Page 57 of Drop Shot
His tone tells me he knows exactly what his manager is saying. “I hate this shit. I just want to play my sport—not deal with the politics of men too rich for their own good.”
I snicker again. “You’retoo rich for your own good.”
His chest shakes and the hand that was stroking my hair pinches my side. “Smart ass.”
“But did I lie?”
After a moment, he sighs and says, “No, but at least I’m not rich and bored and meddling in players lives because I have nothing better to do.”
“Tell me how you really feel.”
A noise from above has me looking up and realize that Ebba is above us on her balcony now.
My heart that soared only moments ago deflates.
That’s why he pulled me so close. He knew she was up there.
I don’t pull away, though, even though I want to now.
“When’s this dinner?”
A sigh rattles through his chest. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I squeak, already running through a mental checklist of things I need to do to be prepared.
“I think Jackson was afraid if he told me sooner, I’d find a way out of it.”
“He’s probably not wrong.”
“How dressed up do I need to be?” I ask, already sorting through the clothes I packed.
Another heavy sigh leaves him. “Black tie.”
I freeze. “You’re kidding.”
I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that some of the events I would need to attend with him would be black tie affairs. I’ve had to prep him numerous times for these kinds of events, but I guess when I was packing it didn’t cross my mind to have a formal dress. Besides, while I love clothes and my closet is stocked with designer goods because of my slight addiction to all things pretty I don’t exactly have a smorgasbord of black-tie dresses because I’d never use them.
“Whim,” he says my name softly. “The cogs in your brain are spinning so fast I think you might catch on fire.”
“I don’t have anything to wear to an event like that.”
“You’ll have time to go shopping during the day. I’ll leave you my card.”
“You don’t need to do that.” I have a hefty payment that just landed in my account via Jackson.
He traces his finger delicately around the curve of my ear. “If you were my real girlfriend, I’d damn sure be paying for your dress. Take the damn card, Whimsy. Fuck, buy yourself some designer shoes and jewelry while you’re at it. I’m sure there’s probably a purse or two you’re eyeing as well.”
I tickle his ribs, and he squirms beneath me. “Don’t mock my love of handbags.”
He chuckles. “Settle down. I would never.”
It hits me then—how easy this is with him. How natural it feels to lie here in the grass, sprawled on his chest, poking fun at each other.
I need to be careful.
None of this is real. We’re still technically boss and employee. He’s paying me to be hisfakegirlfriend—not to actually fall for him.
But whether Elias knows it or not, he’s pretty impossible not to care for.
