“Complicated life equations, and the answer is… Yep. I can totally do this. As if there was ever any doubt.”
“Do what?”
He squats in front of me, slips one arm under my legs, the other around my ribs, and carefully lifts me.
I squeak.
My stomach questions if any movement is a good idea and decides to let me have this one.
Hashtag meows in protest but doesn’t hop off my lap. He stares at Cooper, highly offended that anyone would move his throne.
“Problem solved.”
There’s no arrogance in his expression. It’s pure amusement. I wrap one arm around his neck and the other around Hashtag, barely resisting the urge to run my fingers through Cooper’s thick, dark hair. “How do people tolerate you on a daily basis?”
“Your words try to wound, but your smile says you’d love it.”
“Such ego.”
“Why, thank you. I’ve worked hard to perfect it.”
Despite his grin, I know he’s not kidding.
Not totally.
I used to watch the Fireballs lose game after game for dumb, dumb reasons and wonder how the players kept their mental health strong. Especially the players who voluntarily stayed and weren’t publicly begging to be traded.
Cooper’s ego?
Undoubtedly a coping mechanism.
But if he were all ego and only ego, he wouldn’t be carrying me and my cat into the bedroom and setting us gently on the king-size bed. “Are you a bedtime story or a lullaby type person? Either way, you can’t go wrong. I can deliver both. At the same time, even. All you have to do is ask.”
“I’m afall asleep with the TV onperson.”
He sighs heavily. “That isnotthe recipe for good sleep.”
I gesture for the TV remote.
He hands it to me, then plops onto the bed next to me. “What’re we watching?”
“I’mwatching something I’ll enjoy, andyou’regoing back to your own hotel after you answer one question for me.”
“No can do. Can’t sleep unless I know you’re sleeping.”
“Cooper.”
“Baseball cheater.”
Hashtag sneezes on him. Swear to god, my cataimshis sneeze.
Cooper looks at the cat snot all over his lean, muscular forearm, then back up at me, shrugging. “It’s a secret rule of clandestine meetings. When your secret discussionist has had a rough night, you fulfill the duties of the good friend, because you don’t do secret late-night discussionism with people you wouldn’t be friends with.”
“Where are you getting all of these rules? And all of these words?”
“Luca’s girlfriend, Henri. She writes romance novels. Ever hear of Nora Dawn? That’s her pen name. And she has friends so she makes good recommendations of other romance novels. I’ve studied them all meticulously to make sure I get it right. I can do fake short relationships, enemies to temporary lovers, friends to temporary lovers, secret flings, and I’d probably even do a marriage of convenience—for like two weeks max—but I draw the line at secret babies and accidental pregnancies. Clearly, I’ve got sports hero covered, and I could be on a romance novel cover, but I won’t do paranormal romances either. Not interested in getting busy with a witch or a vampire or a demon when human women are so fascinating. And actually exist.”
Is he for real?
