Chapter 14

Emma knew that alcohol was evil.

She was very much familiar with the nausea, the headache, the dizziness, and last but not least the embarrassing shenanigans you got yourself into when your brain was foggy enough.

But none of that knowledge had kept her from running riot last night. She got her comeuppance in the morning, when she woke up and thought she would surely die. Maybe not right away, but slowly and agonizingly within the coming twenty-four hours.

The only good part of having puked three hours ago was that she now remembered the entire evening. She frowned as she pondered how she had gotten home. She had ridden with Luke. Luke, who hadn't been drunk at all, who had made fun of her constantly.

But then, he had known how tasty champagne was after all! He hadn't needed to fall for the lure of the divinely sparkling beverage again. Oh, and then that kiss in the hotel hallway, before she was even good and drunk!

At least that had been her only stupid moment yesterday. She hadn't proceeded to dance on the tables or grab people's butts.

She hadn't done anything that would have consequences.

Emma heard a ringing in her ears and put her hands over them. The high-pitched sound had to stop. This ugly, melodious ringing that seemed to pierce her auditory canal with a needle.

Her phone rang. At least it wasn't tinnitus. That was a relief.

She reached out her hand, trying to focus her eyes on the nightstand and angling for her phone.

"Hello?" she rattled, while glancing at her alarm clock at the same time, and realizing it was already past one.

"Sister, you're not going to like it, but please check out the morning paper. The lifestyle section, stat!"

"Milla?"

But her sister had already hung up on her.

Emma groaned. The last thing she wanted to do now was get up and read the paper. But Milla had sounded urgent, so Emma swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded to the door barefoot, to pick up the daily from her doormat. When she bent down to retrieve it, the neighbor passed her door. The one who had greeted her with so much enthusiasm and grace the first day. She snorted loudly and shook her head in Emma's direction.

Emma made a face and quickly pulled the door close behind her.

She plodded back to her bed and pulled the covers over her legs. Then she turned the pages and wondered idly if she would find the article Milla had been talk–

OH GOD NO!

Luke ‘Womanizer' Carter: Is he finally off the market?

Why did those damn letters have to be this tall?

But that wasn't the worst part! There was also a photograph. A photograph as large as a paperback novel!

Emma slapped both hands over her eyes.

It was simply impossible! This couldn't be happening; had to be alcohol-induced hallucinations. She slowly opened her fingers and peeked through the gap. Nope, it was just as bad at second glance!

She and Luke stood in the alcove in the hotel corridor, his leg between hers and – oh sweet Jesus! – her hands underneath his shirt, while she kissed him with her mouth half open. Her face was clearly visible this time.

Oh no. No, no, no. How was that even possible? They had been in a hotel, not really out in public. And …

The cameras. The security cameras! Somehow the paper had gotten hold of those recordings. How much money had they paid for that kind of material, and to whom? Ten thousand? Fifteen thousand? Emma had no idea of the scope and dimension of things like that, but it had to be enough to induce someone to sell two people's private life to the public. At least they didn't know who she was, so she would–

OH MY GOD NO.

Emma Sander. That is the name of the lucky woman who got the infamous ladykiller to call her his girlfriend.

She groaned and didn't want to go on. How the hell had they found out her name? And how did they know Luke called her his girlfriend? Of course that was exactly what they had planned, but not like this! Someone had talked to the press, probably one of his wasted teammates.

It seems that the star baseball player has gone ‘back to the roots,' for the wedding planner is a German native, like him.

The wedding planner? She was an event manager! If these people had to write about her at all, couldn't they at least do their research?

Her headache ramped it up. She threw the paper over the edge of the bed and dropped back into her pillow. No use reading more. She would only get angrier with every additional sentence.

Her phone rang again and she picked up on a suppressed curse.

"Milla? I have no idea how that happened, I swear to God I–"

"Emma? Is that you?"

It was not Milla.

"Mama?" Emma asked sheepishly.

"Yes, it's me, hello." Her mother spoke louder than necessary, but now was not the time to point that out.

"Hey, Mama. Why are you calling?" she asked, trying to keep her own voice at a normal level and pitch. "Is everything okay at home?"

Her mother cleared her throat. "Honey, I'm worried about you. Why didn't you tell us that you have a new boyfriend?"

Emma suspected the worst. "Mama, how come …"

"You're on the internet, honey."

"What?"Emma felt hot and cold at the same time.

"Yes, you know that I've been on Facebook for a few weeks now, and someone posted they're excited that a normal German girl can date a star. But, honey, that picture is really …"

Oh God, oh my God!

The room began to spin slowly, and Emma rose from the bed, scared that she would faint any moment.

"Mama, I'm sorry, but let's talk later, okay? First I need to take care of this thing here. Don't believe anything the internet says. I love you; and give Papa a kiss from me." She hung up, only to see the notification light blinking, indicating that someone had left her a voice message in the meantime. Maybe it was Luke, who would surely have his own take on the disaster.

"Emma! We thought that thing with Luke was only a one-night stand! And he's famous?" an excited voice screamed. "What's going on over there, and how come we didn't know anything about that? And that picture … someone tagged you on Facebook. Enrico is having kittens and keeps saying he told you so. Call us, Emma, we want all the deets."

The beep at the end made Emma groan even louder. Of course Jenny, Mira, and Enrico had already gotten wind of it. She would talk to them later, because first things first.

She had to talk to the person who got her into this mess.

"Hello, sweat pea, slept it off already?" Luke's voice was so cheerful, Emma felt like puking once again. She paced her bedroom and breathed heavily.

"Okay, judging from your great mood, I take it you haven't read the morning paper?"

There was a brief pause. "Morning paper? You sound panicky; is everything okay?"

"Open it on page fifteen, and then tell me whether everything is okay."

There was silence again on the other end, and Emma could hear the rustling of paper. Then: "Shit. What the …"

Apparently he had found the correct page.

"I know," she squeaked, and her voice went up three octaves. Or at least that was what it felt like to her. "They must have gotten the videos from the security cams."

"Man," he groaned. "This is bad."

"You think I don't know that?" Her voice was nothing but a shrill squeak. "This photo even made it to Germany! My mother called me to check whether everything is okay over here. My next door neighbor gawked at me, and my head is about to burst, so don't tell me it's bad!"

"Okay." Luke's voice got all gentle and calm. "Your anger is justified, but first take a deep breath."

"A deep breath? They put my full name in the damn paper!"

"We'll think about that in a minute, but first of all you need to do something …"

Emma waited, but Luke didn't finish the sentence. "Well, what do you want me to do?" she flared, when he took too long.

He cleared his throat. It sounded dreadful. As if Luke would rather keep to himself what he was going to say.

"Okay … please take a look out your window, but be careful. We need to have an idea of just how bad it is."

A look out her window? Why the hell …? Her eyes widened in shock when she realized what his words meant. Her name was one thing, but her address would be really bad!

"Okay," she said and swallowed with a gulp. "I'm going to check."

"Please don't faint."

"I'm not going to … oh holy shit, kill me now!"

Emma could hardly see the sidewalk, because the street was all but paved with people, cameras, and microphones. "I think I'm going to faint after all, for then at least I don't have to see this anymore," she whispered, sputtering nervously.

"Alright, got it." Luke sighed on the other end. "That was to be expected. I'll be round in an hour, pack your bags."

"What?"

"You're going to move in with me for a while."

"What? No! I don't want to move in with you."

Emma had agreed to play his girlfriend, but nobody moved in together after three weeks. Least of all if that meant that she might often see Luke step from the shower stark naked.

"Emma, it's the only logical conclusion. They going to besiege you and wait for you, until you reveal some sort of secret. You can't leave your apartment, you can't go to work – I on the other hand am protected against all that shit. My apartment is practically built for issues like that. You only get in and out through the underground parking garage, so the photographers don't get a chance." Emma sighed and dropped down on her couch. Apparently it was really the only solution. However much she bristled at the thought. "Okay," she said tiredly, "I'm going to start packing."

She knew it was the perfect cliché, but when Luke rang her doorbell and told her to come downstairs, she put on a hat and sunglasses. Apart from hiding her face it might also help cover up the fact that she was red with anger and shame as she made her way to the crowd of photographers snapping away.

She was glad that Luke had come in his normal car, not the swanky one. Emma got into the passenger seat and threw her bag in the backseat. Luke quickly rounded the car, got in, and signaled before he filtered into the busy traffic. Emma exhaled with relief and leaned back in her seat. No matter what dreams she might have had as a child: She was glad she wasn't famous! It must be exhausting. You couldn't even leave the house without makeup, unless you wanted the press to pin a serious illness on you.

She closed her eyes and only opened them again when Luke spoke up.

"I'm really sorry," he said as they pulled into an underground parking garage, and Luke press the button on his car key. "That was not part of the deal, getting you into that much trouble."

Emma shrugged her shoulders. "You couldn't foresee that the press would go this crazy."

He made a face. "I should have guessed it. They pounce on any bit of information related to me. The first serious girlfriend obviously doesn't improve the situation."

Emma blinked and unbuckled her seatbelt once the car had stopped. She frowned and turned to face him. "Wait, what? ‘The first serious girlfriend'? You didn't have a girlfriend before me?"

He scratched his chin and grabbed the key from the ignition. "Well, there was someone in high school. I went out with her for three months." He knit his brows and squinted, as if thinking hard about something. "On the other hand I cheated on her after only two weeks, so I don't think that really counts."

She suppressed a laugh and shook her head. "No, not really, but … can I ask you why? Was there no one you actually liked?"

He got out and she followed him. Before she could open the back door, he had already pulled her bag from the backseat. "I like a lot of women," he grinned.

She rolled her eyes. "I mean someone for whom you felt more than the pulsing desire of your loins."

He shrugged as he headed for the doors of an elevator. Emma followed him.

"No," he said plainly, "nobody."

"That is crazy."

"Why is it crazy? Women who want something from me simply end up annoying me. What about you, did you have someone you hoped would put a ring on your finger?"

Emma opened her mouth and closed it again. She had liked Stefan a lot. But to be honest, her heart had not been broken in two when he had broken up with her. "Oh, there once was a fiancé."

"A fiancé?" Luke asked, sounding curious.

"Yes, he was a physician. A surgeon, to be precise. Quite a big shot in his hospital."

"Aha. And what happened?"

She shrugged. "He arrived at the conclusion that he wanted to enjoy his freedom after all, and that we just weren't a good fit. Let's talk about something else," she pleaded with a sigh and stepped into the elevator. "The subject is depressing."

"You started it," he laughed and pushed the button for the third floor.

"Yes, I did, but I didn't think you would ask me about my past," she clarified and leaned against the aluminum wall behind her.

"I see, unpleasant subjects are only okay if they pertain to me. Duly noted."

Emma grinned up at him. "Maybe you wouldn't be that bad as a real boyfriend. At least you already know what's important for a successful relationship."

He returned the grin and they left the elevator. He carried her bag as if it was an empty cardboard box. "If I put my mind to it, I'm a good enough listener."

He would have to prove this thesis several times over, before Emma was going to buy it, but for now it was okay. After all he was offering her asylum in his house; so he surely deserved two minutes of peace.

He unlocked the door of the apartment number fourteen, stepping aside to let her pass, only to bump into her two seconds later. She had stopped after only a step or two, and was now staring slack-jawed into the gigantic living room, which was dominated by an even more gigantic couch and an incredibly gigantic TV screen. An open kitchen with a large central island and polished black marble countertops jutted out into the living room area, and directed the gaze of the onlooker towards a pool table.

"Oh my God, you really are rich!"

"Were you still in doubt, even after I showed you my swanky car?" He steered her into the room with both hands, before closing the door behind them.

"Well, I thought you were rich like a banker, but not rich like a superstar!"

"I'm sure Justin Bieber has a lot more money than me," he said with a shrug, crossed the huge room, and dropped her bag in front of a door.

"Considering that you have your own pool table, you didn't play very well," she stated and turned in a circle. Apparently the only thing that was small in here was a table next to the couch, which was surrounded by four chairs. Luke didn't seem too often have guests that stayed overnight.

"Well," he replied slowly, "I only bought it last year. It can be turned into a poker table, too."

Emma laughed out loud, took off her coat, and hung it on a coat rack. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach one of the pegs.

"You bought a pool table because you lost at pool against a girl? If I beat you at basketball, would you build your own court up here?"

"I probably would," he grumbled and opened the door where he had dropped her bag. "This is the guest room, try and make yourself at home."

Curious, she picked up her bag and peeked into the room, which was approximately the size of her living room back in Germany. There was another door inside the room, and she turned back to Luke. "Do I have my own bathroom?"

He nodded. "It doesn't have a shower though. We're going to have to share that." A grin flashed across his face, but Emma decided to ignore it and instead inspect the bathroom. It wasn't big, but it seemed shiny and polished.

"Wow, your bathroom is really clean."

"It should be. I pay a lot of money for that."

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you at least do your own grocery shopping?"

"Yep. Nobody seems to be able to get me the right brand of beer."

"Gotcha," she sighed and dropped backwards on the bed. "I could get used to that. I don't like cleaning."

***

Apart from his mom, Luke had never lived together with a woman. He didn't know what the rules were – apart from the most obvious one, not to leave the toilet seat up.

He had left Emma alone, so she could unpack and make a few calls, and now he heard the shower in the larger bathroom, while he was putting a pot of potatoes on the stove.

He had known that offering her a roof over her head was the decent thing to do, the right thing to do. He had brought this disaster on her after all. What he hadn't considered in advance was what it would mean, knowing she was sleeping in the bedroom next to his.

He liked Emma. She was easy to be around, if only because she didn't take everything so damned seriously, and also because he felt she would be able to outtalk the most seasoned politician. She was funny and straightforward, and she didn't take any shit from him. He wasn't sure whether he liked that about her as well.

The main problem however was that he had slept with her, and that he remembered quite vividly what that had been like. Not the best basis for platonic coexistence. Especially since the other party had made it quite clear that nothing but kisses in public would happen.

On the other hand, what had happened last night at the engagement party had not been meant for the public at all, plus it had definitely been her who had taken the initiative.

Granted, if she hadn't kissed him, he would have kissed her, but she didn't need to know that.

When he had spoken to Wes on the phone earlier, the man had even complimented him. A boyfriend protecting his girlfriend from the evil hounds of the press was the most natural thing in the world, his agent had stated, and congratulated him on how well his plan was working out so far.

Regarding the issue of their cohabitation: It was a temporary arrangement. Just until the press frenzy had died down again. Starting tomorrow, he would be gone for three days for out-of-town games, and after that he could figure out how to deal with the living situation.

And think about a way to get Emma back into his bed.

He heard the bathroom door open, and caught a hasty glance of her bare ankles, before she disappeared into the guest room.

Good God, this would be anything but easy …

He drained the potatoes and stirred the meat sauce on the burner. He had cooked dinner for two. That was basically a world premiere.

He took two bowls from the shelf and put them on the counter, just when his mock girlfriend came out of her room, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt, her wet hair falling down her shoulders.

"You cooked dinner," she stated, perplexed, before taking a seat on one of the bar stools that were lined up by the central island.

"Do you like taco meat sauce and potatoes?"

She nodded. "Sure. That smells good."

The surprise was written in her face. He scowled a little. "No need to sound so incredulous."

"Sorry. It really smells good!" she repeated, opting for an enthusiastic and ostensibly natural tone of voice.

"Close enough," he murmured and ladled potatoes into her bowl until she said stop. Then he poured sauce over them. His portion was about three times as big as hers, but he could live with that.

"And now …?" Emma finally asked, while he handed her the bowl and she tried a spoonful of sauce. She sighed heavily and gave him a thumbs-up.

"That's really good." That had sounded more convincing.

"I know. So what do you mean by ‘and now' …?" He raised an eyebrow and leered at her.

"Do you ever think of anything but sex?"

"Specify ‘ever' …"

She snorted. "All I wanted to know is what you would do if I wasn't here now. What do your Sunday nights off look like?" She furrowed her brow and added: "I mean those that don't end in picking up moronic Botox ladies in bars."

"Very funny."

She grinned. "I know, I'm here all week. So?"

He glanced at the clock. Five past seven. Not a difficult question. "I'd take my dinner to the couch and watch baseball on TV."

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side. "Seriously?" she asked skeptically.

He laughed. "Seriously."

"But why? You spend your days playing baseball, and you're surrounded by baseball players, why would you watch it on TV, too?"

"To see how the other teams are doing. To learn their weak points, memorize who has problems with what kind of pitch – but also because it's fun."

"Fun?"

"Yeah. Even as a kid, I used to watch baseball with my dad. Did you never spend family evenings in front of the TV?"

"Of course I did, but not watching sports!"

She spat out the word as if it was her personal enemy. He laughed at that.

"Watching sports is a lot of fun. I thought women like watching men getting all sweaty …"

She didn't look convinced at all, but after several seconds of silence, she said, "Okay. Let's watch baseball."

Was she serious? She seemed anything but happy with the sentence she had just uttered.

"We don't have to …" he began, but she interrupted him.

"If a woman offers to do a thing like that, you had better comply and enjoy your baseball, Mr. Wichtig."

Who was he to disagree with her?

"Is he out now?"

"No."

"Mhm. And now?"

"Nope."

"But why not? The guy threw four times, and none of the balls went very far."

"The pitcher."

"What does it have to do with beer now?"

Luke groaned and buried his face in a pillow for a moment. "The guy who throws is called a pitcher."

"Oh, okay." She nodded. "And why isn't he out now?"

"Because while he has thrown the ball four times, the batter has swung twice, and didn't hit any. So now we're at two strikes to two balls."

She blinked. "I don't get it." On the screen, the batter swung a third time, and missed again. "Oh, but now he's out."

"You only repeat what the commentator just said," Luke grumbled and set his empty bowl on the coffee table.

"And?" she shot back, peeved. She pulled up her legs. "All I know is that the mascot of the gray-white-blue guys is a lot cuter than yours. I mean, at least it's a dog. That weird green thing your team has, it looks like a mix between alien and ant-eater. It's terrifying."

"The Yankees. The men in gray, white and blue are the Yankees."

Emma chuckled and wrapped herself in a blanket, which had lain on the backrest of the couch. "Alright, Mr. Wichtig. No need to raise your voice."

He groaned and sank more deeply into the cushions and pillows. This woman was driving him crazy! He had never met anyone before who misunderstood everything on purpose.

"Do you want to learn the rules or not?" he asked, miffed now as well.

Emma had burrowed into the blanket completely, leaving only her head. "Yes, yes, I do," she said quickly. "I feel obliged to support my sweetheart in anything he considers important. Go on, tell me, I'm going to listen."

He looked at her, not fully convinced. She looked back at him wide-eyed, in an attempt to appear serious. The expression elicited a grin from him. She really looked like a squirrel waiting for him to throw a few nuts.

"Okay," he said, still grinning, before turning back to the TV screen again. "The one on the home plate is the batter, and the one who's squatting behind the batter is called the catcher." He started to explain how the field was set up, and when a team received a point. He also explained why a game might take so long, what an inning was, and all the things that went against the rules, until finally he listed once again when someone was out and when not.

"Were you able to follow me this far, Emma?" He glanced to his right and chuckled.

Emma's head rested on the edge of the couch, her eyes were closed, her lips were ajar, and her breath gentle and regular. Her body was still wrapped up in the blanket, like a caterpillar in its cocoon, and her feet almost reached his thigh.

If only this woman could be this peaceful all the time. He rose slowly, careful not to make the couch cushions shift under her, and then put one arm under her shoulders and the other under the backs of her knees. When he lifted her from the couch, she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. For a moment – a very brief moment – he was tempted to give her a kiss on the forehead.

But he didn't. Instead he carried her into bed and pulled up the covers all the way to her chin.

When he sat down in front of the TV again and turned down the volume, he smiled. Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible after all, sharing the apartment with her for a while.