Ah, so that’s why she came over a day early . . .
And here it is.
The part where I need to explain about that night in New York . . .
“It was the day I brought Sparky over. Something about . . .” Our electricity . . . “Anyway, I called Tuck for your name.”
Her eyes glitter. “Ah. My buddy. He can talk a girl into anything.”
My lips flatten. “He said something about offering you a fee—”
She frowns. “Hold on. I never agreed to the money.”
“So why did you do it?” I ask gruffly.
She mutters under her breath.
“What was that?”
She glares at me. “I wanted to meet you, you big doofus.”
“You wanted to meet a washed-up, drunk former quarterback in an outlandish outfit—”
“Tuck presented the idea, and I . . . I . . .” She waves her hand.
“Yes?”
A gust of air comes from her. “I love football, and you played it better than anyone ever had. There. I’ve complimented you.” She shrugs elegant shoulders. “It was a fan moment for me. I didn’t show up to have sex with you. Please. I have sex because I want to.”
Relief washes over me. I smirk. “So. You are a crazy fan.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not anymore—as you know.”
“Right. That night was . . .” I lift my brows, waiting for her to finish.
“You clearly don’t remember what happened—”
“I recall most of it.” I chew on my lip. “It . . . it was a hard time in my life.”
“I see,” she says, her blue eyes softening.
I glance away from her, not prepared for her gentle tone. I recall the state I was in that night, how grief ate at me, and it wasn’t just Whitney I mourned; it was my career, my life. One moment I’d been about to start my tenth year in football and get married—then it had blown up in my face. Something inside me died. My dreams. My faith in my ability to take care of people. My desire to love.
The morning after was a turning point for me; the realization that I was on a path of self-destruction reached a crest and tipped over. I’d hit rock bottom, and Nova was the stepping-stone that pushed me out of that dark pit.
“I was celibate when we met,” I say quietly. “I was rehabbing at first; then later, I just didn’t have the heart to be with anyone else; then you showed up . . .”
A rueful smile rises on her face. “Your teenage fantasy in the flesh. I’ve already forgiven you, Ronan. It was a long time ago.”
But I need her to know. “I knew it was you. I swear.” I shift around. “I’m sorry. The car wreck wouldn’t get out of my head . . .”
She pauses. “I knew her. Not well,” she adds at my inhale. “She did the photography for the kids’ yearbooks once a year. I shared half of my BLT with her once when she forgot her lunch. You kept your private life under wraps, and I didn’t realize who she was, not until the papers wrote up the accident. She seemed really sweet.”
“She was.” I met Whitney at a photo shoot for the team. We dated for nine months, then got engaged. She was petite with blonde hair, and I fell in love with her laugh, her bashfulness, the way she curled her hand around her face at night.
There’s a long silence as we gaze at each other.
“Done. Fresh slate,” Nova murmurs, breaking our gaze. “I brought the lightsaber—found it in Sabine’s old toys—as a gift. It’s completely worthless, but I thought it was cute.” Her chest rises. “And perhaps it will soften my answer: I can’t be your fake girlfriend.”
Chapter 9
RONAN
Disappointment slams into me. My gaze drinks in her plump lips, the elegant line of her throat. “Why?”
“It will make things complicated. We have a history.”
“I’m going to change your mind,” I hear myself saying, stepping closer to her. “First, we can keep the arrangement professional.”
She winces. “And when you leave, I’ll still be here dealing with the aftermath.”
I brush a piece of lint off her shoulder, my hand lingering as if it has a mind of its own. “I’ll make sure you aren’t to blame, Nova.”
Her tongue darts out and touches her lip.
“Let’s play for it,” I purr.
“Play?”
“Hmm. You worked in a bar. I’m sure you’ve played pool or thrown your share of darts?” I nudge my head at the back of the room.