Chapter 30

It's all fake, man.

I mean, he's not wrong.

And it was my idea in the first place.

And it is supposed to be fake.

But…

Ouch.

Because last night, I'd thought…

Well, I know I'm in deep, but I thought that maybe something changed for him too. He'd shared, had listened to me when I shared, and?—

I thought we were becoming something more.

It's all fake, man.

Fake.

Not real.

I lean back against the wall, hand to my chest, as though that will keep the pieces of my heart together. It's better I know. Better I have this information. I can continue forward with a clear mind. Keep up the charade, but protect myself while I get back onto my feet.

Even if…some part of me wants it to be different.

Wants it to mean more.

Wants to stay.

Had started thinking of the future he and I could have together, this man who knows almost all of my secrets and hadn't turned away.

It's all fake, man.

Right.

This is why I don't make plans. This is why I just keep my head down and continue moving forward. It all goes away and if I stop moving, if I allow the present to wrap around me like waves kissing the bow of a ship and then dragging it under, sinking it into the dark ocean depths.

Taking me down with it.

No.

I need to stop standing on board, arms waving for someone to save me, all while waiting to drown.

I need to take charge of my life.

I need to swim my ass to shore.

King's voice rumbles on, but I force myself to turn away, to head back up the stairs, to accept what I already knew.

This isn't real.

This is a fairy tale—the white knight rescuing the damsel from the side of the road. It's been nice to live in this world, this moment for a little while, but the real fairy tales have grim endings.

I need to step out from between the pages of the book, need to get back to reality.

It's time to find an apartment, finish up my design work for the gala, focus on my pups.

Time to forget this whiplash of men—terrible to wonderful.

Time to…move on.

The knock at my office door has me looking up, seeing Jean-Michel leaning back against the doorframe.

He's decidedly casual—for him anyway—in a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of jeans and boots.

Out walking the vineyard, inspecting the vines, the wine production.

Finger on the pulse.

Always.

This man somehow has the uncanny ability to keep track of all of the varied pieces of his business ventures.

I guess that's what makes him so successful.

And it's also probably why he's appeared like my fairy godmother—some magical part of him sensing that I'm unsettled, that I'm a mess, that there's something going on with me that he needs to fix.

"It's late," he says.

I glance out the window, see the sun sliding behind the hills in the distance.

"So says the hockey team owner who was traveling with the guys and then spent all day working his other job." I nod to his boots. "What are you going to do? Trade those for dress shoes and head off to a board meeting?"

The flicker in his eyes has me knowing that I'm right.

Not that he acknowledges it.

He just tilts his head down the hall. "Want to walk the space for the gala?"

My heart squeezes.

This man is ruthless.

But he's also kind.

And I know he's checking in on me because he's worried about me and wants to take my pulse.

Well, know what?

He's had his own brand of shit dropped into his lap of late, what with his ex-wife showing up and trying to implode his life, his relationship with Chrissy, and his businesses.

So, in the vein of finally stepping into my own life and making decisions that will have me—pardon the sports reference—jumping in the game rather than waiting around for someone to extend a hand and draw me onto the ice, I decide that maybe my fairy godmother needs some magic of his own.

And that's why I'm already on my feet and moving toward him before I tell him, "Yeah, let's walk it."

"And the bars will be set up here and on the far side of the room," I tell him, scanning the digital map on my tablet and then looking up and studying the space again.

Something about the setup feels wrong, but I can't put my finger on it.

Then again, I'm the design brain for graphics and menus, gift bags and photo backdrops.

Space planning isn't in my wheelhouse?—

Thankfully, it is in my fairy godmother's.

"No," he says, reaching over me and tapping the screen. "That's not going to work. You need to double that at least." A beat and he studies the map. "No, with this amount of tickets sold, you'll need at least six."

"Six?" I exclaim.

"This is a charity event and auction," he says, pulling out the notebook and pen he always keeps in his back pocket and sketching out a layout of the room, complete with those six drink stations. "You want people to spend money." Another beat before his eyes flick up to mine, his mouth curving up in one corner. "Which means you need people to drink all of the free wine that your boss is donating."

"Fr-free?" I sputter. "Jean-Michel, that's not what we agreed to."

In fact, what we agreed to was that he would give my rescue a wholesale discount on the wine.

And that I'd pay the rental fee for the event space.

Especially because he's "giving" me the team for the night—making the event sponsored by the charity arm of the Eagles organization doesn't strictly make it mandatory for the players to attend, but it does encourage them.

Strongly.

He lifts one muscular shoulder, drops it again as he continues laying out the room in an efficient manner that speaks of exactly how many events like this he's attended. "Maybe not, but that's what we're doing."

"Jean-Michel?—"

"And you're not paying the rental fee for the space."

"Jean-Michel!"

His head tilts up, eyes hitting mine. "Did I tell you that Phillip has decided to take the relocation offer with his company?"

I still, almost able to feel that hand on my throat again.

Almost able to see the anger in Phillip's eyes.

To feel the fear that had coiled in my belly, spread from fingertip to toes, burst out of every cell, that had me running the moment Phillip left the room, climbing out a window and sprinting down a deserted road.

"Hey," Jean-Michel murmurs, gently settling his hand on my shoulder. "It's taken care of."

I swallow. "It shouldn't have to be."

Those fingers squeeze.

Gently.

Not like Phillip's had squeezed.

"No, Ror," he says. "It shouldn't have."

I take a breath, release it in a long, slow exhale.

And then I push that aside.

Forward.

Saving myself.

But not spitting on the help the people I love give me, not refusing to grab the life preserver.

I can find a balance?—

It's all fake, man.

In some things.

"Thank you," I whisper, eyes stinging.

His brows come up. "For what?"

And that dislodges King's voice.

Because this man is impossible. A total silver fox with a body that's more fit than most men my age (excluding a certain group of yummy hockey players who've recently been folded into my circle—or, rather, me into theirs). And more than being in shape, Jean-Michel exudes a certain…

Sex appeal.

There.

I said it—or thought it, anyway.

I shouldn't have—said or thought.

But I did.

Because Jean-Michel has daddy vibes.

Gross, considering he's a father figure and those vibes don't do it for me, but…

I can't deny it.

He's a total hottie who deserves someone to love him.

It's not something I've ever allowed myself to think before. I mean, how can I? Chrissy's my friend and I was with Phillip and…

Still, I don't miss that there's something different about him today.

Like he was frozen solid behind a wall of ice, impenetrable and not exactly unfeeling, but also…

Not open at all.

But, for some reason, that ice has melted.

And he's exposed to the world.

"Are you okay?" I ask softly.

His hand drops to his side, snapping his notebook closed, clipping the pen onto the cover. "What are you talking about?" He tucks them away. "I'm fine."

Liar.

"The team's finally getting itself together—no thanks to more than a few people behind the scenes who need to get their shit together or get the fuck out," he says. "But I don't have time to get into that. Let's figure out the rest of this so I can get to my meeting."

Gruff words, but I don't miss the tightening of his shoulders, the muscle flicking in his cheek.

Be brave and kind.

Kind isn't the problem. I'd fight a war for this man, to protect that big heart hidden inside the often grumpy and stern exterior. What he'd done for his daughter, for me, for so many others in his periphery was astronomical. And now that Angela, his ex-wife, had popped up back in his life, throwing so many parts of it into chaos, he might need a fairy godmother of his own.

And…

Maybe I needed to be the one to return the favor.

So…now it's on to brave.

"I'm talking about your ex-wife showing up."

He stills, teeth clicking together audibly.

I touch his shoulder. "Are you doing okay with her being around again?" After leaving him and Chrissy when Chrissy was a baby and being MIA until recently…

And now trying to contest a divorce that had been granted years before.

Because if it wasn't final, then the assets she could get her hands on?—

Well, Phillip might have fucked with me, might have wronged me terribly.

But Chrissy's mom?

Angela might fuck with Jean-Michel, with Chrissy, and with everyone under the umbrella of Jean-Michel's many businesses.

The pressure to keep it all together must be?—

Astronomical.

Plus, Angela is as much of a bitch as my stepmom, Cathy.

"I'm fine," he says again.

"Right," I tell him, crossing my arms and fixing him with what I've begun to think of as my Cactus Queen glare, "and that sounds so convincing."

To Jean-Michel's credit—although that muscle in his jaw ticks again—he doesn't snap at me. Instead, he exhales, shakes his head, and turns for the door. "There's an apartment in my building that's opened up." A glance over his shoulder. "Since Mama Bang headed home and you don't need to play make-believe anymore."

Nothing else could have stopped me in my tracks quite as effectively.

Something I know he knows since he pauses, rotates to fully face me, and turns the tables.

Effectively.

Confidently.

Because…

That's Jean-Michel.

"Unless, it's not pretend."