Chapter Five

Zoey

Before we land, Brent and I work out the rest of the logistics.

He insists that we take his SUV rental over my economy two-door that he'd never fit in. I want to be difficult with him and refuse his rental over mine, but with all the extra camera lighting equipment that I checked in Seattle, the extra-large cargo space would come in handy.

I decide to relent to his idea, even though I hate the feeling of agreeing to anything he suggests.

Brent leads us to the baggage claim carousel that's already moving with luggage on it—that was quick, thank God. Cocktail hour should be starting soon and I want to get to the hotel and check in before Liam shows up. I'm sure I look like a wreck right now—my hair in a ratty bun plopped on top of my head, the makeup on my face is whatever's left from yesterday, and bags under my eyes from working all night editing a photoshoot.

As long as there isn't a long line at the car rental kiosk, we might make it there with a few minutes for me to take a quick shower, reapply my makeup, and pull on the cocktail dress and heels that I know Liam will like.

"What bags are yours?" Brent asks, as bags start passing us on the conveyor belt.

"I can get my own, thanks," I snip.

He lets out a deep exhale. But I don't care if my attitude is wearing on him. He robbed me of a core high school memory.

We might be faking a relationship but until we're actually "on" in front of our friends and family, we don't have to pretend to like each other.

Our agreement is mutually beneficial but that's where it ends. I don't want Brent to get the idea that we're friends now.

After we gather all of our things, I load my bags and photography equipment onto a cart. Brent packed light with a backpack over his shoulder and a small rolling suitcase. I paid a small fortune to fly everything out here, but Phoebe deserves her day to be special and her pictures to be perfect, and I am here to make sure that both of those things happen this weekend.

Though the thought of Liam and Brent, both individually and combined, have me about ready to break out in stress hives, my big sister's wedding is still my number one priority.

Brent reaches over and grabs the handle to the metal cart loaded down with my luggage and starts to pull it behind him.

"I can do that Brent," I argue, not wanting his help for anything.

I step in his way and attempt to take the cart back from him.

"Why can't I help you?" he demands, his eyebrows stitched together.

"Because then I'll have to say, "thank you".

He shakes his head. He thinks I'm being difficult. "Fine," he mumbles and starts talking with his luggage trailing behind him.

Am I being a little ridiculous?… maybe. But I don't want to owe him anything. I want to be able to hold onto this grudge for as long as I want to and not feel guilty about it because Brent keeps doing nice things for me.

I can either feel hurt by what Brent did to me, or I can hate him for what he did to me, but I refuse to feel both. And feeling hurt is more vulnerable than I'm willing to be with him—so hate is the only option.

In reality, what did I expect? That Brent would take me to prom and then he'd ask me to be his girlfriend, and we would have lived happily ever after?

No way.

What would he have wanted with a girl who was just dumped by his best friend and who had no clue what she wanted to do with her life? I wasn't even sure if I wanted to go to college.

Unlike Liam who was attending an Ivy League college, Phoebe who was getting her degree in marketing, and David who would be attending college at SoCal and already had a huge job offer from Liam's dad, I felt like I was treading water to keep afloat with all my friends.

And here was Brent—gorgeous—talented—signed with an NHL team and spending his free time raising his sister and taking care of his grandmother.

I was out of my element with Brent, and maybe the night of prom, he realized that too.

Maybe what Liam did with Shelby was shitty, but at least he showed up the night after prom with flowers after he heard that Brent stood me up. And then he spent the next few months talking late into the night helping me decide what I wanted to do for a profession.

When I told him that I wanted to pursue photography, he encouraged me to do something that I love.

On the night of graduation, he dipped into his trust fund and pulled out enough to buy me everything I would need to start off on the right foot.

That counts for something, right?

We set off for the car rental kiosks when my phone rings in my camera bag. I stop, unable to pull the cart and grab my phone at the same time. I check the screen.

Phoebe calling…

"It's my sister," I say.

Brent nods. "You should take it." He reaches for the metal cart and starts pulling.

I jump out of the way to prevent getting squished but then

I give him a lifted brow. "What do you think you're doing?" I ask, catching back up and gripping the cart again.

He matches my expression, arching a brow of his own. "You can't talk and pull the cart at the same time. It probably weighs more than you do."

He's pulling so hard that I barely feel the weight of the cart in my hands. I know I'm not helping, but I refuse to let go.

"And?" I say, refusing to back down.

"And…" he gives my body a quick once-over, sparking an unexpected flutter low in my belly, "I could bench press you in my sleep," he says, returning his sights back on where we're headed, not taking his hand off the cart. "Let me take it or we'll miss drinks at the hotel with the slow pace you're setting."

My phone stops ringing—I missed her call, what's wrong with me?

Brent Tomlin… that's what's wrong with me.

"So chivalrous." I mock. "I'm sure the women that the paparazzi snap on your arm going into your apartment at The Commons love this about you."

My phone rings again. I'm sure it's Phoebe, and a second ring means I definitely need to answer it.

He glances over at the phone in my hand and then backs up at me.

"I've tried chivalry with you over the last couple of hours, but it doesn't work. Being an asshole seems to be the only way I can get your attention."

I hate that he's kind of right. I'd like to further flesh out his point about being an asshole but since my sister is calling again, and this is her wedding weekend, I need to take it. And arguing with Brent won't get us to the hotel any faster.

I let go of the cart, falling behind him as he starts forward. At least I can make sure that none of my luggage falls off.

"Hello?" I answer, my gaze fixed on Brent's thick corded forearms, and his strong grip.

My eyes follow the line of his muscular shoulder blades as his t-shirt pulls tight against his back, flexing as he pulls the cart with ease. I know how heavy that cart is, but he pulls it behind him so effortlessly that I can't help but be impressed… though I'd prefer not to be.

My sister's voice chirps through the phone pulling me back to reality. I quickly dart my eyes away from Brent's body, realizing that I've been unconsciously admiring it. "Are you off the airplane? I didn't hear what happened between you and Brent. I can't believe you ended up seated next to him. That's a total sign. Did you ask him to be your boyfriend for the weekend?" she asks.

I can hear the excitement in her voice.

"Fake boyfriend," I clarify.

Phoebe lets out a dismissive sound. "Stupid details, whatever… Did you ask?"

"I didn't have to. He asked me. It turns out that he needs to bring someone to his grandmother's birthday party this weekend, so we're swapping favors," I tell her.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at the back of Brent's head trying to determine if he's listening in on my conversation with my sister. I'm not exactly whispering but it's all stuff he already knows so I don't care if he is.

Phoebe knows Gran—she's even invited to the wedding. David added her to his family's guest list, that's how close he and Brent were in high school. Originally, David asked Brent to be his best man, but with Brent's unpredictable Hawkeyes schedule, he wasn't sure he'd make it. Honestly, though, anyone who went to our high school's hockey games knows Brent's Gran. She was impossible to miss, ringing her cowbell after every goal and bringing her famous brownies for the team. She's loved by everyone.

Though Phoebe and Liam were a grade above us, and she and David didn't date until college, she used to come with me to most of the games.

Phoebe squeals with delight. "This is going to be so good. Please promise me that I get to witness the moment that Liam sees you two together. I can't wait to see his sorry ass weep."

I don't want him to weep. I just want him to want me back.

"I have no idea when Liam will see us together, so I can't promise that you'll get a front-row seat."

Brent still doesn't look back or acknowledge that he can hear me but then again.

"Are you going to kiss him?" she asks.

"Kiss him?" Why on earth would she think I would walk up to Liam and kiss him when he has a fiancée?

Sure, I hope he's jealous enough to end things with Shelby, but I'd never kiss another man who is currently in a relationship with someone else.

Shelby is the boyfriend thief, not me.

"Are you going to kiss Brent in front of Liam?"

Oh.

I'd never considered even touching Brent this entire weekend, let alone kissing him.

"No, Brent and I aren't kissing this weekend!" The words burst out of me louder than I mean them to.

Brent looks back over his shoulder, catching my wide-eyed, caught-off-guard expression and then turns back around.

I didn't mean for him to hear that.

The thought of participating in any PDA with Brent at this wedding hadn't crossed my mind until now. That's a boundary that we need to discuss.

"How is anyone supposed to buy the story that you two are together if you don't even touch the man?"

"People will just assume that we're private about that sort of stuff," I say.

Phoebe scoffs. "Are we talking about the same Brent Tomlin? The man is sex on hockey skates. Do you truly think that anyone will believe you're not riding that man's hockey stick every chance you get? Let alone having the willpower to keep your hands off of him in public? I don't think so sis. You're going to have to put your hands on him, and I have a feeling it won't be as painful as you think."

I see the girl's bathroom, and I am dying to change. I dressed too warm for southern California, and bonus, this is a good excuse to get my sister off the phone.

"I have to pee; I'll see you soon, okay?" I tell her.

She knows my tactic and gives a disappointed huff but relents. "We'll see you at cocktail hour, right?"

"We should make it still unless something goes wrong. And also, I don't want to tell anyone else about Brent and I faking it. If this gets out—"

"You got it," Phoebe cuts me off, assuring me instantly. "David can't keep a secret, so I won't tell him. It will just be the three of us."

I can't risk David accidentally saying something to ruin my plan to make Liam jealous.

If Liam finds out that I'm faking a relationship with Brent to get him back, I can only imagine he'll find that incredibly pathetic. Mostly because, I think it's a little pathetic myself. But I'm desperate to try.

"Thanks, see you soon," I tell her, and then hang up.

"Hey, Brent," I say, covering the phone's receiver.

He glances over his shoulder.

I nod toward the bathroom. "Can I change really quickly before we leave? I'll have a heat stroke in all these clothes."

We both know I'm exaggerating but I will be a sweaty mess if I don't get into something cooler.

Brent stops the cart and checks one of the clocks on the wall in the terminal. "Can you make it fast? We'll miss drinks if we don't hurry."

I nod, wanting to get there as soon as possible too so I can clean up, but Brent seems to always look good no matter what. Even after sweating through a game, bloody noses, knocked out teeth and black eyes… I've seen Brent at his worst after a brutal game and he's still good looking.

I swear the man doesn't know what a bad hair day looks like.

I've seen social media pictures of him perfectly styled in a suit at a movie premiere with a model he was only ever seen with once, and I've seen him completely disheveled with sweat and blood soaked into his jersey.

Both totally work for him.

Jerk.

"Yeah, I'll be quick," I assure him, grabbing my clothing bag off the cart, along with my purse, and head for the bathroom.

"To save time, I'll grab the car and meet you up front in the terminal," he suggests, eying the sign for the arrow pointing toward the direction of the rental cars.

"That's a good idea, thanks," I tell him, grabbing for the cart, but he doesn't take his hand off of it.

"I'll take it with me, you just do what you need to, and I'll load everything up."

"Okay," I hesitate. He's offering to take care of everything, and I feel like I should insist against it, but I don't. We do need to move quickly, and this will help. "Thanks."

He turns and heads in the direction of the rental cars, pulling all my things with him, minus one bag that I need with my clothes and deodorant in it.

I don't allow myself to think any longer about it.

I head for the bathroom and get to work.

One wet paper towel rubdown, a small dab of makeup, and a thick coat of deodorant, I feel mostly refreshed. A pair of straight leg jeans, chunky heels and a tank top, and now at least if there's a run in with Liam, I look presentable.

My phone vibrates on the long bathroom countertop. I lift it to find a text from Brent.

Brent: I'm out front.

That was faster than I expected and with the cocktail hour starting soon, we need to get moving. I might even owe Brent a 'thank you' for taking care of the car rental and my luggage so that I could freshen up.

I head for the double doors, staring down at my phone, reading a text from my mother asking if I got in okay. The glass double doors slide open to the outside, the rush of air swooshing around me as I exit the airport.

Then I hear them before I even notice the gaggle of women surrounding Brent. High pitched chatter and laughter from women and their luggage, all clambering to get Brent's attention, grabbing at his biceps while giggling, flipping their hair with obvious effort, cell phones flashing all around him, enough burst of light to cause a seizure.

I remember the girls in high school giving Brent attention, but this? … This is on a whole different level.

The puck bunnies have ascended.

Brent's smile is on full display— the kind that's perfectly polished and camera ready. He's playing his part and even I know that fame comes with having to sign t-shirts and kiss baby heads. He's signing everything hoisted in his direction with a quick flick of his wrist, sharing a practiced grin with women who have no sense of personal space. One of them leans in, pressing her breasts against his arm and whispers something up to his ear. He chuckles, the devilish smirk on her face says that whatever they're discussing isn't fit for family night at the Hawkeyes stadium. But he doesn't pull back from her, instead he gives her a smooth smile that makes it clear he's used to this kind of attention—too used to it, and then says something back.

I feel an odd tug in my chest—probably just annoyance but I'd rather not dig any deeper to be sure. We need to get going, and he's stuck signing autographs and entertaining his female fan base.

I let out an annoyed grumble, my finger tightening around the handle of my bag as I walk around the mob of women and head for the SUV rental parked against the curb behind him.

Brent spots me walking around the parameter of his own personal welcome committee. His eyes don't break from mine, until I raise my phone up and tap on the time.

He gives a nod that he understands we're on a time crunch but then gets back to signing more items getting passed to him.

I open the passenger door, the SUV still running, and slide in closing the door behind me.

Between the beautiful women I've seen Brent photographed with in the media, the flight attendant that looked like she was about to quit her job to spend the weekend with him, and all the women circling around him right now, maybe he did me a favor by not taking me to prom.

I could never have competed against all the options he has at his disposal.

After ten minutes goes by, Brent is still signing more things as new people join the group, and I'm feeling more anxious about getting to the event. At this point, we're going to be cutting it so close to consider a shower as an option.

I lean over into the driver's seat and lay on the horn. Most of the women jump, shrieking at the sound, but a few are bomb proof and don't move a muscle.

Brent waves goodbye, physically extracting himself from the group and then jogs to the driver's side of the car.

Finally, we're in the car and pulling off the curb.