He tilted his head, eyes dark. “I think you like being a martyr.”
My laugh came out softer than I meant it to. “And you like being a grumpy coward.”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “That’s new.”
“It’s true.”
He didn’t argue. Just sipped his drink and watched me over the rim of the glass. The weight of his gaze was annoying. Distracting. A little too warm.
It wasn’t flirting. Not exactly.
But it definitely wasn’t not flirting.
I lifted my glass and took a slow sip, keeping my eyes on his. Bourbon burned down my throat and settled like a dare in my stomach.
“You’re going to hate being fake in love with me,” I said finally.
He leaned against the counter, casual, cocky, everything he always was. “You’re going to hate how good I am at it.”
My glass paused halfway to my lips. I swallowed hard—at the bourbon, at the words, at the way his voice wrapped around them like a promise and a threat all at once.
I set the glass down carefully and smirked. “We’ll see.”
But inside, I already knew this was going to be a mess I couldn’t drink my way out of.
I stood, bourbon still warm in my chest, contract signed and sitting like a loaded weapon on the kitchen counter.
Kieren hadn’t said much since. Typical. He brooded like it was a full-time job with benefits.
I slipped my phone into my bag, adjusted the strap, and walked toward the door—heels echoing against polished floors that probably cost more than my entire apartment. His place was cold and sleek, like the inside of his head. Efficient. Uncluttered. No trace of a life beyond soccer.
I paused in the doorway. I shouldn’t have. I should’ve kept walking, let the silence hang, made a clean exit. But something made me glance back. Just once.
He was leaning against the island, arms crossed, gaze steady. Like he was trying to read something in me he didn’t have the right to read.
I met his eyes anyway. “I’m not your redemption arc, Walker. I’m just the girl who signed the deal.”
His expression didn’t change.
Didn’t soften.
Didn’t break.
He just watched me.
And maybe that was worse—because that look said everything he didn’t. It said I was already more dangerous than I had any right to be. That he didn’t know how to handle me. That he didn’t expect this to go the way it already was.
I turned and walked out before I could say anything else. Before I could ask what he thought he was signing up for. Before I could admit that for a fake relationship, this already felt a little too real in all the wrong places.
The hallway was quiet, the elevator colder than I remembered.
I pressed the button and stared at my reflection in the polished doors. Same face. Same lipstick. Same sharp jaw and sharper tongue.
But something was different.
Something had shifted.
And I didn’t know what.
