My safe word is coconuts. Use it if you want.”

“No,” we both say at the same time, and then we look at each other and laugh.

A few minutes later, he wraps up his writing and pushes the notebook over to me. I’m reading it when I raise my finger as a brilliant idea hits. “I’ll take Miss Ryan as my nickname.”

He grins broadly. “You like that? It’s very lawyery sounding.”

“It’s better than babe.”

“Oh, Miss Ryan, I’m so going to enjoy this,” he says softly, drawing out my name, and my body sizzles.

“Or Sugar. Whatever. Nicknames aren’t important.”

“I love nicknames. If fact, I’m going to write down that you have to call me Z. We have to maintain a facade, especially when we’re supposed to be fucking our brains out.” His eyes drift over me. “Right?”

“You’re infuriating.” But there’s no heat in my voice. I like him. Shit, shit, shit.

He just smiles and pushes the paper over to me once again. I run my eyes over his quickly scrawled handwriting, noticing it matches the writing on the note he left at my door.

Our little contract doesn’t look official at all, but I sign it with a flourish, and he does as well. He asks for my number and I give it to him just as one of the doors in the back of the house opens, perhaps a bedroom, and another guy stalks into the kitchen shirtless and wearing a pair of unzipped jeans and nothing else. “Z, I found another pile of cat throw-up in my closet—”

His voice comes to an abrupt halt as our gazes meet, his a soft grey with dark brows slashing over them. Of course, he’s Z’s brother, but I see the differences between them. His features are missing that classical, hot Greek god thing Z has going on. He isn’t as tall or as broad as Z either, but he’s handsome in his own way, built with solid shoulders, a trim waist, and an obvious six-pack.

Their gene pool is amazing.

A cat comes out of nowhere, darts at the Z lookalike, hisses, and then dashes off to a back room.

The longer he stares, the more he whitens, and I squirm. “Who are you?” he asks.

Z frowns and moves closer to me. “A friend.”

Eric moseys back in from the den. “Dude, this is Sugar and she brought us pie, man. PIE. And all because she dumped on Z last night.” He starts singing, “She’s my cherry pie…” and dances into the kitchen.

At least he likes me.

But still, what’s up with this guy? I frown, checking the hem of my sweater to make sure it’s not showing too much skin. It’s not, and when I glance back up, Z’s face is tight, and he and his brother seem to be having a deep conversation with their eyes.

He sticks out his hand, still frowning. “Reece, Z’s brother.”

I take it, but the handshake is brief and hurried. I nod. “Hi.”

The temperature in the room chills and just like that, the visit is over. Z takes my elbow, steering me toward the door, ushering me out.

Okay.

“We’ll talk more soon,” he says as I make my way down the steps of the porch.

He follows me along the sidewalk to my truck. Ten years old with faded paint and a small crack in the windshield, it’s got a dent in the side where someone hit me in the HU parking lot last fall. I’m not normally embarrassed by my lack of money, and I’m not now, but when I take in the new-looking black Escalade parked in his driveway and the silver Porsche next to it, I let out a laugh.

“What?” he asks.

I tilt my head toward the tiny car. “Which one of you guys drives the Porsche? I’m imagining you trying to fit inside it.”

He smiles. “Ah, that’s Reece’s. He likes his flash.” We stop at the truck door and he opens it for me. “By the way, there’s a party here next Thursday for Eric’s birthday. Be here at seven and plan on PDA. I don’t want people catching on that we’re pretend.”

My eyes flare.

“Is the idea of kissing me again so terrible?”

I feel color rising up my cheeks. “I really don’t like college parties. I’m a total introvert.”

He gives me an arched brow. “I need you on my arm to fight off the piranhas.”

My gaze goes behind him and Reece is watching us from the window, a scowl on his face. Eric is behind him, waving. He’s got another piece of pie in his hand.

Before I can analyze Reece and his odd reaction, Z helps me inside my vehicle carefully. Without brushing against me, almost as if he’s being careful with me, he reaches for my seat belt and leans over me to snap it. He smells all male, and his shirt clings to the taut muscles of his chest. My fingers itch to touch him, recalling how hard his body felt, toned to perfection.

“I can buckle myself,” I say, but I don’t mean it. Even though it’s dangerous to my heart, I like him doing this, like being near him. I hear the click of the metal latch.

“You’re my pretend girlfriend, and I need to practice. Plus, Reece is watching, and it’s probably annoying him. He ticked me off earlier.”

“Why is that?”

He rises up and considers me, his gaze searching my face carefully, as if he’s looking for something. We’re close, so close—

He touches my hair. “Just tell me you’ll come to the party.”

I close my eyes then reopen them.

He tugs at a strand, his voice lowering. “Say you’ll come, or I’ll kiss you right here.”

My eyes flare, going to his lips. I exhale. “Fine, but—”

Before I can move, he’s leaning in and barely touching his lips against mine. “Until next week, Miss Ryan.” He grins.

“You kissed me anyway! That’s one, with seven left,” I say, but his broad shoulders are already striding back inside the house. He tosses a hand up over his shoulder and walks in the door.

Shit.

My hands grip the steering wheel and I sit for a minute, my lips tingling. I briefly reach up and touch them.

It was barely even a kiss.

So why does it feel so good?

What a risky game I’m playing, yet my elation is real. Freaking Zack Morgan just agreed to help me make my dreams come true—and it’s going to be a battle to keep him at arm’s length in this game of pretend.