“This isn’t some strange guy,” I defend with more gusto than the situation probably merits. Definitely. “He’s one of your clients. A pro-athlete on… one of Chicago’s favorite teams.”
She blinks. “Jesus, Harlow. It’s hockey. He plays hockey for the Chicago Slayers. He’s a forward with a contract up for renegotiation this month. And he’s not my client. He works with Leo.”
Hockey. Right.
There it is.
“Even better. A contract means he needs to keep his nose clean.” Why am I arguing this?
“Well, yes,” she agrees slowly. “He does.”
“See, he’s harmless.”
Nettie scoffs. “Harmless?” Her thumbs fly over her phone and she sits back. “What is this guy, six-two, 200 pounds?” She holds up a picture of Wade on the ice, a scowl cut through every feature. “Makes his living fighting it out for a puck and slamming other six-two, 200-pound dudes into the boards to do it. Harmless isn’t really the first thing I think of.”
I straighten in my seat, pushing my mug an inch to the right. I hadn’t really thought of it that way. But on an instinctual level, I just don’t think this guy is trouble.
He seems like fun. And like he needs a favor, bad.
Besides, “If I’m wrong and Wade turns out to be a jerk, then… favor revoked. I’ll leave.”
Her eyes narrow and she reaches for her coffee. “Are you serious right now?”
I take a breath and shake my head. “I know this is crazy. I know it’s not me. But God, Nettie, I’m just so sick of weighing every choice I make against how it might impact my future. Whether it aligns with my goals. If it’s sending the right message to the right people.” What my father will think… “I’m so sick of always doing the right thing and never seeing the results I’m waiting for.”
“It’s just a matter of time before Junior fucks up. Sorry. But PHR Bank and Trust is going to want you back in that position.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to wish that. And I can’t count on it. But— Nettie, I’m just tired. I’m exhausted from being me, and I guess a weeklong vacation of pretending to be someone else feels like exactly what I need.”
She clucks her tongue. “Are you going to tell your dad?”
I shift uncomfortably. “If he asks.”
Nettie has the good grace not to point out he won’t.
Chapter 3
Harlow
The men I date fit a certain mold.
They went to the right schools, have the right professions, know who my father is, and are almost as careful weighing the risk-to-reward ratio in asking me out as I am in who I say yes to.
I never have gorgeous men pressing me for inappropriate favors like this, and it’s kind of exciting. Maybe that’s why, against all logic, Thursday morning I’m seated at one of the Toasty Bean’s sidewalk tables, waiting on Wade Grady to pick me up.
I’ve spent the last four days on the brink of calling the whole thing off. But then I’d get a text, email, or call from Wade showering me with “fun facts” and “miscellaneous tedium”—he lost his first tooth in a fistfight with his cousin and has to take an allergy pill when he bales hay—and I’d end up asking half a dozen more questions, most of the time laughing so hard at the answers I couldn’t catch my breath. And then for the next few hours getting caught up in the idea of having ten days with this guy who’s promising me fun in exchange for a fake serious relationship.
Only now, as Wade pulls up in one of those oversized white pickups, I’m pretty sure this whole thing is crazy. But what I can’t understand is why I’m going through with it anyway.
“Hey, Good Girl,” he calls from over the roof, hopping out to round the beast.
I catch the server’s eye and tuck a few bills under my mug as Wade jogs up. He pulls one of my bags from beneath the table, grabbing the other where it rests against the geranium planter that sections off the seating. This is the first time I’ve seen him since our lunch and he’s wearing faded Levi’s and a T-shirt with a small John Deere logo on the front that smacks of country boy—though he swears he’s more small-town than country—and makes me think the sundress I picked for today strikes the right balance of casual and cute to match.
“Good Girl?” I ask, trying not to get distracted by how the muscles through his chest and arms flex as he throws the strap over his shoulder.
“If the shoe fits.” He nods down to the legal pad I’m tucking into the side of my tote. “Ten to one… that’s filled with notes about me and you were studying.”
So, I wasn’t the only one paying attention this week. “Of course, I was studying. I’m not the kind of person who walks into a test without being completely prepared. What do you want to know? Enderson, population 7023. Home of the Tigers. Birthplace of Carl Hammond Fossy, artist, John William Paulette, inventor, and one Wade Earnest Grady—”
His bark of laughter has me grinning. “Wikipedia? Damn, you’re serious about your research.”
“Always.”
I follow him to the truck where Wade loads my bags into the backseat and then puts a wide hand out to help me up into the passenger seat.
Once I’m in, he braces an arm at either side of the open door and squints into the midmorning sun. “Gotta admit, I wasn’t sure you’d go through with it.”
I give up a guilty sigh. “Neither was I.”
He nods. “Well, I’m glad you did.” He closes me in and jogs around the hood before climbing in himself. “This is my baby brother’s wedding, and I was dreading it. I’ve been so focused on the bullshit I was sure I was going to have to face, I didn’t think I’d be able to enjoy a minute of it. But now? The only thing I’m worrying about is whether my mom made cookies for me.”
At my raised brow, he laughs. “I’m not kidding. Having you with me makes all the difference. I know you have reservations, so thank you. I mean it.”
Maybe it’s the whole “sports celebrity” thing, but apparently there’s some expectation that he’ll settle down with a nice girl from Enderson, and he doesn’t want to deal with the pressure this week.
Whatever his rationale, I’m looking forward to this escape.
Wade puts the truck in gear and, merging into traffic, tells me to pick some music.
He quizzes me about school and my favorite classes and whether I’d rather have a skinned knee or a really bad hangnail.
The knee, obviously, though he’d rather the nail. Craziness.
I’m pretty sure he’s keeping me talking in an effort to counteract any lingering nerves on my part. And it’s mostly working, because despite us not having a lot in common at the surface, Wade is a very relatable guy.
We swap stories for a couple hours. I’ve got Instagram and Facebook open on my phone, digging up pictures of the people he’s telling me about. Overall, I’m feeling pretty relaxed about this whole thing when he cuts me a quick look.
“So, I know it’s weird that I can’t go home without finding a buffer to bring with me, but I don’t want you to think it’s because my family’s a bunch of jerks. They’re pretty awesome. Nice. Loud. Welcoming.” He grips the wheel with both hands. “But there’s probably something we should talk about before we get there.”