He lifted his stare to the sky and rolled his shoulder again, then he glanced at me.
My breath caught, and our gazes held. Hand-saw in one hand, he slowly made his way to where I sat, surrounded by small piles of wilting, soggy weeds. I swiped the rain from my face.
“This isn’t going to stop anytime soon,” he said, stopping a foot from me and sweeping back his wet hair. “Let’s go inside.”
Too aware of him and the intensity of his gaze, I shrugged. “I don’t mind the rain, as long as it’s not thundering.” Since it never did in this place, I was okay. “I want to get this section done as soon—eeep!”
The saw dropped. He swept me into his arms.
“What are you doing?” I squeaked, grabbing him around the neck, weeding hoe still in my hand. He didn’t seem to care that I could have accidentally hurt him with it, as he strode through the rustling rain toward the house. “I have to get that strip done, or I’m going to be set back—”
“It’s a damn deluge,” he cut me off. “We can barely see anything. You’re so stubborn. Tomorrow’s another day. You can do it then.” He stalked across the patio, dragging water into the kitchen, his sneakers squelching on the floor. He set me on the counter, planted his hands on the granite edge, on either side of my hips, caging me. Warily, I eyed him, but he lowered his head, the water from his hair dripping onto my thighs.
The corded veins on his forearms appeared tense. The urge to soothe him took hold. I clenched my fingers.
“Charli…” He looked up. “I don’t want you to hate me because of what happened with—”
“No,” I stopped him, flashing a hand up. “It’s not your fault.” I hated saying it, but he already knew anyway. “My…my mother is what she is.”
He shut his eyes, and his head lowered again as if my answer mattered a great deal to him. “I know she’s your mother, and she matters to you…”
I blinked, shocked.Hewas excusing my mother because I cared about her?
He lifted his head, those blue, blue eyes pinning mine. “Charli, here’s the thing… Hell, there’s a fuckload of things we need to talk about, but most important isyou. I like you—”
“War, you want to sleep with me.”
“—and I need you.”
My stomach heaved at his words. God knew I liked him, too, and there was this undeniable attraction that continued to grow and overwhelm me despite everything. Meeting his penetrating dark stare, I blew out a trembling breath, aware I would be risking everything. But I’d been alone for too long, and I desperately needed a little warmth in my life.
So why not?
Maybe this would clear the turmoil in my head and give me clarity again.
Before I lost my nerve, I blurted, “I have four days until I’m finished here. We’re both adults, and we know the score. No ties. We hook up and get whatever this is out of our system—”
“That’s not what I mean.” A tick started on his jaw. He straightened, expression stiff, as if I’d insulted him, and took a step back. “Look, my agent’s a pain in my ass…” And then he was talking, something about hisagentwanting us together, and my brain stopped computing. I gaped at him, feeling as if fire ants had burrowed beneath my skin as he got to the end.
“Y-your agent wants us to con-continue, to pretend—” I couldn’t get out the words stuck in my throat.
War didn’t wantme. It was my help he needed.
Embarrassment scorched me like flames.
“Yes. He wants thehashtaggirlfriend ofhashtagcenterman of the Cheetahs to behashtagreal.”
I blinked like an owl, trying to stifle my rampant emotions and stuff them where they belonged, in a damn armored truck and shoved into the bay, never to resurface. I needed to learn to zip my mouth. “Why?”
“Could be any of the many things he harps on about,” he muttered, pushing back his wet hair. “Maybe he heard about me punching Cal during practice. Said I needed to keep it clean, you know, public image and all that, and get their focus off my wild side until the deal’s signed.”
This was about a deal—a freakingdealandimagecontrol? Oh, God, I was an idiot.
“No.” I shook my head as if it would remove me from the nightmare I found myself in. “No…”
His eyes narrowed. “Youposted the snapshot of us on Instagram.” Mouth tight, he stalked off to the laundry basket on the living room floor, near the couch.
Dammit. I swiped the water dripping from my hair down my face. He was right. While he might have said what he had to those girls, it was just gossip, hearsay if his groupies posted it. This was all my doing.
I brought myself into this hot mess. Not him.
Me.
