O ur first game on the road was a success. I had a triple-double which
doesn’t happen all that often. I have no problem with scoring or assists, I lead my team in both those categories, but rebounding is a different game. At 6’3” I’m tall in the real world, but when it comes to the NBA, I’m one of the smaller guys in the league. My body takes a pounding anytime I drive the lane, but the aches are worth it whenever I sneak past a big man or hit a three over a 6’8” beast.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling last night’s game though. My shoulder has been screaming at me all morning after too many missed calls. I don’t know if it’s because of my height or what, but some games I’m not given the respect of calls made on dangerous plays. Fouls that would be a flagrant for any other MVP nod aren’t even called for me, and the resulting body pain catches up to me the next day.
But worse than my shoulder, my brain has been in overdrive since I left Chicago. I’ve never allowed someone to stay in my home who wasn’t my sister, and I don’t know if I can trust Indy yet. She doesn’t seem malicious, and Stevie trusts her, but people can surprise you. Giving her unbridled access to my apartment is overwhelming to say the least. I had to keep myself from calling my twin and asking her to crash there while I was out
of town, but I know Stevie would’ve been disappointed in my unearned distrust of her friend.
So, as I make my way home, the only thing bouncing around my brain is the hope that Indy didn’t find something she could use against me later or information she could sell to make a quick buck. I’m aware of my paranoia, but it’s not without reason and someone in my position always needs to watch their back. I can’t let my guard down.
Grabbing the key from under the mat, I go inside. The apartment is quiet but fully lit. It’s early, and the sun is starting to peek though the buildings of downtown Chicago, but it’s not enough to illuminate the space. Apparently, Indy left every single light on last night before she went to bed, which is just wonderful. Not only did I earn a new roommate, but it’s one that’s going to hike up my electrical bill.
Something feels different inside. I don’t know if it’s because there’s a woman sleeping in the other room, but the energy around me has changed. As my eyes slowly adjust, I find pops of color which I know don’t belong to me.
sit.
A light purple knitted blanket thrown over the couch.
A pink reusable coffee cup with a straw sits by my mug.
So many goddamn throw pillows on my couch, there’s no room left to
There are yellow curtains with fucking pom-pom balls pushed to the
edge of my panoramic window.
Green. So much greenery between the succulents on my bookshelf and the giant leafy tree in the corner by the window.
Speaking of my bookshelf, it’s a fucking rainbow. My books are completely rearranged, and the amount seems to have doubled in size since I left. Indy has taken my well-thought-out and organized bookshelf and made it look like a unicorn threw up on it as it goes from red to purple, sorted by color. What god-awful reason should Investing 101 be
sandwiched between two books with shirtless men on the covers? Because they’re all orange?
And why the fuck are there naked dudes on my bookshelf?
She’s a romantic. Of course, she’s a goddamn romantic. She waited six years for a proposal that never came. She likes flowers and girly clothes. I should’ve known.
I circle my apartment in a frenzy. This was a mistake, letting her move in. Forty-eight hours alone and she’s taken over. Everywhere I look there’s a piece of her. Something she touched or changed. Color decorates every nook and cranny, but overall, there’s so much fucking Blue.
I hate it. I can physically feel the control slipping away. My usual even- keeled composure is crawling with anxious thoughts, and I need my space back. I need it to be mine.
“Indy!” I yell into the silence. I don’t give a fuck that it’s the ass crack of morning. I need to fix this. “Indigo, wake up!”
“What happened to being quiet when you come home from road trips?
I’m sleeping!”
I pound on her door. “Indy, I swear to God if you don’t get out here, I’m coming in your room.”
“Please do! I sleep naked.” Oh.
Heavy breaths keep words from coming out. Hands rest on either side of her doorframe as the image invades my mind. Her, naked. In my house. In the bed I bought her. Heat mixes oddly with the frustration thrumming through my body and the arousal is so sudden and so heady I’m almost lightheaded from the blood rushing south. I’m not sure how long it’s been since I’ve seen a woman’s naked flesh, but my body angrily reminds me with a jolt of my cock that it’s been far too fucking long.
Pushing those images away, I take a centering breath. Her most likely flawless naked body is the last thing I need to think about.
She opens the door, fully dressed in pajamas, startling me, and pulling me out of my daydream. “I knew that’d work. A naked woman in your house is practically your biggest fear.” She ducks under my arm and heads to the kitchen. “I know you did not just wake me up without bringing me coffee.”
“What the fuck happened to my apartment?”
“What are you talking about?” She keeps her back to me as she turns on the coffee maker.
“Why is all your shit all over the place?” “Because I live here.”
“You have a bedroom.” “So do you.”
God, this is like talking to a child. “Keep your things in your room.”
“You want me to keep my coffee cup in my bedroom?” She holds it up, trying not to laugh.
“Well…” I stumble. “Okay, that can stay, but everything else… I like my space a certain way, Indy.”
“Boring, you mean. Ryan, your house was like a prison cell. It needed some life.”
“There’s a fucking tree in my living room!”
“Actually, it’s a Fiddle-leaf fig plant and it’s there because this window faces the east, and the perfect amount of sun comes through here. Bright but not too direct. I have a north facing window. It wouldn’t thrive. So, maybe you could take a breather thanks to the oxygen it’s providing, yeah?”
What the fuck?
“What?” she asks as she puts her hot coffee in the fridge to cool down. “I’m not some blonde Barbie without a brain.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. The dumbfounded look plastered on your face said it for you. Most people think so, and apparently you do too.”
My expression softens. I don’t think that at all, but she is a gorgeous human and I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t the first thing I noticed.
“I thought you liked flowers over plants.” My attempt to shift the tone of conversation is nowhere near smooth, but somehow, even though she’s the one who has taken over my apartment, I’m the one who feels bad.
“I do, but flowers are typically more high-maintenance and with how much I travel for work, I can’t always take care of them.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “I could…maybe help you take care of them.”
What am I doing? I pulled her out of bed so I could get my apartment back to normal and here I am asking her to make more of a mess by offering to water her fucking flowers?
But I need a favor from her, and I came in hot with my yelling this morning.
“You’d do that?” She stands up straighter as a bit of hope overtakes her.
Well, shit. I can’t exactly take it back when she looks like that. “Sure.” I shrug.
“Thank you, Ryan! I haven’t been able to have fresh flowers at home for years. I’m so excited! There’s an adorable flower stand a few blocks over. I’m going to go there today!”
I get it. I can read between the lines. The asshole she lived with before didn’t offer to take care of them while she was traveling for work so she couldn’t have any.
Fuck that guy. Unfaithfulness puts you in another category in my book. You’re automatically unredeemable. Which is probably why I’m doing everything I said I never would by allowing this girl to live in my home while making her life as easy as possible.
What she’s going through resonates with me, and if Indy having some flowers in my apartment will make her happy, well then, I guess I’m growing a green fucking thumb.
Jesus, how’d she get me to agree to this?
“You’ll have to teach me what to do,” I remind her.
“I will.” She quickly nods with excitement, skipping around the kitchen island to meet me. Her arms swing around my neck in a hug, pressing her body to mine.
Stilling, I stand with my arms at my sides as she grips me tighter, not allowing me to get out of this. I’m not sure that I want to. Her hold is surprisingly calming and the nervousness I felt over the change in my surroundings is long gone. I haven’t been touched in a long time, and I know this is platonic and only a hug, but I forgot how nice it feels to have a woman wrapped around me.
“Hug me back, Ryan,” she mumbles into my shoulder.
Cautiously, I press my hands to her back and their size overtakes her. But apparently that’s not enough reciprocation because she stays holding me, not letting this end just yet.
My cheek falls against hers, sliding against the column of her neck until blonde hair surrounds me like a curtain. A soft tropical scent, maybe coconut, invades me and as I inhale, my hands slide around her waist, pulling her body closer to mine.
Two peaks pucker between us, pressing into my upper stomach and her unexpected arousal stirs mine again.
Indy is tall for a girl, 5’9” if I had to guess, and the bulge in my pants is resting dangerously close to the apex of her legs. I know she can feel it, but she’s not pulling away.
God, I’m pathetic. I’m so starved for human touch that I’m getting a hard-on from a fucking hug.
“How the hell did you get me to agree to that when I woke you up with the intention of clearing your shit out of my living room?” I whisper against her.
She pulls away and instantly, I miss the connection. “It’s that charming thing I’ve got going.”
I wish I could disagree.
“If you want me to take down the curtains, move the plants, and put my blanket in my room, I can. I was reading on the couch last night and left it there. Sorry.”
She floats around my kitchen pulling out eggs and bacon from the fridge, including a mixture of fruit I put together the other night. Taking my mug out from under the coffee machine, she hands it to me, offering her brightest smile as if I didn’t just wake her up by yelling at her. “Good morning, by the way.”
“You’re awfully cheery for someone who claims not to be a morning person.”
“Well, if I let a bad mood take over every time you annoy me in the morning, I’m never going to be happy again.” She turns back, cracking a few eggs into a pan while stretching bacon out onto another.
Taking a seat at the kitchen island, I adjust myself, trying to push the needy erection away as I watch her. “I thought you were a vegetarian.”
“I am. But you’re not, and I’m making you breakfast.”
“You don’t have to do that. I woke you up by yelling at you.” I scrub a palm over my face. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can. But I like taking care of people. It’s kind of my thing.” She smiles at me over her shoulder.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
I sit in silence, drinking my coffee while she cooks. Truthfully, I wanted to be the one to cook her breakfast again. It seemed to impress her last time, and I got off on seeing her happily eat my food.
“Your curtains can stay. And the plants and your pillows and blanket.
But you’ve got to get your naked men off my bookshelf.”
Her back vibrates with a laugh. “Deal. Although, you could learn a thing or two from my book boyfriends. You do have that broody, mysterious thing going for you already though.”
“And that devastatingly handsome thing,” I add for her.
She places my breakfast in front of me, a knowing smile pulling at her lips. “You’re all right, I guess.”
Indy takes the seat next to me, and I’m not going to lie, this is nice. Sharing a meal with her, spending a morning together. Of course, I’d probably feel this way if it were anyone, but I’ll admit it’s nice to come home to someone for once.
“Speaking of boyfriends…” I begin with caution.
“Please tell me you straightened that out with your GM.” “Not exactly.”
“Ryan!” She cocks her head in disappointment and the eye roll she gives me is pretty fucking adorable.
“He brought you up three separate times while we were gone. It’s like he was testing me to see if it’s real.”
“Because it’s not!” Indy hides her face in her palms. “This is a terrible idea. It’s going to be ten times worse when he finds out you were lying to him later.”
“He’s not going to find out.”
“Oh, he’s not?” She laughs condescendingly. “He’s going to take one look at us together and know it’s a lie.”
“I’m good at putting on an act in public. Please, Blue. Help me out here.”
She pops a strawberry in her mouth and my attention falls on those pink lips. “For someone who likes to have control, it does sound awfully nice when you beg.”
I shoot her a pointed glance.
“Can’t you find someone else to be your fake girlfriend or here’s a thought, get a real one!”
“I don’t trust anyone, and I don’t date. And don’t even suggest I fake it while letting some poor girl believe it’s real. I can’t lead anyone on like that. But I’m not leading you on because this”—I motion between us
—“will never be like that.”
“Well, that’s one way to make it clear.” She pulls her attention away from mine. “I can’t. I’m working.”
“You’re home for the fall banquet. All of Chicago’s teams are home.” “I got a second job. I need to work that night.”
“A second job? Doing what?”
“Rideshare. It works perfectly with my flight schedule. I can work when I’m home.”
“Indy, no…that’s…that could be dangerous.”
“It’s fine.” She rolls her eyes. “I need the extra cash and I get to talk to people in my car all night. That sounds like a dream come true to me.”
I can’t get into all the reasons I think this is a terrible idea right now, so instead I offer, “I’ll pay you whatever you’d make that night.”
She scoffs. “I’m not letting you pay me to be your date. I’m not an escort. Jesus.” She stands from her stool, leaving me.
Shit. Clearly the wrong thing to offer.
Circling her wrist, I stop her, softening my tone. “What can I do?” “Nothing. It’s not that I don’t want to help you, but I can’t. Besides
needing to work, you’re famous, Ryan. Like really fucking famous.”
“And you’re worried about making headlines.” Of course, she is. She saw what my sister went through last year.
“No. Not at all, actually. I think that’d be fun, but I just got out of a six- year relationship. If he finds out—”
“Good. Let him think we’re together. Fuck that guy.” “That’s not what I mean.”
A moment of silence lingers before her eyes drop to my hand encasing her wrist. She doesn’t move for a moment, and I find myself using all my restraint to keep from circling the pad of my thumb against the soft skin of the inside.
She pulls away, and regret instantly floods me. What the fuck am I doing?
“I’m in my friends’ wedding coming up and so is he.” She takes a save- the-date card off the refrigerator, sliding it across the island. “I need to focus on finding a real date to this thing, not being someone’s pretend girlfriend. I can’t exactly be pictured with you for one night then take a random guy to this wedding. Anyone else will be a downgrade from NBA superstar Ryan Shay.”
I hold a hand over my chest. “Blue, you flatter me.”
“I’m serious, Ryan. I already feel like the laughingstock of my friends right now.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.” She shakes it off, replacing the card on the fridge. “Look, I’m so fucked up from Alex, that I can’t even think about being in another relationship right now or maybe ever, and I don’t know that I’d be able to fake that. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
I don’t know what causes me to say it. Maybe it’s the downturn of her lips or her sad brown eyes that I’m afraid will start watering soon. Or maybe it’s the thought of her ex assuming he’s come out victorious, but it slips out of my mouth before I have time to fully think this through. “When’s the wedding?”
“Why?” Suspicion laces her tone. “Just answer the question.” “February second.”
Pulling out my phone, I check my schedule. No games, home or away. I have practice, but I can get out of it.
“I’ll be your date for the wedding.”
She pauses before breaking into laughter, and it’s deep and uncontrollable, coming from her core.
“What’s so funny?”
“You.” She sucks in a deep breath. “That was hilarious.” I wait for her to calm the fuck down. “I’m not joking.”
Her smile is giddy and wide, the kind you can’t pull off your face after a genuine laugh attack. “Yes, you were.”
“Take the night off work. Be my date to the fall banquet, and I’ll be your date to the wedding. Try your best to fake it. That way this arrangement is mutually beneficial. If your little shithead ex is taking a date, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go alone.”
Her smile drops as realization hits her. “You’re being serious right now. Ryan, it’s one thing to lie to your GM, but it’s an entirely different thing to lie to my childhood friends. They know me too well. They’ll know we’re faking it.”
“Well, then it looks like we’re going to have to practice. If all goes well, Ron and Caroline Morgan will be inviting us over for family dinners.”
In a state of disbelief, Indy plops back in her stool next to me. “You’re serious about this.”
“Deadly.”
She sits there, pink lips parted, and eyes zoned out. I can practically see the wheels spinning in that head of blonde hair.
“Any chance whatever the hell his name is, is a basketball fan?”
“Alex, and yes. He and his friends are huge basketball fans. He about lost it when he found out I was friends with your sister.”
Typically, I despise the thought of anyone thinking Stevie is an avenue to me. My career has made my sister’s life and friendships exponentially harder until she met blondie sitting next to me who didn’t give two fucks
about what my job was. But knowing Indy’s ex is a fan of mine is going to make this fake boyfriend thing all the more enjoyable.
“Wipe that mischievous grin off your face.” She playfully pushes my head away.
“I can’t. This is going to be fun.”
She tries to hide her smile as she rolls her eyes, but I know I’ve got her. “Indy, please. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch—”
“Ew. Don’t say it like that.”
“Fine. You do me a solid, I’ll do you one. I’ll be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.”
“My one and only.” “So, is that a yes?”
“That’s a maybe.” She pauses, rolling her fingertips along her temple. “I’ll go to this banquet with you as a test run. Then we’ll see about the rest.”
“Deal.”
“But we need some ground rules.” “Like?”
“Like what we’re going to do once you inevitably fall for me. Do I let you down easy or do I exploit all the newfound emotions you’re going to feel once you realize you’re in love with me?”
A laugh bubbles out from me. “You don’t have to worry about that. The emotional part or the falling-in-love part.”
She sighs dramatically. “That’s what they all say.” “So it’s settled then. You’re my fake girlfriend.”
“Not so fast. If I’m going to even consider taking you to this wedding, I’m going to need to turn you into one of my book boyfriends first.”
That earns a raised brow.
“Oh, come on. If we’re going to be acting, we may as well go all in. Do you know how to flare your nostrils in anger?”
My breakfast almost comes back up. “What?”
“If you see me across the room, talking to another man, I need you to stare intently then flare your nostrils. Or grind your molars together and tic your jaw.”
“Blue—”
“Do you know how to growl?” “What?”
“Yeah, I don’t really know what that’s supposed to sound like, but every one of my book boyfriends is big into growling. Oh! And can you darken your eyes?”
“Darken my eyes?”
“Yeah. When you pretend to get angry or act really turned on, can you darken your eyes?”
“No, I can’t fucking darken my eyes. What the hell are you reading?” “Don’t hate on my books. You could learn a thing or two from them.
And they’re much more entertaining than your shelves of masochism.”
I can’t hold back my laughter. “You think my reading books as a way to better myself is a form of self-inflicted pain?”
She turns her stool towards me. “Absolutely. Does anyone truly enjoy reading about that kind of stuff?”
“Don’t hate on my self-improvement books.”
“My books could qualify as your self-improvement books.” She earns another pointed glance. “Okay, okay.” Her hands go up in surrender. “But if you ever want to learn how to make a woman come three times in one chapter, I’ve got you covered.”
It’s been a while, but making a woman come sure as hell was never an issue.
She rounds the island once again and pulls out a notepad and pen from the drawer.
“We’re making a list. No, we’re making a bucket list. For you. If you can knock out this list, I’ll take you to the wedding.” She speaks as she writes. “Book Boyfriend How-To.”
“I won’t be that bad that I need a fucking list to become a passable boyfriend.”
She ignores me, continuing a column of numbers down the left side of the notepad.
“Fine. Then you’re getting a bucket list too.”
“Me?” She laughs in disbelief. “I’ve been in a relationship practically my entire life. I think I’ve got this handled.”
“Yeah, but do you have any idea how to be alone?” Her face drops. “What?”
“When was the last time you were alone with no one else to take care of?”
“Why does that matter?”
“I’m not judging. I’m simply asking. When was the last time you had to think of only yourself?”
“That has nothing to do with our arrangement.”
Indy’s typically confident demeanor has shifted, showcasing her vulnerability. She looks away from me, brown eyes bouncing along the wall as she avoids my question.
“Ind—”
“Never. Okay? I’ve never been alone.”
I figured as much. Between her constantly wanting company and her long-term relationship that seems more like a life-long thing and not only the six years it was official.
I hold my hand out with impatience until she reluctantly places a piece of paper and a spare pen in my hand. “I’m making you a bucket list too.”
I hand it over after titling it and finally, a soft smile spreads across my roommate’s mouth.
“Indy-pendent Woman 101.” She raises a questioning brow. “You know how much I love my self-help books.”
She relaxes a bit which eases the tension around us.
“You can teach me how to be with someone, as long as I get to teach you how to be alone. Or at least how to put yourself first.”
“Okay,” she finally agrees. “That seems fair.” Individually, we work on our list for the other.
Mine is fairly simple—do everyday tasks alone. Go out to dinner by yourself. Go to a movie you’ve been wanting to see by yourself. Grocery shop and only buy the things you want to eat. Sleep without stacking pillows on the other side of the mattress to trick yourself into thinking you’re not sleeping alone.
The last one might throw her off when she realizes I noticed that this morning when she opened her bedroom door, but maybe some accountability will be good for her.
“All done.” She looks over her list with pride.
I slide mine across the kitchen island, trading with hers.
Indy’s list for me starts fairly tame and reasonable: slow dance together, get comfortable with casual touching, plan a date which is finished with in public between parentheses.
“Were the parentheses really necessary?”
“Yes. Knowing you, you’d plan a dinner date at this very kitchen island, so we don’t leave the house.”
Okay, so she knows me a bit better than I assumed. I get back to my list
—show some jealousy.
I have a strong suspicion that showcasing jealousy won’t be the issue— keeping it under wraps will be.
The last and final point on the list—kiss me. “Indy, the last one—”
“Is a non-negotiable. I’m not showing up at this wedding and you never once touch or kiss me. It can be a peck on the lips for all I care, but this whole thing won’t be believable without a little PDA.”
I shake my head. “I don’t feel comfortable faking intimacy.” “Ryan, it’s just a kiss. It means nothing.”
“It does to me. I won’t fake that part.”
This is fucking embarrassing, a twenty-seven-year-old man refusing a stunning woman the kiss she’s asking for. But I can’t do it for show. That’s not me.
“Okay,” she softly resigns. “No kissing.”
I break eye contact, unable to look at her. “Thank you.”
She clears her throat. “How did you know about the pillows?” Glancing up, I find Indy staring at the list I made her.
Throwing a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of her room, I tell her, “I saw your bed.”
“I haven’t slept alone in six years. I have a hard time with an empty bed.
I do it in hotels too.”
“You can cross it off.” I reach out, attempting to take my list back.
“No.” She holds the paper out of my reach. “You’re right. I need to figure it out. It’s my life now, sleeping alone. I should get used to it without having to make a wall of pillows in order to trick myself.”
She takes both our lists and hangs them on the refrigerator, next to our leasing agreement. The three hand-scribbled papers act as the strangest display of our bizarre relationship.
Cocking her head, she examines them. “Heads-up, Shay, I’m an expensive girlfriend. Fake or not. I can’t help it.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got money.”
She playfully smacks the counter. “That’s what I like to hear!”
I grab her empty plate along with my own and begin washing them in the sink.
“Do you ever let your dishes sit for a minute? You don’t have to do them the second you’re done using them. It’s okay to relax, Ryan.”
“I like an organized space.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” She stays silent for a moment, and I can sense her watching me. “Why don’t you date? You could have any girl you want. You’ve got that sexy protective thing going on. Plus, you cook and clean.”
Stilling, I pause with a plate in my hand, the water rushing over it. Indy has had no problems telling me exactly how she feels about me but hearing that she thinks I’m sexy hits differently. Like because we’re starting to know each other and we live together, the words hold more weight. But that could be me overanalyzing the girl opposite the kitchen island whose company I might enjoy more than I let on.
“I don’t have time right now. I have more important things I need to get done first.”
“So, eventually you will?”
“Maybe after I retire. I’m not sure. I haven’t thought too much about it.” Lie. Bald-faced lie. I’ve contemplated this decision for years. If I ever open myself up in that way again, it’ll be well after I’m retired. It’ll be when I’m just a footnote in the history books. It’ll be once I can leave my house and not feel like a zoo animal on display. It’ll be once the only thing
to gain from me, is me.
But that’s if I open myself up again.
“I hope you do,” she says softly. “You’d be good to someone. You’d make someone happy. I can tell.”
The untrusting part of me is screaming with the hidden meaning of her words. Because of how much money you make. Or you’re so well-known any girl would love to be on your arm. But there’s something about the kind smile Indy is wearing as she watches me do the dishes that makes me want to believe my gut. That she means I, as a man, as a normal everyday person
would make someone happy, and I haven’t let that thought invade my mind in a long time.
