Page 29 of Winning Match
Don’t blindside her, García. Even if you don’t care for her at all, don’t feed her to the wolves.
But… early feedback is indicating this is positive.
No. I need to let her go. I need to book her a flight home and put as much distance between us as possible.
Marlowe perches on the armrest of the sofa and looks at me expectantly. I stare at her, noting the challenge in her irises, the rigidity of her spine.
I need to tell her the truth. I need to man the fuck up.
“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend,” I say instead.
“What?” Her tone is incredulous. “Are you…what…I don’t even know you, Ale. This whole thing”—she gestures around the hotel suite—“is insane. You’re not making any sense.”
She’s right. I know she is. But as I stare at her, with red patches burning in her cheeks, her eyes wild, her hair still damp from the shower…I know I have to convince her to stay.
I have to convince her to date me.
I won’t let my father down. Or my team. Or my fans.
Besides, my mind spins, this could be good for her. This could help her, too. Last night, she confided things I doubt she meant to say.
But God, I’d be a bastard to bring that up now.
I suck in a sharp breath, mentally warring with myself. Skepticism crosses Marlowe’s expression, and it crushes me. If there’s anyone in the world I want to look at me with faith, with trust, it’s her.
“You want a meeting with José Costa,” I blurt out.
She jerks back so quickly, a splash of coffee flies over the rim of her mug and dots her wrist. She hisses from the pain.
I move instantly, swiping a cloth napkin from the tray, dunking it in a water pitcher, and holding it to her wrist.
“It’s fine,” she murmurs.
I don’t remove my hold.
Marlowe glances up at me beneath her long lashes. Her face is free of makeup and again, the smattering of freckles across her nose hypnotizes me.
We’re close. Too close. Her shoulder presses into my chest and when I inhale, I breathe in the scent of jasmine. Her shampoo.
“How do you know about José Costa?” she asks quietly, her voice cold.
“You mentioned him last night. You said his account could save everything. What did you mean?”
Marlowe averts her gaze and passes me her coffee mug.
I’m forced to release her wrist to hold her mug. While she keeps the cool cloth pressed to the burn, I set down our coffees and sit on the other side of the sofa.
“How do you know him?”
“I have…access…to nearly every entrepreneur in Spain,” I say carefully.
Marlowe narrows her eyes. “Who are you, Ale? The way people react to you, the hostess at the restaurant, the bouncer at the club…what the hell am I missing?”
I swear softly. This is it. Time to come clean.
“I’m a futbolista,” I admit, holding her gaze. “A fútbol player.”
Her eyes narrow and track over my frame, sizing me up. She lifts a wry brow, as if finding me lacking.
