10. CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

“ I’m trying to stifle my sighs, cause I feel so high school every time I look at you”

So High School – Taylor Swift

Nathalie

“ A re you going to share any of the nachos?” I ask, burrowing deeper into Maren’s jacket. It falls to my knees, but the warmth it provides is worth looking like a toddler who dressed themselves. The bitter October air beats against my cheeks, and not even the dense heat of the surrounding fans can chase away the chill.

“I didn’t plan on it,” Sawyer mutters between bites. “These are the best yet.”

“You say that every time,” Maren chuckles as she steals a chip covered in the fake, gooey neon orange cheese and hands it to me. I shove it in my mouth, savoring the salty flavor.

Nachos taste a million times better at a football game.

I wonder if Deon likes nachos. I bet he would. He eats everything in sight.

In the two weeks we’ve lived together, I’ve learned a massive amount about Deon.

He is meticulously tidy. Everything he owns has a spot where it lives. The remote sits on the side table. The keys belong in the catch-all on the hallway table. His workout bag resides in the corner of the mud room.

Deon will eat anything. Doesn’t matter what it is. If you offer it, he will at least try it. I’ve begun to triple every recipe so he has enough to eat with leftovers, and if he’s not home, I leave them in the fridge with a note. The best mornings are the ones where the note is on the counter, covered in his chicken scratch with his ranking of the meal. His favorite so far is the drunken noodles. His least favorite was the salad with grapes. That recipe got a massive frowny face and a comment: Grapes are disgusting.

I’ve grown obsessed with uncovering small bits and pieces of Deon. He fully embraced Book Club, though I know it probably wasn’t what he had planned for a Tuesday night. The next day, I found him on the couch reading the book he was forced to re-enact. I refrained from commenting, but he left the room about halfway through the novel, and I knew he had reached the scene and needed a moment alone.

But, what I uncovered, and may love most about Deon, is how he works on a puzzle every night, sipping on a mug of sleepytime tea. The first time he did it, I assumed it was a fluke, but then it happened again. When he admitted his coffee table is a custom-made puzzle table, I had to leave the room to scream into my pillow. Who is that adorable?

Deon Adams, that's who.

“I swear they put something in the food coloring that makes the cheese addictive, so people eat more,” Sawyer replies, scarfing down her nachos.

“How’s living with Deon?” Maren asks, sipping her Diet Coke between sneaking Cheez-Its from her purse.

“It’s been surprisingly nice,” I admit, finally telling them the whole story. Outside of book club, I haven’t seen my friends much. They’re both in the early honeymoon phase of their marriages, where they spend every waking minute with their partners, and I’m happy for them. Truly, I am. But it’s easy to feel left behind while their lives grow and change.

Deon has banished that bitter envy. He’s my partner in crime, at least for a short time, and I’ve latched onto that.

I finish regaling my tale of moving into Deon’s home, tackle debacle, and dating show bracket included, and a Cheshire grin slowly blooms on Maren’s face. Sawyer drops the nacho in her hand, jaw unhinged.

“What?” I do not like their looks.

“Nothing,” Maren waves me off, “I’m glad he’s breaking out of his shell. Did you know he has a standing ‘order’ for pretzels, and I send a bag with Jack every week?”

I shake my head, but I’m not surprised.

“He told me once he’s never had friends who are genuine.” My heart clenches at his admission, “So I’m happy you two are getting along. He could use a friend like you.”

She puts an odd emphasis on the word friend, and Sawyer chokes back a laugh. Whatever those two are doing, I don’t like it. I would ask, but I fear knowing is worse than not knowing, so I’m going to believe ignorance is bliss.

“Oh, here they come!” Sawyer yells, popping out of her seat as the Mavericks jog onto the field.

The jersey on my back burns against my skin as I spot Deon at the end of the field, warming up. It took far too long for me to realize this was Deon’s jersey. My traitorous friends never told me. Instead, I had to find out on my own from the jumbo screen, but as he moves around the field, I’m proud to wear it.

Proud to support my friend.

“ Go. Go. Go! ” I launch from the frigid stadium seat as Deon flies down the field. I have little idea what’s happening logistically, but I do know Deon has the ball, and that alone is cause for excitement. Maren screams at the top of her lungs, and I follow Maren’s lead. If she yells, I yell. If she complains about the referee, I politely agree with whatever comment she makes. “Is he doing something good?”

The crowd roars, drowning my question beneath a buzz of excitement.

“Touchdown!” Maren grabs my waist, lifting me into the air in victory. My stomach plummets as a squeal escapes, our raucous laughter mingling as she smiles. “Your boyfriend just scored the winning touchdown.”

The bitter wind covers the blush on my cheeks. Fake boyfriend , I remind myself .

To survive this ordeal, I need to keep the fact in the forefront of my mind because there is a litany of reasons—the tight pair of pants he’s wearing at the top of the list—that could make this a dangerous game.

My skin buzzes, a bolt of pure lightning striking my core as Deon flashes on the big screen, his smile bright and unbridled as he hands the football to the referee.

The more time we spend together, the less immune I am to his attractiveness.

His head turns in our direction, and he points at the stands. I shift left and right, searching for the person he’s pointing at, when the sudden weight of a thousand stares falls onto my shoulders.

“Is he pointing at me?” I whisper to Sawyer.

“It looks like it,” she responds. I’m afraid to look anywhere but the field, and a split second later, my face overtakes the massive screen everyone can see.

Is this a part of the whole pretending thing? It would have been nice if he mentioned this before he singled me out in front of fifty thousand people.

My eyes widen, skin paling to a sickening shade of alabaster on the screen. My eyes dart to Deon, and hesitantly, I lift a hand to wave. He waves back, and the crowd roars.

Flinging my hands over my face, I conceal the bright red blush marking my skin. Maren swings around, pointing to the name on her back.

Thankfully, the game begins again, and the camera focuses back on the players. The final seconds of the fourth quarter tick away, and the crowd begins to disperse. Once the stadium clears and Maren gets a text from Jack, we head down to the family area so Sawyer and Maren can meet their husbands.

And I guess so I can meet my fake boyfriend and rip him a new one for not warning me about his public stunt to prove to everyone we’re dating.

Sawyer bounces around the family room, waiting for Henry to appear so she can fling herself at him, as she does at every home game we attend. Maren speaks with the staff, showing off her Instagram page dedicated to Jack and forcing them all to follow her.

Players file out of the locker room, greeting their families. Children squeal, and laughter fills the space. Henry and Jack appear, and their wives launch themselves into gripping hugs, but I linger in the back of the crowded room, alone.

I’m happy for them and what they found. Sawyer and Maren are both deserving of the beautiful love stories they built, but I see what they have and wonder if, someday, a love like theirs could be mine . Watching them feels like spotting a party from the window outside. You can see the joy, but you can’t experience it for yourself.

There is so much I can offer, I know it. I have love to give. I want to give it to someone, but so far, I’ve had no one to share it with. My cup is overflowing, and I’m slowly drowning in the excess.

I have familial love; a wonderful family whom I cherish. I love my friends, and I’m grateful for my relationship with Maren and Sawyer, but there’s a piece missing.

Romantic love.

I crave it deeply, and I try to stay optimistic, but there are times when I question if I’ll ever find a partner.

I lean against the wall, an unwelcome stranger in the space.

“Nathalie!” Declan’s voice booms as he saunters toward me. His cocky smile is in full force, and the sight of it melts away the bitter chill in my chest.

“Declan!” I yell in response, a grin blooming on my face. He wraps me into a gripping hug, and I sink into it, savoring the physical connection.

As I pull away, a deep voice cuts through the room.

“There’s my girl.”

My breath hitches as Deon saunters across the room with a dazzling smile. Both dimples pop, and my knees wobble. There is no doubt about it: Deon is wildly attractive. A fact made harder to compartmentalize the longer I cohabitate with the man.

Deon shoves Declan to the side before he lifts me off the ground. My legs instinctively wrap around his torso as my arms link behind his neck.

“Are you on drugs?” I whisper in his ear as I ignore the way our bodies fit perfectly together. I also ignore the way his hands slide up my thighs, grazing the lower part of my ass.

He pulls back, a pinched look on his face. “Too much?”

“Way too much.” I slide down his torso, his corded muscles pressed against my stomach. My skin pebbles beneath his touch.

“Declan told me to do it,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought it sounded stupid, but Jack and Henry agreed. Declan said he read it in a romance novel.”

I rub my temples.

“I love Declan, but do not let him give you love advice.”

“Hey!” Declan yells, “I give great love advice,” he scoffs. “And my idea was genius. The people love a public display of affection.”

Deon’s eyes widen before he slings his bag over one shoulder.

“Ready to go?”

I nod, waving goodbye to Maren and Sawyer. We’ll see them on Saturday for the Halloween party. I picked up our costumes yesterday and can’t wait to show him.

As we leave, an idea pops into my head. “Victory ice cream!”

“Victory, what?”

Deon chuckles as I bolt to the car. “To the store!”

I drop my ice cream container on the kitchen counter, pointing an accusatory spoon in Deon’s direction. Running through the store with Deon, choosing ice cream, and then eating the ice cream clouded my thoughts.

I have a bone to pick with my fake boyfriend.

“No more pointing at me in front of a bazillion people without telling me.” I purse my lips, “I was on the jumbotron, Deon. It was horrifying .”

Deon leans back against the countertop, digging into a massive tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. His face is granite before his smile slips, and his chest begins to rumble in laughter. The urge to smack him silly is so strong I stomp out of my seat and thwack his arm.

It only makes his laughter worse.

“Deon. It is not funny. I nearly died of embarrassment.”

“I know.” He gives me a sly smile, those dimples making an appearance. “I saw you on the screen. Your eyes were giant behind your glasses.”

His shoulders shake as he heaves air into his lungs.

God. He’s so…so infuriating sometimes, and when he stands to his full height, my stomach bottoms out. Deon is attractive, but when he smiles—when he laughs with zero reservations—he morphs into this mind-boggling attractive man, and that is not good for my well-being.

Not when we live together and are attempting to pull off a fake dating scheme, though he hasn’t mentioned any issues with the media anymore. I’m not sure anyone cares who he’s dating now that they realize it’s a plain, boring nobody and not the models they were suggesting.

“You’re….You’re,” I am flailing. I know it, and the way his lip twitches, Deon knows it too. “A booger!” I yell.

Booger. Booger?! That was the best I could come up with?

I’ve never seen Deon laugh so hard in my life, and I begin to giggle along with him. His joy is infectious. As his head is tipped down, I tiptoe in his direction, ready to pounce.

If I learned anything growing up with a brother who loves pranks and ambushes, it’s to never let your guard down. Deon sucks in a deep breath, and I leap, aiming for his sides.

Wiggling my fingers, I tickle his abdomen. His eyes jerk upward in a panic, and when his skin pales, I regret my decision to be playful.

The panic shifts into humor, and I double down.

“Not so funny now,” I goad as I dig in deep, notching the tickling to ten. Deon turns inward, hands flailing as he screams. Gordie bolts away, evading the sound.

I retreat, and when I step back, Deon raises his head, tears in his eyes.

“You’re so dead, Nat.”

Deon saunters forward, a predator stalking his prey.

Lifting my hands, I shrink out of the living room. “I surrender.”

“Oh, no. It’s only fair.”

I gulp at his mischievous grin before I spin on my heels and bolt. Deon reaches me in two quick steps. His arms bracket my shoulders, lifting me into the air and my legs flail as he drags me into the living room.

“No! Stop! I’m sorry! I promise I’ll never tickle you again!” I scream whatever I can to prevent the tickle torture.

Deon tosses— tosses! —me on the couch, and something shifts, the air zapped with charged tension. He towers over me, and I gulp. Large hands bracket my sides, digging in deep as he tickles me. I panic, and my arm whacks him directly in the head.

“Agh!” Deon shrieks.

I shriek.

The room is silent before we burst into laughter, Deon’s body falling onto the couch, limbs tangled with mine.

“You have impressively strong limbs,” he mutters, rubbing the side of his head.

“I’ve been working out.”

Deon jerks up.

“You have?”

He asks with so much surprise I’m almost offended. I would be if I was working out.

“No. Unless you consider carrying nachos down the stadium steps as a workout.”

“That’s the best kind of workout.” He pauses, glancing at his phone, then the T.V. “We missed our show!” he yells in panic, scrambling off the couch. “This is Ian’s week. He’s going to get the date, I can feel it.”

My brain snags on the word ‘ours.’

He’s been bragging all week about how Ian is the frontrunner to win and how they’re going to fall in love. I haven’t had the heart to tell Deon that most couples break up before the show even airs. He has this blind optimism that it's going to work out, and I don’t want to crush that.

“No, we didn’t.” I pop off the couch and grab the remote. When I return, I sit closer to him than before. I want to inhale the soft, clean scent of him. It’s comforting, like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a chilly night. “I recorded it so we could watch it together.”

It’s become our thing, and it’s far more entertaining when he narrates.

The smile Deon gives me isn’t one I’ve seen before. A soft smile, nothing more than a small lift at the corners. There’s something incredibly intimate about it.

“Turn it on then. This is finally Ian’s week to shine.”