“You pretend to be my fiancée, and I’ll give you the money to pay the taxes.”
Instantly her back is up. “You can’t— That is, it’s too much.”
“I can. I want to. How else will you get it?”
“I can’t do that. Not for that much money. If you want my help, I’ll help you. But I can’t take money for it.”
“Pen. I don’t want to see this house torn down by somemoney-hungry developer who will slap in another concrete-and-glass horror.”
“Then buy the house for yourself.”
“It’s your house, Penelope. You love it so much you were willing to beg your mom for it. I want to do this. Please.”
Even white teeth worry the plump curve of her bottom lip. Her gaze darts over the room. I can all but hear her working it over in her head. “The thought of taking money... It’s not something I can do just like that. It would eat at me...”
Guilt rushes in. I want her to accept, but not if it pains her this much. “Damn it. This was bad of me.”
“Bad?”
“My help shouldn’t be transactional. It’s ugly.” Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. A headache threatens around the edges of my sight. “Penelope, take the money. Forget about my proposal. Just take the money free and clear.”
For some reason, this makes her smile softly. “I know you mean well, August, but that’s not any better. I can’t accept that much from you for nothing.”
“So what you’re saying is we’re in a catch-22.”
“Not precisely. If we pretend this conversation never took place, then—”
“Too late. The knowledge is there. It’s going to prick at me. I want to help you, Sweets. More than I want to save my own ass.” I’m surprised to find it’s the complete truth. Maybe there’s hope for me, after all.
“August... that means a lot to me. And I want to help you too. I just don’t think I can. No one will believe it.”
For a second I just stare. She’s standing in a puddle of golden sunlight that gilds the delicate curves of her face and shines in her waving hair. Botticelli couldn’t have done better. If I had even half the talent for painting that I did for football, I would have painted her just as she is now.
“If you could only see yourself the way I do.”
A scowl twists her pink lips. “Don’t—”
“No, let me say it. No, you’re not a supermodel or an actress. And, no, I don’t care. You worry that people won’t believe it. But you’re missing the main point.”
“Which is?”
“If we make it believable, it will be.”
“H-how do we do that?”
Oh, sweet Pen, that will be the easy part. Not a single person around us will doubt how into you I am.
“We look like a real couple—don’t worry. It would only be on game days and a few public appearances.”
“Oh, well . . .” She puffs out a breath. “August. I don’t know . . .”
But she’s thinking about it now. Which is a huge step in the right direction. I have to play this right.
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
The stiffness eases from her shoulders just a bit. “Fine. I’ll think about it. But I’m not promising anything.”
“Okay. Good. Thank you.” I should feel relief, but that weird relentlessyearningseems to increase. “And while you’re thinking about that, please let me help you with the house. We can come up with a payment plan or whatever. But let me help you, Penelope. Please.”
