Page 28 of Fake Shot

Never. Again.

I promised myself that six years ago. Everything I’ve done since then was meant to ensure I never go on a bender like I did in Vegas. And tonight, I almost forgot.

I close my eyes, making sure I feel all the shame and regret and frustration so I can remind myself:never again.

And then, determined to distract myself from theshitshow that was tonight, I head back into my closet. There, I open the low door on the far side of the island and pull out the lift-up table inside the base cabinet that holds my sewing machine. I slide the foot petal out and set it on the floor, before opening one of the wide drawers that holds my fabric.

A few months ago, I went down an internet research rabbit hole trying to find myself a new bra that I could wear for work or lounging around the house—something that was supportive and soft, but didn’t look like a typical sports bra, or like a grandma would wear it. Apparently, supportive, soft,andcute couldn’t all exist together. And supportive, soft, and sexy? Forget it, not a chance.

So I got out my mom’s old sewing machine—the one I’d learned on, but had only used a few times since she passed away. I’d ordered a variety of types of fabric in pretty prints and played around with different styles until I found something I really loved.

And it turned out that what Ireallyloved was my ability to create something beautiful and functional. This probably should not have come as such a surprise given my line of work, but I’ve spent my whole life working with wood and power tools, so the fact that I also loved creating something delicate like a bra actuallydidsurprise me.

Sewing has become a bit of an addiction, and my new form of stress relief at the end of a long day now that I no longer have a whole family around to cook for. Which, now that I think about it, was also probably a creative outlet for me since I rarely followed a recipe and was always trying new combinations of ingredients.

I pull out the softest knit lace fabric I’ve ever found andpin the pieces of the paper pattern to it. It’s one of the patterns I’ve created based on what I deemed most supportive while still retaining a little feminine sex appeal. And as I cut out the pieces that will form the bra, the feelings fade away.

I’m not thinking about Colt, or what happened between us in that alley, or how uncomfortable everything will be now that we crossed that line—I’m lost in the feel of the fabric, in the visions of what it will become, in the little decisions I’m making about what type of stitch I’ll use to bind it together, and whether I should use black ribbon as straps to match the delicacy of the black lace, and if I want to try making a front closure on this one.

I’m so lost in what I’m doing as I arrange the cut pieces of fabric on the table in front of me, pinning them together where I need to create seams in preparation for sewing, that I don’t notice the knock until it’s become a loud pounding, followed by the sound of Colt’s voice saying, “Jules, open the door.”

I rush out of my closet, shutting the door behind me, back through the bathroom, shutting that door for good measure, and open the door to my bedroom.

Colt’s eyes are a bit panicked, but I don’t miss the way they change as he looks at me—the way they soften at the edges, and how the golden flecks in his light brown eyes practically disappear as his pupils grow.

I’ve read enough romance novels that I’ve heard phrases like “his eyes darkened with longing,” but I never understood what that looked like until now. And I wish I hadn’t seen that, because it’ll just be another Colt-related thing for me to hyper-focus on—some other piece to add to the “Who isMathieu Coltier?” puzzle I’ve been putting together in my mind for years.

I fold my arms under my chest.Never again, I remind myself.

“Did you get lost on your way up to your place?”

He reaches out, gently running his thumb under my eye. “You’ve been crying?”

Shit.My eyes water again at the concern in his voice, and the gentle way he’s touching me. I take a small step back and his hand falls away. “It’s allergies. My eyes have been itchy, so I’ve been rubbing them.”

He swallows like he’s trying to stop himself from commenting on how my eyes weren’t red and swollen in the alley—he was certainly close enough to have noticed. But he gives me some grace and doesn’t comment on that. Instead, he says, “We have a problem.”

I’m so tempted to make a flippant, deflective remark, but I refrain because he does actually sound worried.

“And what’s that?”

He turns his phone to show me a text from Zach Reid. And as I click on the picture of an online news article to enlarge it, I think I might throw up.

Boston Rebels Goalie Engaged!the sizable headline screams. There’s a photo of the back of us, Colt’s arm wrapped around my shoulders as we leave the restaurant. And then the article begins below it.

Mathieu Coltier, long-time goalie for the Boston Rebels hockey team, is well known around town for the frequency of his late-night partying and the string of broken hearts he leaves behind. But he’s apparently a changed man because tonight at the tapas restaurant La Gallina, a well-known hot spot on Newbury Street,he interrupted what appeared to be an altercation between a beautiful blonde and an older businessman. Loudly telling the man to “Take your hand off my fiancée, or I’ll remove it from your ... body,” Colt then left the restaurant with the woman in question tucked under his arm.

The screenshot cuts off whatever the rest of the article might say, but this is enough to know the situation is bad. Like really, really bad.

I stare at the phone for longer than necessary, afraid to look up at Colt. Afraid to acknowledge that we’ll have to figure out what to do about this. Afraid that we’ll need to talk about what happened in order to work through this.

“How long do you think it’ll take them to figure out who I am?” I ask, staring down at the way my fingers are gripping Colt’s phone like it might jump out of my hand and attack me if I let go.

“I guess it will depend on whether there are better pictures than the one they’ve currently got in the article. But honestly, I expect they’ll be able to figure it out tonight.”

My shoulders sag as I sigh.

“We need to decide what to do here,” he says.

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