“Selfie?” I ask, opening the camera app on my phone, and he eyes me suspiciously, but agrees to it anyway. “I have a new friend who’s a fan. He’ll be very jealous that I’m here with you.” It’s not a total lie, but it’s not a hundred percent the truth, either. If my mom ever taught me anything, it’s to never let the truth get in the way of a good story, or in my case, a brilliant idea.
We snap the photo, my head resting on his shoulder, looking way too comfortable to be just friends, and I send the photo off to the number I still haven’t saved in my phone. The caption reading, ‘In case you didn’t know which Robbie Crossland I was talking about.’ I turn my phone on ‘do not disturb’, and shove it back into my bag.
“See you tomorrow night,” I tell him and he nods with a smile, walking over the road to his rental car parked directly across from mine.
Once I make it back home, I allow the notifications to flow through my phone, hyping myself up to bravely check filter through my alerts, only to be disappointed that there isn’t a single message from him.
I hate that it bothers me that the picture I’d sent didn’t get the reaction out of him that I’d hoped it would.
Well, any reaction at all.
So much for a distraction.
I guess my night will be spent with my trusty pink friend after all.
Chapter seventeen
Cole
Friday flashed by ina fucking blur, and to say I’m glad that it’s over would be a total understatement. We have the next two days off, but Monday morning we head back guns blazing. In three weeks, Jude and Laurel are giving everyone a week off so we can prepare for a long stint of night shoots.
Being on set is different than I expected it to be. Not necessarily in a bad way, but not in a good way either.
It is growing on me, though.
As a model and actor, my face and my body define my image. But Mara keeps commenting on how deep and gravelly my voice is. I guess I never really paid it any mind until I watched clips back and heard her say how much she loved it and how attracted to me she was.
Of course, she only said these things whenever Jenna wasn’t within earshot. But when she was around, Mara would say things like, “Jenna is so lucky to be able to hear your voice whisper filthy things in her ear,” followed by a wink only for meto see. Jenna would roll her eyes behind Mara’s back. I would usually clear my throat, cross my arms over my chest, and do my best to ignore her.
Mara always seemed to know the right things to say and do to make me uncomfortable.
And while Jenna and I may be fake dating, I wouldn’t ever embarrass her by hitting on someone else in a public setting—even after the picture she sent me of her and the guy I should be jealous of. Quite frankly, I’m not.
Robbie Crossland is a fucking legend, and as badly as I want to knock him out for putting his hands on my girl, I want to applaud them both.
Him, because he has no idea how lucky he is to be hooking up with Jenna regularly. And her, because, well, it’s Robbie Crossland: The Charlotte Eagles running back, NFL’s most notorious playboy, and one of the only men in the league with more than three rings.
Getting home from work, I jump straight in the enormous, luxurious shower—that feels like the size of my apartment back in California—and get ready to head back out immediately.
“Where are we going?” Tate asks as I look myself over in the mirror in my en-suite. Since the verbal invitation, I have pondered whether I would go to the games night and Jenna’s birthday celebration tonight, especially knowing about her and Robbie. But I decided I’d put my pride aside and suck it up.
Harley sent a text with his address and the start time, so it made me feel as though his invite was genuine, and not just for show to piss her off.
Making friends with an ex-NFL pro wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“I’mheading to a games night,” I tell him, leaving out the details of the who and the where. I don’t need my brother fan-girling over my shoulder the entire night. And if he were to come with me, that’s exactly what he’d be doing. He doesn’tknow how to be discreet, and I don’t anticipate him figuring it out now while in the presence of not one, but two of the men whose posters hang in the memorabilia room of his penthouse apartment.
I also purposely leave out the part about it being a party for my fake girlfriend.
The less he knows, the better.
“Sweet, let me change. I’ll be good to go in five minutes.” He taps his hand on the door frame and rips his shirt over his head in the process as he saunters off to his bedroom, leaving his door wide open.
“Who said you were coming?” I shout as I hear his draws and cupboard open and close, watching as his clothes fly across the room until he finds the outfit he’s looking for.
“Me,” he replies over his shoulder. “Alright, I’m ready.” He walks out of his room with a baggy, slightly stained white t-shirt, which looks extra bright against his tanned skin, and black chino shorts. He slides his feet into his old pair of flip-flops. The man has more money than you could ever need, and he refuses to buy himself a new pair of shoes.
Making our way out the door, we ride the elevator down to the first floor, walk past Marv who looks to be packing up for the night and wave. My eyes automatically scan the parking lot for a white G-Wagon, only to come up empty. While it frustrates me that I even let myself look, it’s even worse that the pit of my stomach sinks to my feet at the realization that she’s already there, probably all over Robbie by this point, knowing my arrival is impending. And whilewemay know that what we have is make believe, I don’t think I want to see another man’s hands on her, especially knowing what her body feels like beneath mine.
