“Sadly, no. My teammate deleted it after the mayor’s office threatened legal action.” I find myself smiling at the memory. “But trust me—some things you can’t unsee.”
“Like me in Smurf pajamas?”
I risk a glance at her. The moonlight from the window catches the curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose. “The Smurfs are a definite improvement over what the mayor was wearing. Which was nothing.”
She laughs again, and the atmosphere shifts—less tense, more companionable. It reminds me of those rare moments in high school when we’d find ourselves waiting for Jonah, and we’d manage a few minutes of actual conversation before reverting to our usual bitching.
She rolls away, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Goodnight, Brooks.”
“Night, Syd.”
The door cracks open, and in waddles Gus, who apparently has decided he’s not sleeping with Meema tonight. Sydney jumps up, grabbing the oversized hot-dog dog and bringing him to bed with us. Might as well make it a party.
The three of us settle in, but sleep is a long time coming, my mind racing with thoughts. Facing Jonah this weekend. My parents. God, they can’t find out about this fake relationship on the news, which means I have to tell them first, which means I have to stop avoiding them. The team doctors want another evaluation of my shoulder next week. Meema’s doctor appointments, her upcoming treatment in three weeks.
And now I’m sharing a bed withSydney Holt, the last person I should be.
The worst part? As I’m lying here listening to her breathing, I wish this didn’t have to end.
9
One Bed
SYDNEY
Brooks Kingston radiates heat like a furnace. I lie rigid on my side of the bed, acutely aware of every inch of space between us, which isn’t nearly enough. It’s dark, but I can still see his profile—the sharp jaw, the slightly crooked nose from one too many hockey fights, the broad shoulders that strain his T-shirt in ways that should be illegal.
And when the shirt was off—holy hell. I need to erase that image out of my mind because it makes me ache to run my hands over his chest, admiring it like a fine sculpture.
I’ve never allowed myself to admit it, not even in the privacy of my own thoughts, but the man is criminally attractive. Doesn’t make him less of a jerk, though. Just a very pretty one.
Petting Gus, I shift, and the mattress dips, betraying my movement. Brooks remains still, but I can tell by his breathing that he’s awake. This is so wild. Twenty-four hours ago, I was lying in my own bed, cursing his name for refusing to help me get the sports anchor position. Now we’re sharing a bed, fake-dating, and I’m noticing how the muscles in his arms flex when he adjusts his pillow.
Get it together.
The silence stretches between us, and I’m tuned into every sound—the ceiling fan’s whir, the creak of the old house settling, Gus licking his paws, Brooks’ steady breathing. I should be exhausted after the emotional rollercoaster of a day we’ve had, but my mind refuses to shut down.
Just as I’m considering faking a snore to break the tension, Brooks clears his throat. “Sorry about the jars of pennies.”
The words that came out of nowhere hang in the dark. I turn my head to look at him, but he’s still staring at the ceiling.
“What?” Did I hear him correctly?
“The pennies. In college.” He shifts slightly, wincing as his bad shoulder catches. “When I paid you back the three hundred dollars in jars of them. I thought it would be kinda funny because I was stupid. But also, I didn’t really have the money. I got it from my gramps who had the collection. He said I could have it. Anyway, I should’ve cashed it myself before giving it to you.”
Something pinches in my chest. I remember that day clearly—standing at the bank counter while the teller explained they couldn’t accept loose coins, then driving around town looking for a coin-counting machine that wouldn’t charge me a ridiculous fee. I’d been furious, sure Brooks had done it to make my life difficult.
“Really?” I prop myself up on one elbow to see his face better. “But you had money growing up. Your family had that huge house on the other side of this lake. Your dad drove a Porsche.”
“Myparentshad money,” he corrects, his voice flat. “I didn’t.”
That’s so cliché, but I guess there must be something to it because so many rich kids say it. I’d always assumed Brooks had it all—talent, looks, wealth, a perfect family. The Kingston name carried weight in Beaver County, and not just because they owned half of this lakefront property.
“What do you mean? They didn’t give you an allowance or whatever rich parents do?”
He makes that noise—that specific grunt that somehow conveys both amusement and derision. “My dad says handouts breed weakness.” His voice takes on a different quality, and I realize he’s mimicking his father. “‘You want spending money? Win the game, score the goal, be the best.’”
“That’s... harsh,” I say, trying to process this new information. “So the three hundred dollars I loaned you—”
