The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(58)

He arches a teasing eyebrow. “With you?”

I huff a laugh. “Yes, Rory. With me.”

“Taking this fake dating thing a little far, aren’t you?”

My stomach drops. Of course I am. Of course I got carried away. Earlier, when he comforted me, I thought… I don’t know what I thought. “It would look weird if you didn’t come with me,” I lie.

Coward, my brain whispers.

Under his scrutiny, my pulse speeds up.

“You’re right.” He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him, and I relax. “We should keep up appearances.”

“You can say no.”

“I don’t want to.” He tugs on a lock of my hair. “And now I’ll get to see you open the presents I got you in person.”

“Presents?” I light up. “Multiple?”

I’ve already bought him a couple things, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.

“Yep.” His eyes narrow with mischief. “It wouldn’t be weird if I gave you lingerie in front of your parents, right?”

I burst out laughing, all tension from earlier disappearing. “No, I’m sure that would be totally fine and not awkward at all.”

“Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

My heart lifts. I know he’s joking about the lingerie, but the idea of Rory in my childhood home, spending time with my family?

I’m looking forward to it, too.





CHAPTER 39





RORY





Later in the week, I’m lying in my hotel bed, scrolling through my text chat with Hartley. We played New Jersey tonight, and when our right winger scored after my assist, I felt another rush of that light, victorious feeling I’ve been chasing.

I should be sleeping or reviewing game tape for tomorrow’s game, but instead, I’m thinking about Hazel.

When she asked me to come with her for Christmas, she was doing that finger-twirling thing. She was nervous.

Keeping up appearances, my ass. She likes me. She isn’t ready to admit it, but I can be patient.

I scroll through our chat. She didn’t respond to the link I sent with a studio for rent.

Did you see the studio I sent?

The typing dots pop up, disappear, and pop up again. Yes. Thanks.

And?? She sends a shrugging emoji, and I frown. Too expensive?

It’s expensive but not outrageous.

Too big? Too small? The listing said the space has two studio rooms.

No. It’s a good size.

I shake my head at my phone, confused. Let’s check it out when I get home.

I don’t think I’m ready yet.

I remember what she said after the dinner with her family while tears rolled down her face, about how if she couldn’t help her mom, how is she supposed to help other people, and my chest hurts. The need to make this situation better for Hazel claws through me.

You’re ready, Hartley. What does Pippa think?

I don’t really talk to her about this stuff. She’s busy with her own career.

I let out a heavy exhale. I think you should talk about it with her, and I think you’re ready.

Hazel admitting these things to me has to mean something, though. This thing between us might be more than she lets on.

The typing dots appear, disappear, and appear again before her next message pops up. I seem to remember winning a bet.

I shake my head, laughing. I’ve been thinking about it all week, and the photos are ready to go, but…

I wanted her to ask. I wanted to see a little sliver of desire from her. I still get hard thinking about her saying I didn’t know it could be like that after I ate her pussy like my life depended on it.

She’s asking, though. I grin at my phone. You cheated.

Now who’s being the sore loser?

Put my jersey on, I text back. Christ, I love sparring with her like this. It’ll turn me on.

Wow. Your ego, Miller.

A laugh chokes out of me. I wish I was in her bed, watching her try not to smile. We had a game Wednesday, so I couldn’t attend her online yoga class. I feel like I haven’t seen her in forever.

The picture pops up in our chat. She has her back to her bathroom mirror in the photo, peering over her shoulder with a little smile, MILLER across her back in bold letters.

Possessive satisfaction curls through me.

You’re beautiful, I text.

Are you talking to me or the jersey?

My smile turns high-watt. I’m buzzing, warmth spreading through my chest and over my skin. Why can’t it be both?

Excitement and nerves thrash through me as I go to the last photo in my camera roll, a shirtless picture I took in front of the mirror yesterday. My phone makes a whooshing noise as the photo sends, and a moment later, she responds.

Wow.

I suck a breath in. Hartley, I seem to remember you saying I don’t have an eight-pack.

I can feel her cute little huff through the universe. I don’t remember saying that.

My eyebrows lift as I wait, smiling. She totally fucking does remember.

You’re shameless, she says.

My smile lifts higher. Say it.

The longest pause in the world stretches out, and I scrub a hand over my face with impatience.

You have an incredible body. Happy?