Page 33 of Winning Match
I snort to myself, shoveling another forkful of pancake into my mouth.
I can’t get caught up in the moment; I need to keep my wits about me.
This is certainly the fastest path to speaking with José Costa, to saving Prescott Sail.
The trickiest part will be keeping Dad stable while I’m out of the country. But I know Grandpa and the Sewing Circle will step up. I just hate asking them to sacrifice more of their time on my account.
“We’re all set,” Alejandro says, sitting on the opposite side of the sofa.
I set my cleared plate on the tray and tuck my legs underneath me. Angling my body toward his, I blow on my coffee. “What did your agent say?”
“PR will release a statement in the next few hours. I’ll send you the final language so you can approve or make any changes.”
“Thank you.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I’ll speak with my family as soon as we wrap this up.”
He nods jerkily, averting his gaze. “Do you want me to stick around for that conversation?”
As touched as I am by his thoughtfulness, I don’t know him well enough to bring him into my family fold yet. To tell him the truth about Dad. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“All right.” He glances around the suite. “You can’t stay in the hotel suite forever. We’ll need to make arrangements and?—”
“One thing at a time,” I cut him off. I need to speak to Grandpa before I contemplate living scenarios. “Can I…call you later?”
He winces and I hate that I effectively dismissed him.
But I need some time to sort through things, and his being here—looking like he does and showing me considerations no man ever has—is distracting as hell.
Ale stands and asks for my phone number. I rattle off the digits and he plugs them into his phone, giving me a missed call. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will,” I say, meaning it.
“Want to have dinner tonight?”
I shrug. “I have no idea how this whole thing is going to go.” I gesture toward him to encompass everything—the media, our fake relationship, news of our dating. “Do you think we’ll be able to go out for dinner?”
“Yes,” he says simply. Resolutely.
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby at nine?”
It will take some getting used to eating dinner at the time I usually go to sleep. “Nine.”
Alejandro holds my gaze for a long moment, and I feel his worry down to my toes.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say, standing to walk him to the door. I pull it open, but his hand catches it.
Gripping the edge of the door, he bends down, pressing a kiss to each of my cheeks. His cologne washes over me and I close my eyes at his nearness. “Thank you, Marli,” he whispers, his breath a caress over the shell of my ear.
Ale pulls away and I force myself to meet his gaze. “We got this, García.”
He smirks. “I know.”
Then, he’s gone. The bravado I clung to in his presence swoops from my being and I press my back against the closed hotel suite door and slide to the floor.
Holy shit. I have a fake boyfriend.
And not just any guy, but a futbolista.
