Page 33 of Fake Shot

“Well, I don’t. Want you to, I mean,” I tell him. Because even if Colt did want to kiss me, it still wouldn’t mean anything to him. And the only thing that would hurt worse that Colt not wanting me at all, is him only wanting me for a random hookup and then letting me go afterward. And he’s still my brother’s best friend. He’s practically part of our family. I’ll still have to see him all the time.

Distance, Jules,I remind myself.Keep your distance.

He just chuckles—a low, deep sound that I feel in my gut—and says, “I know you don’t.”

“Do you even know CPR?” I ask, just to have something to say.

“Nah, but I was willing to bet you’d start breathing again if I tried it on you. It worked in the alley.”

I can’t hold in the snort. “That wasn’t CPR, Colt.”

He shrugs. “Whatever it was, it got you breathing again.”

There’s a split second when I think,It’s too bad he can’t be around to kiss me every time I feel a panic attack coming on.Butthat’s a horrible idea for all the obvious reasons and makes me think about what my therapist said about pushing myself out of my comfort zone in order to learn that I don’t always have to be in control—or shut down when I don’t. And Colt’s suggestion from earlier is still rattling around in my head.

“What did you have in mind, when you said that I need to find healthy ways to ‘let off some steam.’”

“I don’t know,” he says, dropping his hands and sitting back on his heels. I appreciate that he’s not right up in my face now—it makes it easier to remember that I’m supposed to be indifferent toward him. “Make a list of things that scare you, and do them? Challenge yourself physically? Learn how to meditate?”

I can tell he’s just spitballing ideas, but I appreciate how he’s trying to help me.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and he nods. But then my anxiety spikes as I remember why we started this conversation in the first place. “In the meantime, what the hell are we going to do about this whole fiancée situation?”

“I was originally thinking we could just say that I saw you in a clearly uncomfortable situation and said you were my fiancée to get you out of it,” he says. “But now that video ...”

I’m glad he’s at as much of a loss as I am.

“Yeah, even though it would have made me look like an idiot, that could have worked. But now ...” I look away, staring off at the cabinets with the open shelving above them. “If that was the case, why would we be on top of each other in an alley afterward like two hormone-charged teenagers if you were just pretending to be my fiancée? People I work with are going to see that video. Oh my god, my clients and even potential donors are going to see thatvideo! At best, I come off looking impulsive and unprofessional ...”

“And I come off looking like I took advantage of you.” His words are grim.

“You didn’t take advantage of me.” My response is instantaneous, because he warned me he was going to do something we’d both regret—though little did we know how much—and I didn’t stop him. In fact, I jumped in wholeheartedly, which was the biggest mistake of all. “You were trying to help. But Colt, who’s going to want to hire me now? Who’s going to want to donate to our nonprofit or believe that I’m the kind of person who should be mentoring young women if I’m seen making out in an alley with a random hockey player?” I can hear the panic creeping into my voice the same way I can feel it moving under my skin again, little pinpricks of anxiety attacking my nervous system.

“Ouch.” When I look at him for clarification, he cocks an eyebrow at me. “So now I’m just some random hockey player?”

“You know what I mean—the optics are bad no matter how we spin this.”

“Yeah, unless ... ” He pauses, and I’m almost afraid of what he’s going to say next. How could we spin this in any way that we don’t tarnish both our reputations?

“Unless?”

“Unless we pretend that we actually are engaged. It would explain my reaction in the restaurant, and then you don’t look like you’re making out with ‘some random hockey player.’” The way he repeats my words back to me sounds a little bitter, but he’s got to understand that this is how peoplewould see it. He’s got a reputation and a list of past hookups that would probably stretch from here to the West Coast.

“Colt,” I say as I stand. “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.” Who gets fake engaged? That’s not a thing that happens in real life.

“Why?” he asks, rising from his knees so he’s towering over me.

“Because first off, no one is going to believe it. Anyone who knows us is going to know it’s not true. Anyone who’s everseen meis going to know there’s no way I’m engaged to you.”

“What are you even talking about?” he asks.

“Colt, you have this . . . energy . . .”

He slides his hands into the pocket of his dress pants, all casual-like, but there’s nothing casual about the timber of his voice when he asks, “Oh yeah? What kind of energy is that?”

He knows exactly the kind of big dick energy he exudes as he swaggers through life, and I’m not planning to give him the satisfaction of telling him I’ve noticed.

“I think you know,” I say breezily as I try to walk past him and out of the kitchen. But his big hand is around my wrist, pulling me to him.

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