Because God has a sense of humor.
“All right. So I show up, play the part of a devoted boyfriend, make you look good for your family, the whole song and dance.”
“That’s the idea.”
“What’s in this for you?” Jessa’s voice is louder now. Closer. “Besides fixing your image and keeping your precious contract? Why Chloe specifically?”
Chloe turns her gaze back to me, the question echoing in her eyes.
The question I’ve been dreading.
The one I’ve been thinking about since she left me in a cloud of diesel on the sidewalk last night.
She…isn’t impressed by me. And I know that sounds crazy. But I made her laugh six months ago in Barcelona, and she let me kiss her, and she didn’t have a clue who I was, really.
Or maybe she saw the real me, and that’s just a little bit addicting. Which is why I’m here, with coffee, and I know it feels creepy with the money on the table, but I saw the overdue bill on the counter and did a little math. She’s broke. So, I could lie. Say she’s convenient. Already in the viral photo. Has the wedding dates I need.
But if I don’t put a little skin in this game, she’s going to walk. Or run. Or I guess, since this is her place, kick me out onto the street. She can’t be the only one sacrificing some pride for this win.
So I give her just a little of what I owe her. Honesty.
“Because I trust you,” I say. “I trust you not to sell this story to the tabloids. Not to use it against me. Because—” I stop. Regroup, because the way she’s looking at me now, all big brown eyes…I can’t think straight. “There was an incident.”
“What incident?” Chloe leans forward slightly.
I brace myself.
“About a month ago, I went to a charity gala. Met someone—a woman who seemed nice, normal. We talked for maybe twenty minutes. I gave her my number because she said she worked for a social media magazine and wanted to do an article about me. I was being nice.”
“Of course you were,” Chloe says, but it doesn’t sound like judgment. Huh.
“Turns out she was an aspiring influencer looking for her big break.”
Chloe’s brows lift, soften. Not quite sympathy. More like recognition. Like she knows exactly where this is going.
“She posted our entire conversation online—DMs, texts, everything—claiming we had this intense romantic thing and I ghosted her. Painted me as this serial charmer who uses women and throws them away.”
Because that’s not at all what I did to the woman sitting across from me six months ago. Completely different situation. Totally.
The irony is not lost on me.
“Did you?” Jessa asks flatly from the doorway. Arms crossed. Pajama pants with little hockey pucks on them, which would be funny if she wasn’t looking at me like I’m a suspect in an interrogation room.
“No. I literally talked to her for twenty minutes. But after that night, we shared a few texts.”
Silence.
Jessa raises a brow.
“I…Okay, I flirted a little.” I don’t look at Chloe. “I was…charming.” Heat sears my neck. “It’s what I do with members of the media. But I was never inappropriate. And I never led her on. She asked about my game, wondered if we could meet for dinner. It was light. Polite. And then she started asking if she did something wrong and why I was ignoring her. Asking why I was rejecting her, because she thought we had a connection?—”
“And you answered her?”
“At first. I tried to let her down easy. But eventually…”
“He told her not to text anymore,” Jessa says, now holding up her phone. “I’ve seen the post.” She glances at Chloe. “I’m a little surprised you haven’t. Even outside the sports realm, it went viral.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, and then she went on some podcast talking about how I led her on. It got completely blown out of proportion. I’ve got this reputation—I’m friendly, I smile for photos, I’m good with fans. So when someone claims I’m secretly a player who charms women and disappears…”
