Page 57 of Stick With Me
“You don’t think we should take him with us?” Hannah crouches down, holding Fred’s head in her palms, showing off his smushed face. His tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth, and his tail thumps against the floor in agreement.
“You’re the one who said happily homed dogs weren’t allowed. He looks pretty happy to me,” I remind her.
“I tried, Fredster,” she says, pouting.
I chuckle at the countless nicknames she’s given him in the twenty-four hours since we took him home. “At this rate, he’s going to end up with as many nicknames as you.”
She stands, brushing dog hair off her high-waisted black slacks. She’s paired them with a corset-style top that covers her arms but pushes her tits nearly to her chin.Is she trying to torture me?
She adds a blazer, partially hiding the curve of her waist and hips, but it does little to settle the semi I’m sporting. I take her in greedily, my eyes running down the length of her before traveling back up to her equally captivating face, only to find her eyes already on me.
She clears her throat and murmurs, “You look handsome,” before quickly turning away, reaching into the hall closet to grab her coat.
The flush on her cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed as I help her into her coat. Leaning down, I can’t resist skimming my lips over her ear as I whisper, “You look gorgeous.”
She shivers, and I rub my hands over her wool-covered arms, trying to warm her up but hoping her reaction isn’t just from the cold.
Stepping outside, we catch our rideshare to Metro Brewing, where the Paws Chicago fundraiser is being held. The night air is biting, and Hannah isn’t wearing gloves, so I hold her hands in mine. Just to keep them warm. Only letting them go once we pull up and enter the space.
The place has an industrial look, with tall ceilings littered with Edison bulbs, exposed ductwork, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a view of the Chicago River. An outdoor patio stretches along the water, with small groups huddled around outdoor heaters. It’d be the perfect spot for drinks in the summer, but tonight, with temperatures in the twenties, I’ll pass.
Tonight is our first “practice” date. With less than two weeks until the Hockey Fights Cancer event, I’m not too worried about pulling off the act. Treating Hannah like my girlfriend comes naturally. What I am worried about is how she’ll react to me acting like her boyfriend, especially if our first kiss is anything to go by.
But my only concern tonight is making a good impression on her new rescue contacts.
A woman I’m guessing is Debbie, the shelter’s director, based on Hannah’s description and the way she’s effortlessly working the room, greets us. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.” She pulls Hannah into a hug and then turns to me. “And who is this?”
Hannah’s eyes dart to me, then to the floor, and finally back to Debbie. She steps closer to my side, resting a hand on my stomach, the muscles pulling taut at the unexpected contact. I glance down at her as she says, “This is my boyfriend, Ryan.”
My heart rate spikes at hearing her use that title. I knew the plan was to practice selling our “relationship,” but I didn’t anticipate the visceral reaction I’d have to hearing her claim me as hers. I adjust my collar before reaching out to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for having us. This place is great.”
My gut is tight with a mix of nerves and excitement. I remind myself it’s all pretend, but maybe I’ve had one too many concussions because my brain isn’t listening. It’s a peek at what I’ve been longing for, and I so desperately want it to be real.
As Debbie introduces Hannah to other guests, and Hannah introduces me as her boyfriend to each of them, I get better at keeping my cool. Or at least, I hope I do. Eventually, I can’t help but lean into our ruse: a hand on her lower back, a kiss on her temple, holding her hand as we navigate through the crowd, pulling her closer to my side. And each time I do, I can’t help but think how perfectly we fit.
Still, I only casually touch her half the times I feel the urge.
The first moment we have alone, standing at a bar top table, she asks me the last thing I want to talk about. “Any word on your contract extension?”
It’s a reminder of everything I have to lose if I’m traded. I haven’t heard from my agent since meeting with him after All-Star Weekend, and what started as a minor concern has grown into a full-blown panic. He assures me we still have time, and I know he’s right, but the uncertainty about my future with the Saints is starting to wear on me. I went into this season thinking my renewal was a sure thing, but as time drags on, more doubt creeps in.
“Not yet, but hopefully, I’ll hear something soon,” I say, keeping my tone light, not wanting to worry her.
I’m relieved when our conversation is interrupted by a man with a press lanyard. “Can I get a picture of you two?”
Hannah and I respond, “Sure,” in unison, locking eyes as we exchange smiles.
“Jinx,” she breathes, her lips tipping up further.
The flash of light draws our attention to the photographer, who snaps and reviews the photos until he’s satisfied, then moves on to other partygoers.
Once he’s out of sight, Hannah leans into my side, whispering, “That should help sell this, right?”
It’s an unwelcome reminder of what we’re doing here. Practicing.
TWENTY-THREE
“Yeah,right. I’m sure it’ll hit the press tomorrow, and Jace will be livid.” Ryan taps his fingers against the metal surface of the table. “I’m going to grab a beer. Do you want one?”
