Chapter 12: Chapter 12

“I think in another life, I was supposed to be rich,” I comment, sitting forward in the seat as Preston drives up a long driveway with trees lining both sides of it. “This is so nice.”

We’ve only been in the car together for ten minutes, and all of the tension I’d felt talking to him last night is back. Finding out he was a professional athlete should’ve made him less attractive—a professional at any sport screams one red flag after another—but I’m afraid the pictures I found of him playing football only made him hotter.

“Wait until the actual wedding day,” Preston responds.

I laugh, staring at the massive fountain at the end of the driveway. I don’t even know if I should call it a fountain—it seems more like a freaking pool.

“My friend Margo married Beckham Sinclair, and they had a huge wedding reception in Manhattan. I think most of New York was there. Will this top that?”

Preston pulls up to a valet stand.

I didn’t know there were valets at houses, but apparently, here in the Hamptons, anything goes.

Before getting out of the car, he looks over at me. “I know Beck. I was there at the wedding reception—although I didn’t stay long.” He looks at his hands on the steering wheel, his thumbs tapping against it nervously. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

I’m quiet for a moment, wondering how I missed him at their reception. It was a busy day as Winnie and I worked hard to make sure Margo had the reception of her dreams. It still shocks me that I didn’t see him there, but then again, there were so many people in attendance it wasn’t possible to notice every single person.

“You say parties aren’t your thing,” I begin, looking at the massive house in front of us. “But they definitely seem to be your sister’s.”

This gets him to laugh. He nods, following my line of sight. “That’s very true. Peyton has always loved a party. She’s been preparing for her wedding day since she was about three years old. I was a teenager, and she was begging me to attend her teddy bear weddings.”

“I really do love your sister,” I state, getting excited to see her again. She was so much fun last night—and incredibly cool. I know she has to be so busy, but I do hope to catch some time with her.

The valet steps up to the car, letting out a low whistle. “This is a beauty,” he notes, eagerly taking the keys from Preston’s hand.

“Be careful with her,” Preston responds, getting out of the car. “It’s a rental.”

The guy nods, rushing over to open the door for me. Preston beats him to it, aiming a dirty look in his direction for even attempting to be the one to open my door instead of him.

I give the valet driver an apologetic smile. Hopefully, he doesn’t take Preston’s grumpiness personally. I’m about to tell him that Preston’s face is almost always turned down in a scowl when the valet attendant gasps.

“Are you Preston Rhodes?” he asks in amazement. I look to Preston, finding that he’s pulled his sunglasses off.

Preston presses his hand to the small of my back, gently guiding me away from the attendant and putting himself between us.

“I am,” Preston answers cooly, showing no emotion in his face as he looks at the guy. “But we’ve got to get going.”

He begins to push me along a stone path that leads to the side of the house. I try to stop, but his hand is firm as he continues to guide me where he wants me.

I look over my shoulder, finding the valet attendant still staring at us with his mouth hanging open. “You aren’t even going to offer an autograph or a photo?”

A low growl comes from Preston’s throat as he grabs my hand and pulls me into a tucked-away terrace on the side of the house.

I yelp, focusing on not stumbling in my heels. “Preston,” I scold, looking up to meet his eyes.

He lets go of my hand the moment he knows I’m steady. His hands find his pockets immediately as he stares at me with his cobalt-blue eyes. “If I offered him a photo or signature, it would turn into more people asking me for one, and then I would become the focus instead of it being on my sister and Jackson. I refuse to take anything away from her this week.”

His voice is rough and gravelly, sending weird tingles down my body. I like it, his determination to not let his fame take away from Peyton’s big week. “Maybe you’re sweeter than you think,” I tease, trying to break the tension. I’m just realizing how secluded we are on this little terrace. There’s a small table and chairs on the stone, with ivy hanging all around us.

“We must have varying definitions of sweet. Not wanting to steal attention from my sister’s big day shouldn’t be considered sweet. It should be considered normal.”

I nod, suddenly needing to get away from him. Even in the bright sunlight without the buzz of alcohol, my attraction toward him is still very much there. There’s a reason I followed him into the party last night without knowing anything about him, but wanting to give in to the budding tension between us might make pretending to be his girlfriend more complicated than it’s worth.

Looking at the sharp cut of his jaw and the way his tattoos stick out against the pale blue hue of his shirt make me think complicated wouldn’t be so bad. It’s just one week of pretending before I’ll never see him again. I’m about to ask him if he feels it, too, but he speaks up first.

“Before we get to the party, we need to talk about our story,” Preston interrupts me from my thoughts.

“Our story?”

He rubs a hand along his mouth in frustration. “Yes. Our story. How we started dating, how we met, all of it.”

My mouth snaps shut because I hadn’t thought too hard about what we would tell people. I vaguely remember beginning a story last night when talking to Peyton, but I do remember Preston cutting me off before I could divulge too much about how he and I supposedly met.

I nod my head. “Right. What exactly did I say last night?” Some things are fuzzy, although I do remember his Gram talking about her sex life with Preston’s late grandfather for what felt like an eternity, so I didn’t forget all of the conversations I had last night, even if some I kind of wish I did.

“You said…and I quote, ‘Preston took one look at me and was a goner.’”

I shrug, my lips twitching with a budding smile. “I mean…is that even a lie?”

He stares at me with a blank expression, not giving me any indication of what he’s thinking. “I took one look at you and wondered why you’d scaled a fence in a pair of heels.”

“I really should be given more credit for doing that in a pair of stilettos,” I offer, my mind going back to how difficult that was. “You’re an athlete, but really, I am, too, for that,” I tease. I grew up doing cheerleading, but my small high school wasn’t that great. Not much came out of it after I graduated because I wasn’t good enough. Now, the only physical activity I get is my daily hot girl walks and the occasional spin class with Margo and Winnie.

I thought for sure that comment would get Preston to smile, but he stares right at me with not the smallest hint of one on his face.

“My next thought may have been you were far too stunning, and I was far too intrigued by you, to prevent you from breaking into my sister’s welcome party.”

My heart rate picks up. “Aw, Preston, did you just call me stunning?”

Finally, I get a reaction from him. His eyebrows draw in before he rolls his eyes. “You’re breathtaking, and you know it. Don’t try to pretend you don’t.”

I fold my arms across my chest, trying to hide my developing satisfied smile. “I know, but I still wanted to hear you say it.”

Preston shakes his head. I think he might be flirting—and I love it.

“So,” he begins, straightening his spine. “Back to our story. How are we going to tell them we met?”

“We could lie and say Archer introduced us,” I offer.

Preston runs his fingers along his chin, deep in thought. It brings my attention to the veins on the top of his hands. Damn, I always thought I was a thigh girl—which he seems to have beautiful ones—but maybe I’m a hand and arm girl too because, holy shit, the way the muscles of his arms ripple and the definition of the veins all the way down to his fingers are hot as hell.

“Are Archer and Winnie not coming to the wedding? Or Beck and his wife?”

I panic for a moment, wondering if I’m going to have to lie to my friends about Preston and me. I hadn’t thought about them being at the wedding, but their Manhattan social circle is close-knit. There’s a good chance either—or both—of my best friends could show up and see right through our charade.

“Well,” Preston prods, “are they?”

“Winnie and Archer have been so busy with the company merger recently. I need to double-check with her, but I’m pretty sure they’re traveling this weekend.”

He nods. “And Beck?”

“Margo is very pregnant. He barely lets her leave the house. I doubt they’ll be coming out here.”

“Probably should still avoid saying they introduced us just in case one of them shows up.”

I sigh, hoping neither one of them show up. I’m a terrible liar and far too honest to be able to look them in the eye and say I just happened to start dating Preston Rhodes. I could try and pull it off, but I’d rather wait and see them another time this summer when pretending to be Preston’s girlfriend for a week is just a distant memory no one else has to know about.

“Can’t we just say we met somewhere in New York? I live there, you live there, we just stumbled across one another.”

Preston stares at me. I don’t know if he’s thinking about my idea or if he hates it. Finally, he clears his throat before his eyes meet mine again.

“I don’t go out much anymore, but we can keep it vague.”

“There were tons of videos of you out at parties on the internet,” I point out, thinking of the vast array of photos of him leaving different places with a model or an actress holding his hand. There were tons. Even more photos of him in the back seat of SUVs and cars with his eyes appearing red and not seeming sober in the slightest.

Preston swallows slowly. “I used to go out a lot until it almost cost me my career. I’m almost thirty-seven—it seems odd to still be out partying. Staying in is much better for both my physical and mental health.”

My eyes trace over the defined muscles of his arms again. It’s obvious how much work he puts into his body…almost too obvious.

“We met at a nice dinner spot…Alexander’s, maybe? It’s popular but not one of the main places people spend time. Not the nightclub vibe, quiet, and could even be romantic.”

One of the corners of his lips picks up. “I love Alexander’s.”

I smile, twisting my hands together in front of me because the intense way he looks at me right now makes me nervous. “Alexander’s is great,” I get out, wondering if the sun is too hot on my skin—even though technically we’re in the shade—or if it’s because of the look in his beautiful blue eyes.

“So, we met at Alexander’s. You saw me and immediately knew you needed my number.”

“I don’t even have your number now,” he responds.

Is he flirting? I think he is. I hope he is.

“You haven’t asked for it.”

“Emma, since you’re my girlfriend, can I have your number?”

“Only if you say it’s because you want it and not because I’m pretending to be your girlfriend. You’re living on the same property as me; you don’t need my number.”

I look down at my feet, needing a break from his intense gaze for just a moment.

He doesn’t give me long. His pointer finger and thumb find my chin, coaxing me to look at him once again. “I want it,” he says, his voice deep and casual, doing funny things to my body.

“Okay,” I respond, unable to come up with some witty remark.

Preston nods, letting his fingers linger on my chin for a few more seconds before dropping his hand. “We met at Alexander’s a little over a month ago. We’ve been spending time together since—keeping it low-key so the press doesn’t find out.”

I nod, thinking about the articles I stumbled upon of the women Preston had been seen with years ago. The comments—and even the articles—were harsh on the women he was with. I’d like to think I have thick skin, but I don’t think I’d ever want to open myself to that much scrutiny. The handful of hateful comments I got from people made me realize I may not want to have strangers hating on me on the internet.

In less than five minutes, I was able to locate the workplaces of five of the people who were nasty in my comments. It took all of me not to send over the rude things they were saying to their boss.

I can’t imagine the scale of what it’s like for Preston—and the women he’s seen with. I’ll stick to playing his girlfriend at a private event where the worst thing that can happen is having his grandma divulge facts about her sex life.

“You still with me?” Preston asks, bringing attention to the fact I’d spaced out for a moment.

I blink, trying to clear my head. “Yes. That sounds good to me. I’ll keep it vague today and gear the conversation away from us.”

This finally gets Preston to smile—an actual one. He even shows the slightest amount of his perfectly straight, white teeth. “It’s like you’ve been through media training.”

I laugh—not a cute, sexy giggle, but a full-blown laugh where I’m horrified to admit that even a snort comes out. “I’m the furthest thing from being media trained…trust me,” I add, thinking about the video of me circulating right now where I’m admitting how much of a mess I am. “But I promise not to spill your lie to your family. I’ll do my job of keeping Marsha—and any of the other women that flock to you—away.”

Preston keeps the smile on his face as he cocks his head to the exit. “Good girl. Now, let’s go.”