She turns to face me, and I blink at the twinkle of a piercing in her belly button, the blue jewel causing my eyes to linger on the creamy strip of skin between her sweater and jeans. Damn. How did I miss that? There’s also a half-moon birthmark the size of a quarter to the right on her waist and my pulse jerks, fantasizing about putting my mouth there, sucking the taste of her between my lips.

“Before you look at it, just know I did the best I could.” She grimaces, pressing her lips together, that blush rising on her cheeks again. Almost shyly, she turns and opens the box, and hell, at this point I don’t even care what’s in it. A head? A dick? Bring it.

“It’s cherry pie.” She says the words with bravado. “I read your HU bio and it said it’s your favorite.”

I blanch.

She pauses, giving me a searching look. “It is your favorite, right? I spent the whole afternoon on this thing.”

I recall the bio she’s referring to and the PR girl who did them for us. That meeting ran short and before she could get all of us interviewed, we left for practice and she never came back to recheck her facts. We all assumed she made half of it up. It also says my favorite song is “Dark Horse” by Katy Perry…just no. I’m a dude, not a teenage girl.

“Uh, yeah, thank you. It looks…delicious.”

“You’re sure? You don’t look sure.”

I look at her, taking in her earnest blue eyes. “I’m sure.”

She heads for the kitchen cabinets and pulls them open until she finds three dessert plates. Then she gets a knife out of the drawer and proceeds to cut three slices.

I hold my plate and get a small piece on my fork. “Together?” I ask, and she nods.

I give the bite a long look and stick it in my mouth. My body clenches at the tart taste, at the disgusting squishiness of the cherry. “Very good,” I tell her after chewing, fighting my gag reflex.

She pauses. “You look like you’re barely eating any.”

“Yeah,” I choke out, walking over to the sink to fill up a glass of water then chugging it down.

I turn around and she’s staring down at her piece. “You don’t like it.” She looks back at me. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just…I fucking hate cherries.” I say the words lightly, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “Some PR girl made all that up.” I explain the story to her.

“What?” Her face is horrified.

I grimace. “Eric likes it.”

Sure enough, he’s practically having an orgasm in the den as he devours the piece he snagged while we were talking. He waltzes back into the kitchen and gives Sugar an appreciative look. “Damn, girl, you are welcome to bring your cherry pie over any time.” He sticks out his hand. “By the way, Z’s too rude to introduce us, but I’m Eric—or you can call me E.”

“One of the wingers?”

“That’s right.” He grins and leans back against the counter, his gaze glinting with interest. I know that look. Hell, we invented that I’m into you and do you want to get with me look.

I bristle. “Don’t you have to call that girl you brought home last night? What was her name?”

Eric grins at me, completely unabashed. “I think it was Eleanor. Might have been Erica, possibly Ellie. All I know is it starts with E, which is like Eric. Easy, you’d think, but shit, I can’t really remember. She left me a note on the dresser. Guess I can go check for you.”

Sugar laughs and tries to hide it with a cough.

I give him a look. Get out of here.

“Touché,” he says, straightening up from the counter and easing away from us, heading back into the den. “I’ll stop bugging you.”

He plops back down on the couch, and we grow quiet and stare at each other. Truth: I’m not a man with a silver tongue although usually I’m better than the current situation. I know how to flirt and tease and pull a girl in, and shit, I tried that with her in class, but she seems a bit impervious to my charms. She has a wall around her, one I want to take a sledgehammer to. The air vibrates between us, and I’m racking my brain for something to say, watching her as she toys with the hem of her sweater. She nods as if coming to a decision. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m sure you need to study anyway.” Her eyes move to the pile of books I shoved in the chair.

I step in front of her. “Last night you never explained why you’ve been following me. What was that about?”

She clasps her hands in front of her. “Nothing.”

“It was something or you wouldn’t have said it.” I grin. “There’s something about me you find fascinating.”

Her chest rises.

I run a hand through my long hair. “Must be the hair. Everyone loves it.”

She bites her lip, and I think it’s because she wants to laugh.

I shrug and splay out my hands, feeling…light around her. “When you’re me—”

She points at my face.

“What?” I say, and before I know what’s happening she takes a step toward me, wipes at a crumb at the corner of my mouth with her finger, and then sticks it between her lips and licks it off. Her tongue is pink and wet and I—fuck. Tingles zip over me, enough to make me dizzy.

She hasn’t moved away from me and that connection thing—that scorching heat that’s been in the room since she walked in—finally gets to me.

I grab her wrist and lick the same finger, my lips tugging on the skin. “I can play games too, Sugar. Are you back to finish what we started?”

Her breathing deepens. “We did finish.”

“And it was spectacular.”

“Not denying it.”

“But…what do you really want from me? Is it this?” I press a hot kiss to her palm.

12

Sugar

There are two breeds of girls from the South: Southern belles with their debutante balls, cultured pearls, monogrammed napkins, and big fine houses, and then there are girls like me who were raised in a trailer park on the wrong side of town with a strong tenacity to claw our way out. Don’t get me wrong, Mama was good to me, and she worked hard even though those last years she got a little lost. She got up every morning, made me a big breakfast, took me to school, and went to work. Week after week, she worked, bouncing from one hotel/motel cleaning position to another. We lived near the interstate, and Lord knows there was a slew of them to pick from. She never stayed anywhere long, though, and sometimes I think maybe that was my fault because she was a single mom and it was hard for her to take care of me. She used to tell me she dreamed of going to beauty school, and it kills me that she never got to fulfill her dreams.

I think back to one of the last conversations she had with me.

You have to live life fearlessly, Sugar. Recognize that things are scary and uncertain but jump in anyway. If you don’t, how will you ever know?

And it’s her voice in my head as I stand in Zack Morgan’s kitchen.

He’s just kissed my hand and now he’s staring down at me, waiting for me to tell him what I want. “Why are you really here?” he says, his tone soft.

I pull my hand out of his grasp. My heart is beating double time. Part of me is seriously annoyed that he has this pull over me while the other side just wants to throw him down, saddle up, and ride him like the thoroughbred he is.

I take a deep breath and go for it. “I need a fake boyfriend who plays hockey, specifically you.” I let those words sink in.

His brows go straight up, surprise on his face. “Didn’t see that coming. Why?”

I huff out a laugh, struggling for words. “I—I applied to Vanderbilt Law School and was waitlisted.”

He nods, crossing his arms. “That sucks. Go on.”

“And there’s this interview thing in Nashville this spring where you have dinner with the admissions faculty. Mostly it’s to see who still has them on their list and who’s moved on to another school—which I won’t. It’s Vandy or nothing. I can bring a guest. Maybe you?” I hold my breath.

His eyes analyze me. “Why me?”

“William Fitzgerald is the dean of admissions and a huge fan of the Predators.” I twist my lips. “It’s public knowledge from his social media. He’s constantly posting about how excited he is to see you join the team in Nashville this summer…”

He cocks an eyebrow.

“And…if he thought I was your girlfriend, he might give me a shot.”

“I see.” He paces around the small kitchen, his brow knitting. I study him while he isn’t looking, tracing the lines of his angular face, taking in the shadows under his eyes. I pause, wondering what keeps him up at night. There’s more to him, something deep and dark— He lets out a deep exhalation and rubs a hand over his lips. I think I’ve blindsided him.

Shit. He’s going to say no.

I start talking fast. “It would just be for that event—if you would go with me. Plus, we don’t even have to talk to each other until then. We can just say we’ll do it and shake on it…or something. It’s a trip out of town, but I can pay for it. I’m working extra shifts and I’m not splurging on any extras.”

“Will this plan of yours push someone else out of a place?”

“No, this event is all about who is willing to not apply to other schools and maybe snag the spot of someone who’s dropped out at the last minute. With my scores, I could get in without you, I just…” I sigh, stopping, that familiar anger rising. “Look, I scored a 178 out of 180 on the LSAT. That’s insane, and there’s no logical reason they turned me down. I could snap my fingers and go to Harvard with that score.”