11. Trophy Boyfriend

11

Trophy Boyfriend

Hayley

"Remember, no PDA." I smooth out the wrinkles in my pants as we're approaching my mom's mansion.

"I got it, Nash. Or is that reminder more for you?" He smirks.

I roll my eyes, the tension in my back loosening slightly. "You can touch my shoulders or my back, that kind of thing. They do have to believe we're actually dating." My mouth is dry, and every word stings my throat.

"I thought we agreed no touching. Changing the rules of the game, Nash?"

My cheeks catch fire. "I'm not. That's just how the fake dating thing works. We have to sell it to them. They'll have a hard enough time believing we're together, so if we don't put in some effort, we're doomed." Frankly, it's going to take a lot more than a little effort to convince them a guy like Maxime is dating me, but maybe they'll be too stunned to think twice about it.

"What do you mean?" He frowns, scratching the light stubble of his jaw.

"Doesn't matter," I say quickly. "Just don't go too far."

He stares at me for a second. I can tell he's not buying it, but he doesn't push further. "Okay. Are you ready?"

We walk up the steps leading to the front door and ring the doorbell.

Seconds later, my mom opens the door. She's wearing a white mid-length dress, her blonde hair brought up in a neat ponytail, and once again I'm reminded how different we look. My mother radiates femininity, grace, and poise in that dress. I, on the other hand, as dressed up as I am today, still feel—and look—like a ton of bricks. "Honey, there you are," she says, wrapping me in a hug. "I'm so happy to see you."

"Me too, Mom." And I really am. Especially with the relief that we might actually have a good time today without the usual shenanigans. "This is Maxime."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Nash. You have a lovely home," Max says, sporting a polite smile. "And Happy Birthday. This is for you."

He hands her the gift, and Mom stares at him, then at me, awestruck. I told her I was bringing a date, but she probably hadn't expected him to be this hot. Or real.

"Hello, Maxime." She shakes his hand before accepting the gift. "Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Nicole."

She turns around, and we follow her inside. As we cross the threshold, Max gives me a cocky grin that seems to say, "I told you so."

He is off to a good start. My mom graced him with her genuine smile, not the fake, pinched one. And she told him to call her by her first name. Things are looking good for me as well. She didn't deplore the fact that I'm not wearing a dress or comment that my choice of top highlights my masculine shoulders. Newsflash—all tops highlight them. There's no hiding them.

As we enter the living area, Maxime's jaw hangs slightly agape. I get it. This place is huge and looks like something straight out of a Roman palace with its large glass dome in the center of the room from which a decadent chandelier cascades. The furniture matches, naturally, and the royal blue velvet cushions are plopped on the Roman-style couches. But all of this beauty has nothing on how sexy Maxime Beaumont looks right now, lips parted as he takes in the grandeur.

My mom's friends are already gathered in the living room, a glass of champagne in hand. They're undoubtedly busy sharing the latest country club gossip.

The chatter dies down, however, when they notice us. I've known these women all my life, and I've attended countless events alongside them. But for the first time, I'm not solo. And it feels good. I know it's wrong, and it kind of makes Maxime seem like a trophy boyfriend, but isn't that the point of a fake boyfriend?

"Ladies, this is Maxime, Hayley's boyfriend," Mom says, an eyebrow arched as if she doesn't fully believe us.

The introductions begin, and all the ladies seem to have fallen victim to Max's charm after only a few words. Is this man magic?

After everyone has said their hellos, the chatter crescendos again, and Max and I split off to explore the appetizer buffet. Quesadillas, vegetable tempuras, salmon-and-avocado tarts, cucumber bites, bruschetta—everything looks delicious.

"That's a lot of food." Max's eyes travel across the large table. "Are there more people coming?" He steals a glance at the small group of women.

"Nope," I say, adding a tempura to my fine porcelain plate. "The amount of food my mom orders is as decadent as the decoration."

He chuckles. "We could feed my entire team with this."

"And these are just the appetizers. They'll change the selection later. Don't worry, though. Any uneaten food will go to a local shelter."

We make our way back to the rest of the group and join the conversation, most questions being directed at Maxime. When he tells them what he does for a living, I expect at least a few pinched expressions, but they're all smiles. Turns out, the athlete thing works on middle-aged women too.

"Yes, I'm thrilled for my first season," he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "But I'm even more impressed by what Hayley and her friends are doing."

My heart skips a beat at the mention of my name leaving his lips. It's the first time he's used my first name, and it summoned a flurry of weird sensations in my stomach. Maybe the quesadillas weren't such a good idea.

"The bookstore is looking great," Max continues, "and I'm sure it'll be a tremendous success. They have tons of great ideas." He places an arm around my shoulders, and I do my best to act like it's the most normal thing in the world. I even lean into him for good measure, hoping my knees won't give out.

"Thanks." I'm probably as red as the tomato bruschetta I just ate.

"Oh, yes," Mom says, her eyes fixed on Maxime's arm around my shoulders. Something she thought she'd never see, I'm sure. "That's still going well, then?"

"It is." I nod, and an awkward silence cloaks the room. I'm grateful for him trying to switch the conversation to my bookstore and change my mom's opinion, but I doubt he can make that happen, even with his persuasive powers.

"It's going to be fantastic," Max says, dropping his arm. "Tell them about the trope cards, and the book club." He's waving his hands around excitedly, which elicits a few smiles from my mom's friends.

"That's wonderful, Hayley," says Leanne, one of my mom's closest friends. "Tell us more."

My jaw begins to drop, but I catch it in time. Maxime's magic has struck again. And for the first time, the ladies and I share a real conversation about my life that doesn't involve finding me a man to marry. Funny that I owe it all to a guy I'm fake dating .

After we finish eating, I show Max around the house, eager to get away from the party. Even if it was more pleasant than usual with Max there, it's still far from my natural habitat. To my surprise, my mom genuinely loved the silk scarf Max got her and immediately wrapped it around her neck. That's a first in history. While it makes my heart leap to see him and my mom getting along so well, it also twists my gut into knots because I wish that Mom could be like that with me. That I could be enough on my own, without a hockey player on my arm, to make her happy or proud. On top of that, there's the sinking feeling of longing, because I still really wish all of this was true. Trust me, you wouldn't want to be in my stomach or brain right now. They're a complete mess. And the food has nothing to do with it.

"Finally, this is my old bedroom," I say, pushing open the last door of the hallway. I grimace as I take in the sight. I never really liked my childhood room.

Max's eyes widen. "Wow. This is . . ."

"Yeah." I plop down on the silky pink sheets. "She really tried to push the girly-girl thing on me, but it never really stuck. Well, except for my pink hair." I chuckle. No matter which clothes I wear or what colors grace the walls of my room, I still take after my dad when it comes to my figure. And no amount of glitter or hot pink can change that. Unfortunately.

"I love your pink hair."

The fact that Max used the words "love" and "your" in the same sentence has those annoying butterflies taking flight in my belly again. "You do?" I draw my eyebrows together.

"Of course," he says, as if the answer is obvious. "It's so cool. I like your hairstyle too, very punk-rock."

"That's the first time a guy has ever said that to me."

"Really? What kind of guys have you been hanging out with?" he jokes, glancing around the room curiously.

The wrong ones, clearly.

"Wow, you really were into bows and My Little Pony."

"Absolutely not." I laugh, picking up a hair tie with a bow on it. "My mom was into that stuff. She used to dress me up like a doll. When I cut my hair in high school, she cried for an entire evening."

"Why?" he asks, looking amused.

"The same reason she went on a shopping spree the next day and came back with a dozen new dresses for me. She thought my hair made me look like a man, and that boys wouldn't be attracted to me anymore. "

"That's absurd. You don't have to wear dresses to look feminine." His comment goes straight to my heart. A: because that's what I've been telling my mom for years and B: because sometimes I need the reminder too, especially from a guy like Maxime.

"Yeah, well. She had a hard time understanding that. Still does. Actually, would you mind mentioning it to my mom? That you like my hair?" I stare down at the floor, flames burning my cheeks. "I know it's silly, but she's always giving me a hard time, saying I'll never find a man with hair like this and that I should let it grow out. Since you're the mom whisperer, it might be worth a try."

He laughs. "Of course, Nash. At your service."

It's finally time to say goodbye, and Maxime's presence was clearly the highlight of the day. My mom kisses him on the cheeks before we leave, and as she hugs me, she whispers in my ear that I got a good one and not to let him go. Then, she tells me good luck on the bookstore. For the first time ever, my mom encouraged my entrepreneurial path.

"So, I think today was a success," Maxime says, glancing at me as we begin the drive home. "But you're the expert on fake dating, so you tell me."

I grin. "Yeah, I think we did well. She did wish me luck on opening the store, so that's a step up. As for the rest, only time will tell, but hopefully, when I inevitably announce that we broke up, she'll back off and be more confident that I can find a man on my own. Even if I am rocking this hairstyle. Thanks, by the way, for saying you like it in front of her."

"No problem. And, yeah, I hope she lets up," he says, tightening his grip on the wheel as he merges onto the highway. After a pause, he continues, "That was fun, and I obviously delivered on my promise. So how about you return the favor?"

My stomach drops. "Oh, gosh. I knew it was too good to be true. What do you want?"

"Go on a date with me, Nash. A good, old-fashioned, real date. Now that you know how skillful I am at fake dating, let me show you how amazing I am at the real thing."

My heart leaps in my chest, and I force myself to chuckle at his joke. "You're so full of yourself."

"Is that a yes?"

I roll my eyes. "I guess. Why, though?"

"Ouch. I thought we were having fun," he says, pretending to be hurt .

"We are, but with the season starting and everything, I'm guessing you'll be busy."

He rakes a hand through his hair. "Exactly. That's why I want to enjoy a nice evening with a cool girl before all the madness starts. Plus, it'll keep my mind off things."

That makes more sense than I care to admit. Besides, other than his teammates, I don't think he has many friends here. And we've already established that I'm physically unable to refuse this man anything.

Biting my lip, I say, "Okay, I'll go on one date with you."

"Really?" He straightens in his seat, a large smile building on his lips. "I'm going to need that on video, Nash. Just to make sure I didn't dream this."

My heart beats faster at the prospect of a real date with Maxime, but I don't let it show. "Just drive, Cocky Boy."