She might not fit the definition of a classic beauty, but Henri Bacon is friggin’ gorgeous to me.
Her brown eyes are wary as she inches back up a step. “Or is it because I’m wearing white after Labor Day? I know—my mother would have a fit too. But I like these jeans, and they’re the only ones that fit me, because I have those five extra launch week pounds that I’ll work on next week.”
“I—no. You look—you look amazing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m now fit to stand beside you on that Kangapoo billboard downtown.”
“Hey.” I snag her by the waist and pull her down off the stairs.
Her hands fly to my shoulders. “Gah. Warn a girl.”
“I fucked up.”
“Luca. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know the door would scare me, nor did you know I had hot chocolate in my hand, and—mmph!”
And here I am, fucking up again.
Because I’m kissing Henri.
Again.
And god help me, she’s kissing me back.
There’s only so much I can resist, and Henri thinking she’s not attractive isn’t something I can let go.
Especially when my fuck-up is that I haven’t told her she looks amazing when she’s wearing her pajamas. Or when her hair’s crazy. Or when she’s smiling so big it looks like her face can’t possibly hold all that happiness without cracking.
She doesn’t have to get dressed up to be her own brand of gorgeous, yet here I am, being the asshole who waits to tell her until she fits herself into the mold of what society says is pretty.
I turn to press her against the wall, trip over the damn philodendron that my mother insisted on putting in here for me, and we break apart, panting, while I make sure Henri doesn’t fall. “You okay?”
Her gaze meets mine, and she immediately looks away. “Yes. Yes! Perfect. We should take a selfie or something to send to Nonna, since you’re wearing my lipstick now. Super smart. Really smart. Here. We can use my phone.”
She fumbles and drops it, and I want to grab her chin and make her look at me and tell her I like her, but what happens then?
Nothing good.
She doesn’t want forever.
Hell, I don’t want forever. I want to play baseball and—
And not ever hurt a woman again the way she’s put herself up to be rejected five times.
She’s not being paid to be here. She knows about Nonna’s Eye. She’s asked me to not fall in love with her.
She’s not Emily.
She wouldn’t hurt me.
But I’m terrified I’ll hurt her.
“Why did you do it?”
“Drop the hot chocolate?”
“Get engaged. Why did you let yourself get engaged to five assholes who weren’t good enough for you?”
Her cheeks go pink as she dives for her phone. “You say that like I’m the victim of five proposals.”
I press my lips together and fist my hands in my own hair, because if I don’t, I’ll either grab her and kiss her again, or start ranting about everything she deserves and what idiots her former fiancés are, and that’s not what she asked me to do.
She asked me to help her learn to not fall in love.
“There we go. Here. Smile for your Nonna. She’ll love the little lipstick touch.”
Her phone screen displays the two of us, me looking like I want to go punch a hole in the fabric of the universe, her looking like she might want to puke, and the two of us fake the most awful, unconvincing smiles I’ve ever seen.
“Now, you promised me a party.”
Only Henri could dig deep enough to find that much cheer and enthusiasm for a party that neither of us wants to go to right now.
But if my options are staying here, alone with this woman who’s maddeningly more attractive with every breath, or heading out to be surrounded by people on our first chance to celebrate making the playoffs, then I’m heading out to the party.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
She says goodnight to Dogzilla, and we take off.
I don’t argue about climbing into her small SUV instead of the two of us squeezing into Fluffy Maple, who’s in desperate need of a tune-up, and she doesn’t argue about letting me drive.
Thirty long, painful minutes later that are full of listening to her chirp about everything that’s on her mind except herself and me and us together, we pull into a downtown parking garage, and I wish we could sit down here so I could listen to her for another hour, which is the exact wrong thing to wish.
She. Needs. Not. Me.
I don’t do love.
I don’t do marriage.
And Henri? One day, Henri will find her Prince Charming, a man who deserves her, who recognizes her for the sparkling diamond she is, and who will spend his life making her happy.
I’ll hate him. But he’ll be better for her than me and all of my fucked-up baggage could ever be.
On our elevator ride up to the penthouse, she tells a story about Dogzilla waking up in Nonna’s laundry basket, startling herself, and then freaking out even more after jumping out of the basket with one of Nonna’s bras hung around her neck.
I can’t laugh. Not when I’m struggling to figure out how to simultaneously protect Henri from all the assholes in the world while helping her find the happiness she deserves. And she’s acting like it’s completely and totally normal for me to be a distant asshole, even though the image of Dogzilla racing through my house with a bra dangling behind her while Henri and Nonna tried to corner her is hilarious.
This isn’t normal.
It’s not normal at all.
But my brain is stuck in a loop that I can’t get out of.
When the season’s over, Henri’s leaving. It’ll be over-over without a doubt as of November first, because best possible scenario, we make it all the way to the championship series, which can’t go any later than November first.
I’m down to mere weeks before this fake relationship is over, and before I have to face the Nonna music.
But it’s not facing Nonna that makes me want to ask Henri to stay. It’s Henri.
I can’t ask her to stay without telling her how I feel, and telling her how I feel means admitting that I don’t want this to be fake, except a real relationship implies commitment, and it requires her to take a leap and want to date me too.
I could live with myself if Henri tells me I’m not her type.
I couldn’t live with myself if I asked her to stay, and then became one more guy who lets her down.
Her laughter at her own story dies away, and her brows furrow as she studies me.
The elevator doors open, and the sounds of a party in full swing invade the antechamber.
Her inquisitive brown eyes light up. “Oh my gosh, is this Cooper’s place? Mackenzie told me he has a super cool apartment, but she also said she hasn’t been there yet, so we looked at pictures and it was pretty. And fancy.”
“No, it’s—”
“Oh my god, it’s Beck Ryder!”
I wince. “—Beck Ryder’s place,” I finish.
“Luca, man. Welcome.” The former hometown boy band guy turned international underwear model and fashion mogul grins at us and gestures us deeper inside. Playing professional sports has its perks. Like hanging out with the rich and famous. Bonus when they’re good people. “Beer? Water? Steak? Cheese fries? A few chicken breasts? Piña colada? You hungry? Thirsty? I’m starving. Great game, man. Great game. Hi. I’m Beck. You must be Henri.”