Chapter 13

Thirteen

SCOTTIE

My stomach falls.

Marry me.

I've dreamt of those two words for as long as I can remember. When I used to play make-believe as a child, I'd almost always end up acting out my favorite scene. The one where my Barbie—with the half-chewed hand from its previous owner's pet—would marry Ken, and they'd live happily ever after. But that was all make-believe, and whatever this plan is that Emory has conjured up in his head is just that: make-believe.

I climb off Emory's lap quickly, almost falling over in my stupid heels. I'm full of unease, and my cheeks are hot with humiliation.

"Get out," I demand, wishing my tone was full of fury instead of embarrassment. My arms cross as soon as Emory's nostrils flare. "I get it," I say. "You're still angry about what I did. But my life is not a joke, so stop fucking with me and get out."

Here comes the fury.

My voice rises, and my heart thumps with frustration. It's not even directed toward him. I'm angry that I had to put money on William's books that I was putting away for lawyer fees. I'm angry that I'm still feeling sick over seeing my mother the other night. I'm angry that I was pelted in the face this morning with water from the leak in my ceiling. And to make things worse…I'm fucking hungry.

Emory's eyes dip down my body lazily before he comes back up and reaches my fiery gaze. Something unreadable flashes across his face, and the only thing it does is make my stomach flop. "This isn't a joke, and I'm not fucking with you."

I huff. "You want me to be your wife ?" The word falls from my mouth like it's poison. I can hardly say it. "Are you crazy?"

He smirks. "All goalies are crazy."

It's true. They get a bad rep, and Emory's just keeps getting worse. But still .

"You obviously have no problem making things up…" He shrugs. "And it's clearly not difficult to photoshop pictures."

It isn't easy for most, but for someone who has taught herself photography and read every book the library offered, it is.

Emory slowly stands up, and my arms fall to my sides.

"What's in it for me?" I ask, hating that I'm actually considering it. Am I the crazy one? I can't randomly marry a pro hockey player and go along with this entire made-up story about us.

Can I?

Emory's wearing a cheeky grin, but the only thing I can focus on is the blue color of his eyes. Either he's a very good liar or he's actually as crazy as I am.

"Money."

The word floats out of his mouth effortlessly, and I feel the stress melt from my body. I'd be a fool not to take him up on his offer—if it were real.

"And you expect me to believe you?" I look around the room for a camera, other than the one Russ is probably staring at with anger because I'm no longer dry humping Emory. "I don't trust you."

Emory's snicker echoes around the room. "And you think I trust you?"

Ouch.

I narrow my eyes to hide my hurt. "Yet you want to marry me?"

His nod is more of a quick jab. "Contract is in the car."

Oh, God. He is serious.

My eyes bounce back and forth between his sharp blue ones. I'm balancing over the edge of insanity and actually considering this.

Emory takes a step toward me, and as soon as his hand wraps around my waist, goosebumps fly to my skin. Fire flushes through my veins. If I say yes, it'll be like making a deal with the devil.

He peers at me with his steely gaze. "What'll it be, Rogue?"

I gulp but can't look away.

"You either leave with me or you can stay here and strip. It's not life or death…" I blink slowly. "But it seems like it is for you."

Just then, the door flies open. Emory's grip tightens around my waist, but I still manage to spin and meet the face of a sweaty Russ. He looks from me to Emory before landing back on me with a scowl.

"What are you doing?" he snaps.

My lips draw back in a snarl from his tone. This would be the perfect time to knee him right in the balls, except if this whole thing with Emory doesn't work, I'll have to come crawling back to him for a job because there aren't many other jobs—that are legal ones—that pay the way stripping does.

"What does it look like?" I cross my arms because Russ has looked at my spilling boobs three times in the last ten seconds.

"It looks like you aren't pleasing a client." Russ's pupils dilate with anger.

I feel Emory's hand tighten against me when his warm breath caresses the side of my neck. "What'll it be, Scottie? Yes or no?"

I quickly weigh my options. Stay here and slave away while fending off slimy men with no respect for me, or go with Emory and put up with his overbearing ego and annoying smirk.

My stomach drops to the floor, and my independence goes next.

I turn my head, and our lips are a breath away. "Yes."

Emory's smile sends something exciting into my chest. He removes his hold on me and grabs my hand, pulling me past Russ.

"Whoa, wait. You can't just take her!" Russ grips Emory's bicep, and it stops him in his tracks.

Ever so slowly, Emory turns and glares at my now ex-boss. The air turns cold, and Russ grows pale.

"You don't own her." Russ looks at me over his shoulder before Emory chuckles and finishes his sentence. "I do."

My spine straightens, and if Emory's grip on my hand wasn't like a padlock, I'd rip it away and tell them both that neither of them own me.

Next thing I know, I'm being rushed down the dark hallway with Russ disappearing from behind. When we round the corner, I attempt to whip my hand out of Emory's, but he pushes me up against the wall before I get a chance. My wrist is pinned above my head, and his palm cups me around the waist to keep me still.

"You got something to say, Rogue?"

I quietly hiss. "You do not own me, Olson."

His smirk pisses me off, and I'm suddenly rethinking my future. "You're kinda cute when you're angry."

My chest expands with frustration. Before I can say anything else, Emory lets go of my waist and places his hand on my cheek. His fingers get lost in my hair, and when his thumb gently traces my lips, I completely forget that I just agreed to be this egotistical, irritating man's fake wife.

"Let's get one thing clear, baby." Fiery butterflies swarm my stomach. Emory presses his thumb against my mouth with force and wipes off my cherry-red lipstick. "If you're going to take my last name, you will no longer be working for that man. Got it?" My head falls forward with a tug of my hair, and I wish I could snap back with some type of refusal or insult, but he has me in his clutches.

After a few seconds, he finally lets go of me, and I gasp for air. I didn't realize I was holding my breath until my vision begins to straighten. His jaw sets as he waits for my compliance, which I refuse to give.

"Tomorrow. One o'clock. At the arena. And bring a pen."

I blink twice, and he's already halfway down the hallway, walking toward the back door, leaving me standing there with smeared lipstick and spinning thoughts.

Scottie Olson.

I guess it has a ring to it.