‘Okay.’ I tap a finger against my own knee, trying to match Charlie’s irritating rhythm. ‘And what exactly would that involve?’
Theo hands me a sheet of paper, bullet-pointed in meticulous handwriting. ‘Only touching in public. Kissing is acceptable, but no tongues.’
Charlie coughs into her fist.
Kissing Theo? The thought lights up the part of me that never learns, a mix of panic and…intrigue, perhaps. Or the lingering aftertaste of last week’s debauchery. Who can tell?
‘Social media posts,’ she continues. ‘Photos of us together. Casual dates. Just enough to…’
‘…convince the world I’m not a self-destructive sexaholic?’ I finish for her.
She nods. ‘Aye. I’ll create a schedule of appearances. This is strictly performative and professional.’
No one speaks. The space between us turns dense enough to feel. Theo watches me, those violet-blue eyes searching for the catch, the angle, the hidden play.
I let out a defeated sigh. ‘How long will this charade last?’
‘Until the season ends in May, so roughly five months,’ Charlie says, fingers steepled under her chin. ‘With my luck, I’m sure that by then, some other player will have screwed up royally. And you two can have a civilised, amicable, quiet split.’
‘We go our separate ways,’ Theo says. ‘No hard feelings. No messy breakup. Just…puff and gone.’
Puff and gone. As if whatever shred of reputation I might’ve had hadn’t already puffed and gone in a cloud of champagne and glitter.
Five months of pretending to be someone I’m not. With someone who’s the exact opposite of…well, everyone I’ve ever been with, myself included.
But then I think of the exhaustion etched around Charlie’s eyes. How her words wobbled when she mentioned her father. Of Brodie, catching flak at the gym. The Rebels, the lads who’ve become my family in the past eight months since the team’s formation.
‘Fine,’ I say, tighter than I mean. ‘I’ll survive five months.’
Not for the optics or for the sponsors or even for myself. But for them, for Charlie and Theo and the team. I’m not in Glasgow today to bury my father. But I might be burying the part of me he made. For the first time in my life, I’m trying to do the right thing.
I’m going to lie through my teeth.
But for a good cause. My redemption and my career, Charlie’s agency, Theo’s job.
‘Awright, Miss MacMickin,’ I say, ‘Let’s see how you turn me into boyfriend material.’
Chapter 3
Theo
Finn’s hands are beautiful. He’s spinning my pen between fingers that shouldn’t be that graceful. Lean and dexterous. His hands are strong, tanned, inked to hell, and topped with nails neat enough to suggest serious self-care. There’s a scar across his knuckle and a skull on his middle finger that’s so poorly drawn it could pass for a cartoon bean. And still, somehow, it all fits.
Of course, I’m only staring because I’m assessing the right photo angle. That’s why we’re here past eight on a Monday night, after everyone’s gone. The press release two days ago was the launch of Operation Dummy Pass.
I scoop the printed lists off my desk. On top is the final version of our statement:
* * *
Following recent speculation, we wish to provide context around events involving Finn Lennox.
Mr Lennox experienced a breach of privacy when footage of a private encounter was circulated online without his knowledge or consent. At the time of the incident, Mr Lennox was not aware of the identities of the two individuals involved.
The material was recorded without permission and released unlawfully.
In the weeks prior to this event, Mr Lennox was navigating the breakdown of a personal relationship. The emotional fallout from that situation contributed directly to a period of instability and poor decision-making.
‘I am deeply sorry and take full responsibility for my actions. I let down my team, my supporters, and the people who believed in me. I was dealing with something personal, but that is no excuse. I have work to do to earn back the trust I lost. And I will.’
