10. Ten

Ten

By eleven o'clock that evening, Nell wanted nothing more than to stumble her way to the bed in the guest room, flop onto the mattress, yank the quilt up over her head, close her eyes, and sleep for about seventeen hours. There was no part of her that wasn't exhausted. She was so tired, she didn't even care—much—that Whit's idea of sleeping attire amounted to nothing more than a pair of plaid boxers and a tissue-thin T-shirt. She couldn't even muster up a snotty remark when he pointed out she'd managed to get toothpaste on her brand new pajama top. All she could think about was finding the nearest pillow and flinging herself into the sweet bliss of unconsciousness. She was going to sleep the sleep of the dead, and if any rooster dared to rouse her before she was good and ready, she'd be eating chicken soup for dinner.

Her brain had other ideas.

The second her eyes shut, her thoughts started churning. The day replayed itself again and again in her head like she was stuck watching some disaster film marathon, starring herself—except that instead of being eaten by dinosaurs or getting disintegrated in a nuclear explosion, at the end of it, she still had to explain herself to Paige. Worse, every single frame of it featured Whit's face. That crooked grin, so quick to appear, had become imprinted in her consciousness. Those dark, heavy-lidded, gold-flecked eyes taunted her. During the day, she'd been able to push her worries aside and ignore the warning signs. Now, alone with her thoughts, she was coming to the uneasy, unavoidable realization that she was in trouble. Big time.

Not that the past few hours had been the nightmare she'd anticipated. Whit had been on his best behavior when he'd taken her shopping in the nearby town of Dower Hill, refraining from commenting on any of her fashion choices, and offering to pay for everything—an offer she'd declined, since the last thing she wanted was to feel even more indebted to him than she already did. Replacing her phone was one thing; replacing her wardrobe felt decidedly too intimate. And intimacy with Whit of any sort was to be avoided at all costs. When they'd gone out to dinner with his family that evening, he'd been charming and attentive, just like she was his actual girlfriend, and every time he'd smiled her way or his arm had brushed hers, she'd had to remind herself it was only an act. Something she was having less and less success at. Twice she'd caught herself watching him and forced herself to look away. Whenever their gazes had met, she'd felt like she'd been kicked in the stomach.

That was when she'd known, in the awful, inevitable way you know you're about to witness a car crash, that it was back. The unpardonable sin she had thought she'd left behind her forever. The one secret she'd kept even from her closest friends.

She had a crush on Whit O'Rourke.

Again.

Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit!

There were some circumstances that required stronger language than the watered down expletives she tried to limit her vocabulary to. This was definitely one of them.

At least she'd admitted it to herself now. It wasn't just a simple attraction. It wasn't her hormones going crazy at the sight of a sexy, vital, virile man. She had a stupid, irrational, unreasonable, and completely unhealthy crush on Whit O'Rourke. The same crush she'd had on him four years ago when he'd been dating her sister.

Nell groaned. She was the worst person on the planet. She'd had a crush on her sister's boyfriend. It didn't matter that she had never acted on her feelings; even having them in the first place had been a betrayal.

She had fought the infatuation desperately, concentrating on all the reasons he was bad news: his overblown ego and cocky attitude, his carelessness, the revolving-door of models and C-list actresses that made up his love life. Not to mention the fact that he'd never shown the slightest hint of romantic interest in her. And why should he have? He was dating her sister. If he'd so much as aimed a flirty comment in her direction, her opinion of him would have sunk from oversexed playboy straight down to scum of the earth. The only consolation she'd had was that Paige had never picked up on her distress. Nell had been careful to keep her thoughts to herself and not do anything that would sabotage her sister's relationship. Outwardly, she'd been supportive. Privately, she'd been in turmoil.

The fallout from his breakup with Paige had brought an abrupt and decisive end to Nell's infatuation—at least she'd thought it had. Ever since then, she'd been crushless and guilt-free, happily dismissing Whit as another asshole jock with more arrogance than empathy, not worth her or her sister's time.

Now she was right back where she'd been four years ago, her stomach in knots and her traitorous heart full of yearning. She would be furious with herself if she still had the energy. All it had taken was a few hours and a couple of lazy grins and her crush was back with a vengeance. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it, since she'd given Whit her word she'd stay the week.

Her best option was to remain professional. This was a business arrangement, nothing more. The important thing was that she'd gotten Paige her media distraction—and gotten herself a chance to keep her job. When she and Whit were in public, she would play the part of the devoted girlfriend; when they were alone, she would maintain a polite and careful distance. And when the week was over, her ill-advised crush would fade back into the past where it belonged: brief, unknown, and entirely unmourned. Permanently. In the meantime, all she could do was try to keep her heart from overruling her head and hope to avoid calamity .

She drifted to sleep cataloging Whit's various faults and woke to the sound of the rooster. After several attempts to drown out the noise by clutching a pillow to her head, she dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the kitchen.

Whit, leaning back against the counter with his legs stretched out before him and his ankles crossed, greeted her with the deeply unflattering, "You look like hell."

"I'm not human until I've had caffeine," she moaned, rubbing at her face. "Please tell me there's coffee."

"Grandpa likes his a little strong," Whit warned, but he reached into one of the kitchen cupboards and handed her a mug with a cutesy snowflake design and a small chip along the rim.

"I don't care if I have to chew it. Give it to me."

Strong was an understatement, but Nell barely tasted it. She downed the bitter liquid fast enough that it left a pleasant, tingling burn in her throat, and by the time she reached the bottom of the mug, she felt almost alive again. Unfortunately, with alertness came the awareness that she was standing barefoot in Whit's grandfather's kitchen, her eyes bleary and her hair bedraggled, her pajama top still flecked with a smudge of toothpaste near the collar. Whit, naturally, looked like he'd stepped out of a GQ ad. She gave him a grumpy frown before heading off to the shower.

Nell's cannon fodder duties weren't scheduled to begin until later that evening. The official groundbreaking festivities wouldn't kick off until Sunday afternoon—with some sort of exhibition baseball game made up of former players—but Skip had set an introductory reception for Saturday, which Whit informed her they'd be attending. She expected he'd simply ignore her until then, but he must have grown restless waiting around the house, because he dragged her on a tour of his grandfather's farm. So much for her plan to keep her distance.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as they walked, trying to ignore the way her stupid heart skipped a beat every time his arm brushed hers. He'd changed in the years since she'd last seen him. Physically, he seemed stronger, leaner, the effortless athleticism of youth hardening into something less casual and more durable—and exponentially more intoxicating. But it wasn't only his body. There was an edge to him now that hadn't existed before, and a hesitance, that smooth arrogance undercut with uncertainty… and vulnerability. All of which only made him more dangerous. He'd been easier to dismiss when she could think of him as nothing more than a cocky, self-absorbed jock with the approximate depth of a puddle. Now she had the uncomfortable feeling that she might have judged him unfairly.

What she couldn't figure out was why he'd insisted upon her staying. She wasn't deluded enough to imagine he'd spontaneously developed feelings for her. He blamed her for damaging his reputation; it was pure desperation that had led him to hijack her in the first place. So what was it about his hometown that had him convinced he needed a girlfriend to hide behind?

The reception that evening only added to her confusion. Whit was buzzing with nerves even before they entered the banquet hall, and by the time they'd reached the refreshments table, he was so tense she thought she'd need a vise grip to pry him loose from her arm. She couldn't understand it. Most of the guests had some connection to the stadium or the groundbreaking—investors and city officials, along with several of the "old-timers" who would be participating in Sunday's game and a handful of sports journalists—and they didn't treat Whit any differently than they treated his father. James was a notable exception, but since he was attending as an employee of the mayor's office, he maintained an aloof politeness and carefully avoided Whit. No one mentioned the video. That may have been due to Nell's presence, but she doubted Whit cared about a bit of innuendo or a few suggestive comments.

The only actual hostility came from another former schoolmate of Whit's, a combative, red-faced loudmouth who went by the name of Petey and probably spent the bulk of his time trying to relive his high school glory days. Nell would have dismissed the entire thing as jealousy… except that it was clear Whit didn't. Since she didn't think telling Petey to go fuck himself would help matters, she told him to get a life instead, and then steered Whit in the other direction .

The rest of the night passed without incident, save for a minor flub when someone asked how long they'd been dating. Whit said a few weeks; Nell said a month. They smoothed it over easily enough, but Nell's anxiety kicked into high gear. Lying was bad enough. Being caught lying was nightmare territory. She agonized over it while falling asleep, was still worried the following morning, and after stewing about it throughout breakfast, she walked to the barn to talk to Whit.

He was mucking out stalls in a pair of old jeans he'd dug out from the guest room closet and a loose-fitting flannel shirt. He had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, where the soft discoloration of his surgery scar was visible in the slanting morning light. A few errant bits of straw had made their way into his hair, and with the thin sheen of sweat on his skin and the taut, rhythmic motion of his muscles as he bent and lifted, he looked rustic and earthy and disturbingly masculine. She was close enough to him that she could see the dusting of hair on his forearms and smell the faint tang of exertion. The way her pulse quickened told her she should turn back around and hide in the house until it was time to leave for the old-timers' game.

Instead she pulled herself up onto the stack of hay bales that took up one side of the barn and watched him.

He turned toward her, setting the pitchfork aside as he leaned back against the doorway of a stall, his arms folded. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing the dark fuzz of hair that curled along the hard planes of his chest. The little baseball charm sat on its silver chain, dangling just below his collarbone. One of his eyebrows lifted questioningly.

Nell straightened, forcing herself to look away from that tantalizing V of exposed skin. "I've been thinking."

"That can't be good."

"It occurred to me that if we're going to pull this off, we need to work out a few details."

"Such as?"

"Personal information, to begin with," she said. She'd spent half her morning shower coming up with horrific scenarios where she committed some terrible blunder in front of his family. And the other half imagining lathering Whit's bare chest with soap. "I don't even know when your birthday is."

"It's not like we're trying to get you a green card. You really think people are going to quiz us on birthdays?"

"You really want to look like an asshole if they do?" She bit her lip. If she managed to get her job back, she was going to have to sit herself down and binge-watch a bunch of kids' movies before her potty mouth turned permanent.

Whit only laughed. "May third."

"August eleventh."

He made a soft whistling noise through his teeth. "Leo and Taurus. That's a bad combination."

"If astrology were a real thing. And if we were actually dating. You just knew that off the top of your head?"

"An ex of mine was really into horoscopes," he said on a slightly defensive note. "What else do you want to know?"

"I'll get to that." She leaned backward on her hands, the coarse threads of hay beneath her tickling at her palms. "First, we need a story."

"Our track record with stories hasn't been great so far."

"Exactly my point. We screwed up last night, and I don't want it to happen again. Here"—she sat upright, digging a hand in her jeans pocket to withdraw the piece of notepaper she'd tucked there earlier that morning—"this is the list of things you should know about me. You can study it before we leave for the game."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Are you giving me homework, Miss McLean?"

"It's a short assignment."

He took the paper from her and flipped it over. "You wrote on both sides."

"I was being thorough."

"I see thorough doesn't include your coffee addiction," he said, giving the list a quick skim.

"It's not an addiction. It's a medical necessity. "

"Uh-huh. So… wait. We're supposed to have been together a month. Isn't this kind of overkill?" He leaned back against the stall and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the bits of straw that had tangled there. "I couldn't tell you half of this about the women I've dated, and I guarantee you they knew even less about me."

Nell opened her mouth to tell him that some people actually liked getting to know their partners—then she stopped herself. This was exactly the dose of reality she needed. Whit might have more depth than she'd wanted to believe, but when it came to romantic affairs, he was all surface. He liked his relationships casual, uncomplicated, and with their own predetermined expiration date. The only intimacy he was interested in was the physical variety, which was why her attraction to him was so misguided. He never kept a girlfriend for more than a few months. If she and Whit had truly been dating, he'd already be planning his exit strategy.

She pushed herself up from the hay bales and hopped to the ground, giving him a shrug that she hoped was nonchalant. "You're right. I wasn't thinking." She held out her hand for the paper.

"I didn't say I wouldn't read it."

"There's no need."

"I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings."

She didn't want him thinking she actually cared, so she stuck her free hand on her hip and gave him her most winning smile. "No hurt feelings, I promise. My teacher instincts got the best of me. I haven't graded anyone in over a week."

That flicker of amusement returned. "You were planning to grade me?"

"Pass/fail only. You can give that back now."

"But I'm not finished with it."

"I told you there's no need."

"I didn't even get past allergies. What if someone asks me about your family?"

"You already know the basics. Dead mom, deadbeat dad, grandmother who is single-handedly keeping the polar ice caps from melting. Can I have my list back, please? "

"How much is it worth to you?" he asked, dangling it above her head.

There was no way she was getting drawn into a game of keep-away with this overgrown eight-year-old, so she folded her arms and switched tactics. "You know, your dad tried to bribe me at dinner the other night."

That got his attention. His hand, which had been waving back and forth as he fluttered the list in front of her, went still. "Excuse me?"

"He said he'd give me two hundred dollars if I convinced you to let someone else manage the old-timers' game today."

"Only two hundred? I'm a little offended."

Nell took a casual step toward him and let her arms fall to her sides. "He bumped it up to five when I turned him down."

"He's just afraid I'll show him up."

"You're not playing, are you?" She inched forward. "I thought it was for retirees."

"He's afraid my team will show him up," Whit amended. "Which we will. And you're still not getting your list back." To prove his point, he tucked the paper into one of his jeans pockets and smirked.

Defeated, Nell slumped back against the hay bales.

"Where was I during all of this?" Whit asked.

"You'd stepped outside to make a phone call."

His eyes narrowed. "I'd say I'm surprised he'd flirt with you in front of his girlfriend, but that's Dad for you."

"He wasn't flirting with me. And what girlfriend?"

"Maggie."

Nell frowned. Skip had introduced Maggie to them as his assistant, and nothing in his manner toward the young woman had hinted that their relationship went beyond the professional. If anything, he'd seemed less comfortable in his conversations with her than with Nell herself. For her part, Maggie had seemed somewhat timid, with the aura of a nervous cat, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. During the reception, she'd kept to the sidelines as much as possible. "I thought she was his assistant."

"Like I said—that's Dad for you. "

Nell didn't answer. It was clear that whatever tension lay between Whit and his father ran deeper than a bit of bad press, and she was already too emotionally invested in a connection that would be as fleeting as it was fake. Her curiosity would just have to go unsatisfied. A week from now she had to pass Whit off to Paige with her conscience clear and her heart intact. He was right; the less she knew about him the better. And since the best way to resist temptation was to avoid it altogether, she made up an excuse about having to catch up on some messages and fled back to the house.