Page 6 of False Start, Real Passion

He pulls me in tight, and I’m overwhelmed by how much I feel, how wrong and right it is all at once.

“You’re a little stiff,” he teases, his breath warm against my cheek. “I thought you PR types were supposed to be good at this stuff.”

“I’m stiff because you’re stepping on my foot,” I lie, snapping back with more edge than I intend. “And I’m good at my job. Dancing just isn’t part of my usual repertoire.”

“You need to relax,” he says.

Relax, he says. Riiiiight. His hand slides to my lower back, his touch igniting a trail of fire along my spine. I force a breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

Our movements are more tangled than graceful. The distance between us is almost nothing. His touch is scorching, and my thoughts are a tangled mess of disbelief and desire. How does he make this fake relationship feel so real?

His face is mere inches from mine, his gaze dropping to my lips. For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. My pulse pounds in my ears, anticipation coiling in my belly.

The rest of the room fades, guests watching but distant, like they’re on another planet. For a moment, it’s just the two of us, suspended in a universe of our own. I try to remember the stakes, what we could lose if this falls apart.

Focus, Tori. This is a job, not a confession.

I’m playing with fire, and I know it.

The song ends, leaving me more confused than ever. I try to catch my breath, but it’s like trying to catch smoke. How much longer can I keep pretending this doesn’t affect me?

He guides me back to mingle with the guests, his hand lingering on my waist, like it belongs there. My mind spins in dizzying circles as we pose for more photos, a carefully constructed smile hiding my turmoil.

The evening stretches like a tension wire. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up, how long before it snaps and takes me down with it. This plan is working too well. Maybe it’s working too well on me.

I excuse myself, needing a moment to breathe, to regain my composure away from his overwhelming presence. I retreat to the restroom, a tactical withdrawal from the battlefield of emotion and camera flashes.

The restroom is blessedly empty, and I grip the sink, reminding my reflection of everything it’s conveniently forgotten. My career, for starters. The importance of not letting one cocky quarterback turn it into a spectacular disaster. This job was supposed to be straightforward. Like an episode of Jersey Shore, Jaxon’s thrown in some unexpected twists. And a lot more intensity.

His arm around me, his hands pulling me close—I exhale sharply, pushing the thought aside. I didn’t sign up for that. I signed up to fix a reckless athlete’s reputation. An athlete who is anything but simple.

I’ve handled clients with far worse reputations, the kind that leave PR specialists twitching. Compared to those hot messes, Jaxon should be a walk in the park. So why do I feel like I’m on a tightrope, blindfolded, in heels?

I head back into the chaos, resolve bolstered but still as fragile as glass. I can get through this. The night will end, the headlines will be stellar, and I will have a triumphant glass of wine.

But then I spot him.

He’s leaning casually against the bar, deep in conversation with a stunning blonde. I recognize her, some soap opera star, the kind that eats attention for breakfast. She’s all perfect angles and megawatt smiles, and the sight of them together ignites a jealousy I didn’t expect.

I pause, watching their easy interaction, the way she leans in with familiarity. There’s chemistry, and it stings. Has he moved on already, while we’re still mid-act one of this charade? I’m the idiot who’s getting swept up while he’s having a laugh and a half.

Ridiculous, Tori. This isn’t a real relationship. I chant it like a mantra, but it does nothing to quell the storm inside me. Jaxon glances up, catches me watching. His grin is lethal, like he’s just won a game of chicken.

I pretend it doesn’t bother me. Walk over slowly, like I haven’t got a care in the world. Internally, I’m a mess of mixed signals and emotions I shouldn’t be having. I remind myself to stay professional, calm, but Jaxon Reid makes even that impossible.

He leaves her with a charming nod and saunters my way, way too amused for my liking. “Someone looks a little jealous,” he says, teasing and all too perceptive.

“Please. Jealousy requires caring,” I shoot back, too quickly, the defensive edge betraying me.

The banter snaps like a live wire between us. He sees right through my attempt to be cool, a smirk tugging at his lips, a blue-eyed X-ray into my chaos. My heart does another sprint as I try to downplay what he’s doing to me.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he says, still riding the high of my irritation.

I snap, frustration boiling over. “I’m just doing my job. Making sure you don’t say anything that could damage your image.”

He steps closer, his gaze intense. “Is that all this is to you? A job?”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Of course. What else would it be?”

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