It was a fake relationship. A show. A cover story for the media and management and whoever else needed West Michigan’s most brooding defender to seem like a functioning human.
Still… his voice had been softer lately. His eyes less guarded. Like maybe—just maybe—he didn’t hate this whole situation as much as he pretended.
I stared at my reflection one more time. Smoothed the blazer. Took a breath.
“You’ve got this,” I muttered to myself. “It’s fake. You’re fine. You’re wearing boots that say don’t test me. What could possibly go wrong?”
I reached for the doorknob just as a knock landed on the other side.
The timing startled me—one of those weird, magnetic coincidences that made my stomach dip. I opened the door.
And there he was.
Kieren Walker in a tailored charcoal suit and a black dress coat that fit him like a secret weapon. His tie was dark—maybe navy, maybe midnight—and the wind caught just enough of his silver-streaked hair to make him look like someone had summoned him out of a fantasy. Brooding. Sharp. Unfair.
I took one step back.
“Wow,” I said, because subtlety had officially died in my throat.
He looked me over slowly, eyes skating down from my blazer to the boots, lingering a second too long on the neckline of my silk top.
There was definite heat there. That low simmer I’d only seen flare when he was yelling at refs or getting dangerously close to smiling.
“You clean up all right,” he murmured.
I arched a brow. “You saying I looked like trash before?”
“I’m saying,” he said as his gaze locked with mine, “I’d rather not be held responsible for what happens if you keep looking at me like that.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smirked. “Fake girlfriend or not, that top’s a hazard.”
I narrowed my eyes but stepped forward. “Let’s get this over with before you start writing poetry.”
His chuckle was low and warm, and he placed a steadying hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the curb like we were the kind of couple who did this all the time.
The kind who touched casually. Easily.
The kind who didn’t feel their pulse spike every time skin met skin.
It was January in Michigan, and the air bit hard—sharp as glass and dry as paper. My breath fogged immediately. The pavement had been salted, but there were still patches of slippery frost where the ground hadn’t absorbed the sun all day. My boots tapped over the sidewalk with cautious clicks.
“Careful,” Kieren said, anchoring his hand firmer against me as I stepped around a slick spot.
“I’ve walked on ice before,” I replied, though I didn’t pull away.
“Yeah, but those boots are trying to kill you.”
I scoffed. “They’re my favorite pair.”
“They’re death traps.”
“They’re fashion.”
“Same thing.”
His car beeped from the driveway, sleek and black, practically steaming in the cold. He opened the passenger door for me like a gentleman—or someone playing one. I slid in, pulse thudding in my throat, and he circled around to the driver’s side.
