“Okay…” I say, waiting for him to make the next move. Hopefully out the door so I can try to process this whole idea.
“Do you want to go get dinner?”
Oh. We were starting this now. I’m not remotely prepared for that.
“I’m painting.” I point at the wall and then at my appearance, but it’s not a great excuse because except for the top bit I haven’t finished yet, it’s mostly done.
He eyes the little strip of white at the top skeptically and looks back at me.
“I’ll finish it while you get cleaned up.”
“You’re not dressed to paint.” I return the skepticism in kind.
He smirks for half a second and reaches a hand back to his collar, tugging the shirt off in one quick move and tossing it on my dining room chair.
Andfuck.
“Problem solved. Go get ready.” He nods to my bathroom.
I bite the side of my tongue and remind myself that I absolutely one hundred percent do not actually want this man. Some parts of me just think I do. I can’t help but let myself have one little peek though, one quick downward drift of my eyes. Because now I can see everything I’d only gotten a glimpse of last night—a mess of muscles and tattoos, ones that cross over his chest and shoulders and wind their way down his arms. I want to study them closer. Except, before I can get past his neck, I notice the chain he has around it. Something that I can’t possibly be seeing right.
I reach forward and grab it, turning it over between my fingers and then glance up at him. I’m dangerously close when I shouldn’t be, but I need to be sure I’m not hallucinating.
“How do you still have this?” I stare at it.
It’s a saint’s medallion that I’d gotten for him in Italy. We’d been getting presents for everyone to bring back on our honeymoon, and when I saw that Saint Sebastian was the patron saint of athletes and warded off the plague, I couldn’t stop myself from getting it for him. He’d been equally amused when he opened it. But that was years ago.
“Uh…” There’s an uncharacteristic pause in his voice. “Oh. I forgot that you gave it to me. I wore it for a game once and it’s been lucky, so I keep it on.”
I turn it over before I release it and let it fall back against his chest.
“Well, I’m glad it’s working.” I put distance back between us. “I dropped the brush when you knocked so it’s on the floor underneath the ladder. And there’s a mess on the wall. I really probably should finish it first.”
“I’ll take care of it. Just go.” His eyes slide over me and my messy appearance one last time and then he turns to the task at hand.
Ten minuteslater and I’m trying to get my hair and makeup in some semblance of order while I ponder the fact that Seattle Phantom’s star defensive end is now shirtless in my house painting my wall while I get ready for our first fake date. Because literally what the fuck has happened to my life in the course of the last twenty-four hours. Too much. That’s what.
I’m not sure I can do this. It’d be difficult with anyone, but with him, it’s asking for a whole host of things I don’t have much of at the moment; patience, self-control, perspective. I’m finding life in the post-divorce world to have a pretty short supply of any of them. Plus, he tests every nerve I have like he knows where the pain points are and wants to see how tight he can string them. I’m as likely to punch him as I am to fuck him most days. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Another fifteen minutes and I’ve managed to make myself mostly presentable. Now I just need to figure out where we’re going so I can pick something to wear. I step out of the bathroom and he’s in the process of putting the painting stuff away. I glance up at the wall and he’s managed to finish it. It looks almost perfect, and he even succeeded in getting a lot of the spray off the white paint.
“Thanks,” I say, still keeping my eyes fixed on the wall because I don’t trust them not to wander.
“No problem. You ready?” He turns his back to wash the brush out, and I steal a glance.
I wonder where he’s wanting to go and hoping it’s nowhere fancy. He’s dressed pretty casually in dark jeans and what I remember of the shirt he had on. I frown at his back because I really need it back on.
“Where are we going? Somewhere I can just throw on jeans and a top?”
“Wherever you wanna go, Saint.”
“Somewhere quick and casual is fine with me.” The less time we spend together while I get my head around this fake-dating-the-hot-football-star-thing, the better.
“All right. I know a place down by the waterfront.”
“Of course, you do,” I mutter under my breath as I walk back into the bedroom and to the closet to grab some clothes.
I hear him crumple up some paper and toss it in the trash as he’s cleaning up.
