A lazy stroke against the sensitive skin beneath my palm.
My entire body went stupid.
I looked down at our hands because looking at his face felt dangerous. His knuckles were rough. Tape still circled two fingers. His wrist was thick, his forearm dusted with hair and muscle, the kind of arm that looked like it could haul furniture, catch touchdowns, and ruin my ability to make rational choices.
“This is excessive,” I said.
My voice came out thinner than planned.
Drew’s thumb kept moving. “This is hand-holding.”
“This is psychological warfare.”
“So?” He shrugged lazily, knowing exactly what this was doing to me.
I should have pulled away.
Instead, I sat there while he rubbed his thumb over my pulse and smiled across the table like he could feel every tiny betrayal happening under my skin. Maybe he could. Maybe that was the worst part. Drew did not watch me the way Tristan had watched me. Tristan’s attention had been beautiful but careful, always held back, always divided by whatever ghost still lived under his ribs.
Drew watched me like he wanted the whole answer and did not care how messy the truth got.
Holy hell.
Was I really going to survive falling for another athlete built like a moving truck and emotionally armed like a natural disaster?
No. No, I was not falling for him. I was sitting in a diner, holding hands with my fake boyfriend, while my actual life remained a five-alarm disaster. There was a difference.
Probably.
The food arrived, saving me from the inside of my own head. Drew released my hand only long enough to drag two baskets toward him like a starving caveman. Then he looked at my chicken sandwich with visible suspicion.
“That’s sad.”
“It is grilled.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m an injured athlete.”
“You’re a beautiful woman in crisis. You need a burger.”
“I need a better fake boyfriend.”
“You got the best one.” He picked up the first cheeseburger and took a bite so huge it should have required a permit. Then, mouth full, he added, “My rules are elite.”
“Your rules are controlling.”
He swallowed and sat back. “Then give me yours.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“You asked what you get out of this. You want rules? Make rules.”
I looked at him, and for one second, I hated how fair that sounded. I had been ready to fight him on every stupid demand because fighting Drew was easier than admitting some part of me liked how much he wanted my time. My posts. My hand. My nights.
My presence.
