4. Four

Four

Whit wasn't certain exactly when the idea had struck him.

When he'd opened the door to find Nell standing there—the architect of his downfall, all big-brown-eyed soulfulness and rosy, wind-kissed cheeks—his first instinct had been to shut the door in her face. He didn't want to be anywhere within a ten-mile radius of her, much less close enough that he could smell the faint floral scent of whatever shampoo she used. Instead, some circuit in his brain had misfired. The second she started speaking, a sudden, blind panic had gripped him. It hadn't occurred to him to simply turn and walk away. His only thought had been that he'd be damned if he let her get more footage of him.

Then, somewhere between her giggling like a maniac and protesting her innocence, the realization had hit. The solution was standing right here in front of him, five-feet-six of pain-in-the-ass answer-to-his-problems. If she were telling the truth and she had nothing to do with the video, then she was exactly what he needed to set the record straight.

Not entirely, of course. The national media was out of the question; his publicist was right about that. The last thing he needed was someone connecting the dots between the woman in the video from yesterday and the woman from the video four years ago. Whether he liked it or not, Nell was intimately tied to the scandal that had destroyed his reputation. That meant she had to stay as far as possible from this one. She couldn't say anything to the press, not without stirring up a whole lot of ghosts he'd thought he'd finally laid to rest.

But there was one audience she could explain it to: his father. She was a foolproof guarantee that his dad wouldn't try to send him packing. Skip O'Rourke might rail at his son in private, but he would never do anything to make himself look bad in front of an attractive woman.

Plus, Nell's presence might convince the more critical residents of his hometown to shut the hell up. He doubted anyone in Fallen Oaks would believe his excuses for the video, but they might well be swayed by the sweetly sincere image that Nell presented. She had good girl written all over her. She just looked so damn wholesome: cute, casual style; minimal makeup; chestnut hair pulled into a wavy ponytail that swung against her shoulders when she moved; that whole smile that could light up a room thing she had going on—not that she'd ever directed it at him. She even had freakin' freckles . There was just the slightest dusting of them across the bridge of her nose, like some artist had sprinkled them there as an afterthought to add the finishing touch. She was picture perfect. If Whit showed up with Nell at his side and she explained that they were both victims of a malicious bit of libel, that would bring the subject to a definitive close.

As much as it might nettle him, Whit was going to have to set his personal feelings aside. Whatever had happened in the past didn't matter. The history between them was exactly that—history. He was no longer a twenty-five-year-old hotshot terrified of losing his edge. He was a little older and a lot wiser, and he wasn't going to let anything, especially not Nell Forrester, derail his career again. Right now, she was his get-out-of-jail-free card. And he intended to cash in.

"Excuse me, what ?" she asked, blinking those huge brown eyes at him and clutching the remains of her purse to her chest. "Coming with you where?"

Whit hitched a shoulder. He should have started this out a bit differently, but thinking wasn't one of his strong suits when it came to Nell. "A town a couple of hours north of here. "

"No way. The only place I'm going with you is an Apple store."

"We can hit one on the way."

"Okay, I'll bite. Why would I go anywhere with you?"

That was the sticking point, Whit thought. She had absolutely no reason to help him. And if her little giggle fit were any indication, she was deriving entirely too much enjoyment from his current predicament.

He was going to have to make it worth her while. And he had an unhappy suspicion there was only one offer she would be willing to accept.

Still, he might as well try.

He made an effort to seem casual, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets and letting out a low, whistling breath. "So you can explain to my family that the video was taken out of context."

It took a moment for his words to register. At first she just looked at him, her head tilted and her lips slightly parted. She paused. Processed. Stared. Her lips quivered.

Then her giggles returned in full force.

"Oh, no," she said. "No, no, no, no, no. This is your problem, not mine. I can't be seen in public with a known degenerate."

"I'm glad I can provide you with so much entertainment, but I'm being serious."

"So am I," she replied. A statement that might have been more convincing if she hadn't laughed while she said it. "Can't you just explain it to them yourself?"

"Do you think I'd tell them the truth if the video actually had been real?" he asked. "Yeah. Neither will they."

"I still don't see how this is a me issue. It seems like it would be in both our interests for me to remain anonymous."

In general, she was right. But while he had no doubt that obsessive internet sleuths could easily connect Nell to her previous video, he didn't credit the general populace of Fallen Oaks, whose main recreational activities included beer pong and ice fishing, with that much savvy. Irritating as it was, she was his best option .

"Hey, I'm not in that video by myself," he told her. "Maybe you didn't send the footage to Meltdown , but you're still responsible for this mess."

The pink tinge to her cheeks made another appearance. "Really? That's the tactic you're gonna go with? That this is somehow my fault?"

At least she'd stopped laughing.

"I suppose you want me to apologize again," she added.

Whit smothered a sigh. "Fine. You hate my guts. I get it. I don't need you to like me, I just need you to give up a few hours of your time to help me deal with a situation that, like it or not, you're involved in."

"I'll give you five minutes. Get your family on FaceTime and I'll tell them all about how you were framed. Sort of."

"No go. It has to be in person."

"This whole thing wouldn't have even happened if you weren't so big on things being in person."

"But since it did happen, I need you there, face to face, in order to make it unhappen."

Nell shook her head. "I have to return my rental by four."

"I'll have someone drop it off. We can take my car."

"Uh-huh. And we're supposed to make it to this town without murdering each other how ?"

"We're both adults. I think we can handle a car ride."

"We couldn't handle ten minutes in a bar."

"At least this time there won't be any witnesses," he pointed out.

"That's not much of an argument." But for one fleeting instant, he thought he saw the corners of her lips twitch upward.

He almost had her.

"It's one day," he wheedled.

And then he smiled at her.

Not just any smile, either. The same slightly flirty, slightly bashful, eye-crinkling, aw-shucksing smile he'd been using to get himself out of trouble ever since he was old enough to get into it. The same smile he'd used in college to win over punctuality-obsessed professors and to charm sorority girls out of their panties. The same smile an ex-girlfriend of his had once described as devastating .

Whit didn't necessarily think he was devastating, but he'd received enough attention from the opposite gender over the years to know that women, in general, found him attractive.

Unfortunately, woman, in specific, appeared to be immune. "A day I would rather spend doing anything other than being trapped in a car with you for two hours."

Three and a half hours, each way, but he'd let her find that part out later. "I'll replace your phone."

"You'd better be doing that anyway." She lifted a hand in a brief, helpless gesture. "I do actually sympathize with you, and whether or not you believe it, I'm sorry this happened. I would help if I could. But I absolutely cannot be linked to that video. Nightmarish levels of embarrassment aside, it would kill whatever is left of my career."

"I thought you worked for your grandmother."

" Paige works for our grandmother. I work for a school. I mean, I used to. And if you think they'll let me teach a bunch of second-graders after committing a public sex act, you are much further removed from reality than I thought."

A schoolteacher. He should've known. "My family isn't about to go running to the media."

"You don't think they'll recognize me?"

She had a point. There wasn't a single member of his immediate family that hadn't watched the clip of her spilling the secret of his PEDs use to the press, probably more than once.

On the other hand, four years had passed. The sports world had long since moved on. And Nell looked different now. Back when he'd been dating Paige, Nell's hair had been honey-blonde in color and styled in a chin-length bob.

"You were blonde. And your hair was shorter. Just smile a lot, try not to look like you're about two seconds from banishing me to the principal's office, and it'll be fine."

"I didn't agree to do this!" She set her hands on her hips. "And since you seem to be a bit confused on the subject, let me be very clear: I am not agreeing to do this. "

Whit drew in a breath. Here it was. The moment he'd been dreading. Nell had nothing to gain and everything to lose from helping him. Which meant…

"All right, here's the deal. You do this for me, I'll help with Paige's PR problem."

Nell's mouth dropped open. "Seriously?"

"Scout's honor."

"You're actually going to go along with her stupid plan?"

Whit had no intention of dating Paige, not even as a publicity stunt. Even if he had the inclination to, the Vikings had about as much chance of winning the Superbowl as Paige's plan had of not backfiring in some spectacular—and highly public—manner. Not to mention, Paige was just as connected to his PEDs scandal as Nell was. What he would do is get Rebecca to come up with an alternate method of rescuing Paige from whatever disaster she had brewing. Rebecca might deal primarily with the world of sports, but she'd started out in media relations for a high-powered law firm, and she thrived on crisis management; he had no doubt she'd take it on if he asked her. Paige must have her own PR people, but clearly they weren't up to the task, if this was the idea they'd run with.

"We can discuss terms on the road," he said. "I'll work out the details with Paige."

Nell didn't answer. She glanced away from him, her gaze lowered, her fingers drumming against her hip. A tiny divot appeared in her brow. He could almost see the gears in her head spinning.

"If I do this," she said finally, "we're not telling Paige. She'd never let me hear the end of it."

"Absolutely."

"As far as she's concerned, I came here, apologized, it was totally amicable, and then I left."

Triumph was so close he could taste it. "One hundred percent amicable."

"And you're taking care of my rental."

"I did say I would."

"Okay," she said—a little shakily, he noted. "You can have one day, provided we can get my flight changed. But I have a condition."

Of course she did. "And that would be…?"

" I want an apology from you ," she said.

If she thought that would faze him, she had a lot to learn. He wasn't going to back down this close to a victory. Instead, he decided to throw her a curve.

"How do you want it? On my knees, or standing upright?"

Her face went from seashell pink to bright, blaring red.

He wasn't going to dwell on just how satisfying that was.

"Um, upright is fine," she squeaked out.

Whit took a step toward her, and then another, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. "You have my sincerest apologies for breaking your phone, tearing your purse, and in general acting like a dick." He quirked an eyebrow at her, waiting.

Nell cleared her throat. "Thank you."

"Great. Go grab your stuff and let's hit the road." He wasn't about to give her the opportunity to change her mind.

"Why do I feel like I just sold my soul to the devil?"

"You rented your soul to the devil. And the sooner we get going, the sooner you get it back. After that, you never have to see me again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

It was one day.

They could survive each other for one day.

Famous last words, he thought, and headed up the stairs to collect his bags.

***

Nell had definitely lost her mind.

That was all she could think as Whit put his shiny chrome-blue Audi on cruise control and the Minneapolis skyline receded behind them, the land on either side of the highway opening into the gentle roll of cornfields and sudden, small bursts of forest: she had lost her mind.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be in Chicago, working on her resume. But now, instead of catching the first flight back home, she had boarded the plane straight to crazytown. There was no other explanation for why she had agreed to travel to some small town in the great up north and inform complete strangers that she had not, had never, and would never be in any situation with Whit O'Rourke that could be remotely described as sexual—all so that Paige could parade him around as arm candy in a futile attempt to make the world forget their grandmother's vegan beauty products were actually made out of Bambi.

You owe me one, Paige, she thought, with another quick glance in the rearview. Yes, she had asked Paige to speak to Frank Grantham for her—but she hadn't made her go on a freaking road trip with him!

This went way above and beyond the call of duty, as far as Nell was concerned. The Forrester-McLean Sisters Pact—signed by Nell and Paige at the ages of twelve and fifteen respectively, two days after they'd landed in their grandmother's strict and sterile estate—might cover hell, high water, and any number of zany plots and schemes, but it did not cover two-hour-long car rides with demented ex-boyfriends. If Nell actually managed to get through this (and that was a very big if ), she was going to hold this over her sister for a decade.

In the meantime, she intended to devote the next two hours to browsing the internet on her newly upgraded iPhone. True to his word, Whit had bought her a replacement. They'd stopped at an Apple store before leaving Minneapolis, and while Nell had been transferring her data, he'd been sorting out her travel arrangements and dealing with her rental car. Easy as that, she was booked for a return flight to Chicago tomorrow evening. But having the logistics of it settled hadn't done much to calm her frayed nerves, especially not after she'd discovered that Paige had sent her a flurry of panicky texts.

You haven't gone to see Whit yet, have you? Wait until you hear from me, okay?

Please tell me you're not there right now.

PLEASE tell me you did NOT go off script.

Has Gabi texted you? Don't mention where you are. I didn't tell her about the apology part.

Um, hello?

HELLOOOOOOOOOOO NELLIE.

Nell had shot back a rapid reply saying she was holed up in her hotel room and that she'd wait for Paige to give her the go ahead.

So here she was. Lying to her sister. And she planned to keep right on lying to her for as long as she was on this miserable misadventure.

She never lied to Paige. She didn't like lying to anyone, not even their grandmother—and lying to their grandmother was a basic defense mechanism. Now she was on her way to tell Whit O'Rourke's family the video that had somehow found its way to Meltdown was all part of a hilarious accident that had turned an innocent joke into a salacious headline.

She had very definitely lost her mind.

To make matters worse, ignoring Whit wasn't nearly as easy as she'd hoped. Nell was wholly and uncomfortably aware of his presence beside her. Even when he wasn't talking to her, she could feel him there. Breathing. Being. She could smell the faint scents of soap and aftershave wafting off him—something cool and woody that made her think of deep winter forests and log cabins and cozy fireplaces and several other entirely inappropriate images. And there was not nearly enough space between their seats. Despite the chill autumn air, Whit hadn't bothered to put on a coat, and with his bare arms still sun-kissed from summer and his thin gray T-shirt taut across the well-muscled line of his shoulders, Nell could swear she could feel his body heat. Sitting so close to him was bad for her equilibrium. She should've demanded he act chauffeur and give her the entire backseat.

Keep your hormones in check, Nellie , she told herself. He's still Whit O'Rourke, remember?

What she needed to do was focus on his shortcomings. Her libido might not know what was good for her, but her common sense did. Whit was a professional athlete, a player in every sense of the word, hardwired to score both on and off the field. To him, women were plentiful, interchangeable, and ultimately disposable.

Yes, he was a little irresistible. Yes, he radiated testosterone and had a smile that could make a grown woman forget her own name. And yes, he smelled good—okay, really good. But that was no reason for Nell to ignore that his fiendish desire to humiliate her was the reason they were in this situation in the first place.

Paige's words floated back to her. He said if you fell on your knees and begged his forgiveness, he might agree to my plan.

There. That was the helpful reminder she needed to keep her heartbeat nice and regulated.

"What did I do now?" Whit asked.

Nell's gaze jerked toward him. "What?"

"You look like I just kicked a puppy."

"Oh. It's nothing. I was just thinking."

"About me kicking puppies."

Why in the world was he talking about puppies? "About what exactly I'm going to say to your family." Liar, liar . "And how I'm going to manage to keep a straight face while doing it."

"Please don't imagine them in their underwear," he quipped, tossing her a grin.

A grin that made her pulse kick up a notch and her clothing feel significantly tighter than it had just a moment ago.

Not to mention, she was now imagining him in his underwear. Boxers, she thought, the image swimming before her—boxers resting an inch or two below his navel and hugging his narrow hips, all warm, bare skin and broad chest and hard muscle glistening faintly with sweat.

Stop it, Nell!

"I'm not sure that would keep me from laughing," she said with a shaky little exhale.

"You haven't met my grandfather. Believe me, the thought of whatever might be lurking under his overalls is the stuff of horror films." He gave an exaggerated shudder .

Nell gaped at him. "Grandfather?" she echoed. "I have to explain I wasn't performing oral sex in some skeevy bar to your grandfather ?"

"I wouldn't worry about it. He only hears about half of what you say, anyway," Whit answered, like that was supposed to make her feel better. Then, after flicking a quick glance in her direction, he reached behind his seat to grab one of the bags of junk food he'd picked up at the convenience store where they'd stopped for gas, rummaged through it to remove an energy bar, and shoved the bag toward her. "Here, in case you get hungry. I'd rather not stop for lunch."

Lunch? Nell glanced at the clock, an uneasy suspicion beginning to form. It was only quarter past ten. "I thought you said this town was two hours away."

"I said it was a couple of hours away."

"Couple means two."

"I was being figurative."

"All right, then how many literal hours away is it?"

"Three," he said. And then, in slightly lower pitch, he added: "And a half."

Something gurgled out of her throat. Half laugh, half scream, all exasperation. "Were you planning on sharing this bit of information with me? Or were you just hoping I'd be too oblivious to notice the time?"

"You're supposed to read a contract before you sign it. That's one of the main rules of negotiation. You really should have asked for specifics."

"I didn't sign anything."

"And there's the other half of your problem."

"You're not actually kidnapping me, are you? Because Paige knows I'm here. If I'm never heard from again, you are gonna be suspect numero uno , pal."

"Hey, you were the one who brought up murder."

"If that was meant to be comforting, let me tell you, it isn't."

Three and a half hours. Nell groaned. Paige had better be amply prepared with gift baskets and baked goods by the time she got home. At this point, they had left debt-of-gratitude behind and were fast approaching firstborn-child territory. But since there wasn't much she could do about it at the moment, Nell settled for shooting Whit a dirty look, then reached into the grocery bag and dug out a candy bar.

She leaned back in her seat, propping her feet up on the dashboard before shifting her gaze toward him. "So who exactly am I going to be meeting? Besides Grandpa of the unmentionable unmentionables."

Whit glanced at her feet, but refrained from commenting. "My dad. And maybe my sisters."

Nell tried to remember what information Paige had provided about Whit's family. Not much. Paige's interest in him had been mainly aesthetic. "Your father played baseball, too?"

"You could say that," Whit said with a wry little quirk to his lips.

"Let me guess. He's famous."

"Mostly for being an asshole."

"Like father, like—"

"Don't even say it."

Nell flushed. "Sorry."

Beside her, Whit shifted his arm to glance at his watch. "Twenty-three minutes."

"Until when?"

"That's how long it took for you to insult me."

"Did you seriously set a timer?" She wasn't certain whether to be amused or offended.

"Oh, I set a timer all right."

"It's been over an hour since we left your house."

"Twenty-three minutes since we got on the highway," he corrected. "And if we're keeping score here, we're at O'Rourke 1, Forrester 0."

"Wait a second," she said, drawing her legs back down and pulling herself upright in her seat. "Why do you get a point if I insulted you ?"

"It would be too easy otherwise."

Great. They were having a jackass competition, and she was losing. Nell crossed her arms. "You can't just make up a game. I didn't agree to play."

"You can always opt out. Of course, that means you forfeit."

"Fine. If we're keeping score—"

"I always keep score."

That didn't surprise her in the least. " If we're keeping score," she continued, "then technically, I didn't actually insult you. I never finished my sentence."

A muscle in his cheek twitched. "Point for intent."

"And my name isn't Forrester. It's McLean."

"You're married?"

The surprise in his tone tempted her to say yes, but since she didn't want to add invented a husband to her list of recent transgressions, she opted for the truth. "It's always been McLean. Paige got our mother's last name. I got my dad's. We're half-sisters."

"The video identified you as Eleanor Forrester. I've got a pretty clear memory of that."

She bit her lip. That damn video. "I guess they didn't fact check."

"Well, whoever the hell you are, you're still losing."

"I want my point back. I didn't know we were competing."

"Rule number one of the O'Rourke household. You're always competing."

"Well, rule number one of the Forrester-McLean household is"—she floundered a second, trying to think of something a little more appropriate than whatever you do, don't tell Grandmother —"um, always play fair."

Instantly, Whit's shoulders tensed.

It took her a second to make the connection. Play fair . Of course that was going to be a sore spot with him. He probably thought she was calling him a cheater. Again.

She could have kicked herself. She'd managed to insult him without even trying. She was definitely going to lose this competition.

"Okay. O'Rourke 1, McLean 0," she said grudgingly. "But I want to know what I get if I win."

"You're not going to win."

"Maybe I just need the right incentive. What do I get?"

"Besides the satisfaction of being a better person?"

Nell opened her mouth to retort—and then clamped it shut again.

He lifted an eyebrow at her .

"Nice try," she said.

"Good take. But you're still not gonna win."

"You really think you can go the next three hours without insulting me?"

"Absolutely." He withdrew something from the car's center console and held it in front of her.

Earbuds.

Since she couldn't think of a response that wouldn't have lost her another three points, Nell slumped in her seat, stuck her feet back on the dashboard, and settled in to nap.