31. Lola

Lola

One of the best parts of this fake dating situation with Devon is all the free travel. Though I keep my apartment in New York City, frequent travel is one of the best ways to keep my mind fresh and stay in writing mode.

Denver, Colorado, is a very neat place, and I've had a great time exploring the shops and restaurants. This morning, just before Devon came to pick me up, I saw a shirt I simply couldn't pass up, which is why I'm now sitting in the passenger seat of his rental vehicle, wearing a cropped, pink Colorado Avalanche shirt paired with a short skirt. I've gotten several compliments on it today from other women passing by, and I like the way it matches my shoes.

Devon seems to like it, too, because he keeps glancing over at me.

"I can't believe you wore that garbage," he mutters. "And right before the game? You do realize if we win this game, we're going to the playoffs, right?"

"I don't see how that affects what I wear," I say, pulling a nail file from my purse and working on the corner of a nail.

"Lola," Devon groans, exasperated. "You're supposed to be the girlfriend of a Vipers player. What do you think people will say when you show up to the game in Avalanche gear? And do you know how much shit Denver is going to talk about it?"

"Sticks and stones, Dev-y Wev-y," I say, and he presses his lips into a thin line, returning his gaze to the road.

In truth, the Vipers PR people are not stoked about my decision to wear other team's gear, but there's nothing in the contract stipulating what I can and can't wear. Every time I arrive at a hotel, piles and piles of Vipers merch are waiting for me. Maybe if they make a cropped, pink shirt like this one, I'll actually wear it.

I lean back in the seat, enjoying the view of the mountains. We've been driving for some time, heading out of the city, and when Devon rounds the bend, I see them—dozens and dozens of hot air balloons filling the sky. I sit forward, nearly pressing my forehead to the glass. It's beautiful, and I grab my notebook, scribbling in it.

Then the car turns, and I realize we're getting even closer to the hot air balloons and not just passing by them on the way to our date, which I had assumed would be fishing of some other variety.

"Devon," I say slowly, my heart rate already ratcheting up at the thought of getting on one of those balloons. "What are we doing here?"

"Well," Devon says, cutting the engine and turning to me. "After that bookstore date, I realized I wanted to put in more effort. So, I thought to myself: what would Lola like? I wanted to do something romantic, but then I saw there were hot air balloons in the area, and I knew it was the right choice. What could be better than that?"

"Devon," I mutter, my hands starting to shake. "I am not going up in one of those things."

"Oh," he says, raising an eyebrow, "so then you agree I've won our little competition."

I stare at him, realizing he must have somehow learned about my fear of heights. That's the only explanation for why we're here. It's not about being romantic; it's about making me throw up on my new pink sneakers.

"Actually," I say, mustering up all the courage I can find in my body. "I think this is a great idea. It will give me plenty of content for my book."

"That's the spirit," Devon says, grabbing the keys and hopping out of the car. "Though, if you ever want to bow out, all you have to do is admit I've won."

"Why would I do that?" I say through gritted teeth as we walk up the gravel path. "It's not even close to being true."

Wanting to torture him a little bit, I stalk out in front of him, swaying my hips from side to side. It's colder than I thought, and I feel goosebumps run up and down my arms and legs, but I won't give Devon the satisfaction of seeing me suffer, so I just strut along, pretending like nothing is wrong.

"Good morning!" a man in a little brown hat says as we approach. "Devon Chambers! We are so pleased to have you here with us today. I'm an Avalanche fan myself, but we were very pleased when you asked to book a hot-air balloon with us today. Would you mind if we took a picture for our social media?"

"Not at all," Devon says, and within seconds, his arm is wrapping around my waist and hauling me close to him. I suck in a breath. With my cropped shirt and low-waisted skirt, my entire stomach is bare, meaning Devon's fingers are resting a breath away from my belly button.

My skin lights on fire, remembering his touch, and it reminds me of how he made me feel in his apartment. I feel my nipples harden as the man pulls out his phone and starts snapping pictures of us, and I can only hope they aren't visible in the picture.

From the corner of my eye, I see Devon glance down at me, his eyes going wide briefly before he fixes his gaze on our host again. I feel a brief moment of victory before the guy finishes with his photography and starts walking toward us.

"Okay, folks," the man says, tucking his phone into his pocket. I wonder where he will post those pictures and how long it will take our fans to find them and dissect them, piece by piece. "Ready to go up? Weather is perfect today—great view of the mountains."

"Oh," Devon says, his hand tightening on my waist for the briefest of moments, sending warm flutters through my belly, "we were born ready."