The Fake Out: a fake dating hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 2)

WHEN WE LEAVE THE BAR, it’s chilly and damp outside like it’s been raining. I shiver in the night air, and Rory loops an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. He’s warm, and he smells unfairly delicious.

“We don’t need to pretend out here,” I remind him, but I’m not moving away.

“You’re cold,” he says, like that settles it.

We walk in silence, listening to the sounds of the city around us. Music spills out of bars and restaurants. A car horn honks. Two drunk girls stumble, clutching each other and laughing hysterically, and Rory leads me around them with a smile. A group of guys passes, and their eyes go wide at Rory. That’s Rory Miller, one of them says.

“That was fun tonight,” he says, grin turning smug and feral. “Hartley, McKinnon’s face when you hit him?” He shakes his head, glancing down at me in admiration. “So pissed.”

I snicker. “I knew he’d hate that. He was always like that. Always needed to be the best. Needed to one-up everyone.”

An ugly thought bleeds through my mind.

“Did you know?” My voice is quiet as we walk. “Back in high school, what Connor was doing?”

“No.” His eyes flare, pinning me. “Hazel. I didn’t know.”

Earlier, I called him Rory. It slipped out, but it felt so natural. Now he’s calling me Hazel, and I love the way he says my name, even when I’m scrambling for ways not to like him. The sound of my name in his deep voice makes me want to hear it again.

He shakes his head, eyes still on me, and his tone is firm. “If I ever heard him say that shit, you’d be the first to know.” His mouth slants. “If I had sensed any trouble in paradise, I would have taken my shot.”

My stomach flutters. Strangely enough, I believe him.

Fuck. That’s bad.

Finally, we reach my apartment. Under the maple tree out front, I search in my bag for my keys. “Thanks for walking me home.”

Rory slides his hands into his pockets, gaze roaming over the old building. “Invite me up.”

Delight and nerves spin together in my stomach. “This again?”

“Hartley,” he teases as I roll my eyes, smiling. “Where are your manners? I said I was going to see you home safe and I take this very, very seriously.” His grin turns roguish. “Besides, I want to see your place.”

“You’re scheming.”

He blanches, looking overly offended. “I would never.”

I’m shaking my head to myself even as I unlock the front door. Why am I letting him in? He should go home. “You would.”

He smiled tonight, though. A lot. And he laughed and looked happy. We laughed together. So for some reason, I’m holding the door open for him as we head inside.

As we ascend the second-floor stairs, he sniffs and makes a face. “Smells weird.”

I shrug. “Someone on the second floor makes a lot of cabbage rolls.”

We keep climbing the stairs, and he studies the carpet, stained and threadbare, with fraying edges. “This place is really old.”

“It’s cheap, and the landlord isn’t a creep.” I give him a tight smile as I lead him down the hall to my door. “Okay, well, I’m at my door, so. Thanks. Good night.”

He tilts his chin at it. “Show me your place.”

My stomach pitches with a nervous feeling. Rory comes from money, and he already thinks my building is gross and weird. “Go home, Rory.”

“I hate my place. I want to see yours.”

“Your place is no doubt a hundred times nicer and a hundred times bigger than mine,” I say as I unlock my door. “And I’m sure it smells a hundred times better.” The door creaks as I swing it open, and I gesture at the studio. “Ta-da.”

Rory steps inside, looking around as I take my heels off. Although I’m fairly tidy, my furniture is shabby, my kitchen is tiny, and the carpet is an ugly brown color.

“You’re not staying,” I say as he kicks his shoes off.

He slips off his jacket. “Where’s the rest of your apartment?” He shoots me a grin, feigning confusion.

“Very funny.”

His gaze lingers on my tiny two-seater kitchen table, the couch, and my bed before he stretches his arms out, looking between the walls. “I can almost touch both walls at the same time.”

“No, you can’t.” Yes, he almost can. My face is going red with embarrassment. “You have a big wingspan. Your dick must be huge. Okay, you’ve seen my place. Time to go.”

He gives me a look like I’ve grown another head, but his eyes flare with amused delight. “What did you just say about my dick?”

Oh god. I’m flustered. Why do I say the weirdest things around him?

He takes pity on me and turns away, studying a picture on my bookshelf of me and Pippa from a few years ago. She has the same one in her place. “Is the team not paying you enough?”

“They pay me enough.” Above market rate, which is another reason I’m holding on to this job as long as I can. “I don’t like wasting money on rent.”

His head tilts as he reads the titles on my bookshelf. “Are you a cheapskate?”

I laugh in frustration. “No. I’m saving for when I open my own studio.”

Understanding passes over his features, and he glances around my apartment again, wandering over to my dresser.

“That makes sense.” He nudges the crystal dragon on my dresser, smirking at me over his shoulder, before he picks up a bottle of perfume, takes the cap off, and sniffs it while his eyes linger on a framed photo. “That’s your mom, right?”

It’s a photo of her when she was a ballerina, before she was married. In the picture, she’s on pointe. Strong, graceful limbs extended with a peaceful and proud smile across her face. Bold stage makeup and a tight, slicked-back bun.

She wanted to throw this picture out because it reminds her of how much her body has changed, but I stole it because she’s beautiful here. She isn’t beautiful because she’s thinner; it’s because she’s happier and confident.

The photo is a reminder to me, too. Whenever a thought sneaks in about my body or my face, when I worry I’m starting to get wrinkles, or wonder if my boobs are the right size, or if my butt is too big, I think about this photo. She’s not beautiful because of her physical appearance; she’s beautiful because of who she is. I’d think that no matter what she looked like.

The photo reminds me to love myself as I am. Even if my body and face aren’t perfect. I won’t allow myself to hate my body like my mom hates hers.

“She looks like you.”

I hum, smiling to myself. Everyone says that, and I’m proud that I’m her spitting image. Pippa got our dad’s lighter coloring, but I love that I look like my mom.

Rory watches me like he’s trying to figure me out, and alarm bells start ringing in my head. Rory’s here in my apartment, seeing all my things, seeing who I am.

“Yes, please, snoop away.” My tone is dry as I walk over and set the photo face-down. I pull the second drawer open to grab my favorite sleeping shirt.

There’s a creak behind me.

“Rory.”

He’s lying on my bed, hands tucked behind his head. His face screws up in horror. “Jesus, Hartley, your bed. It feels like there are rocks in here.” He shifts, trying to get comfortable. “But it’s also, like, way too soft? Where’d you get this thing, the dumpster?”

My head falls back but I’m laughing. Yes, it’s an old mattress, and yes, this is fucking embarrassing.

“The floor would be more comfortable.” He moves his hips up and down, and the bed creaks violently. “How do you have sex on this thing?”

“I don’t have guys over—”

“Good.” He cuts me a hard look.

“—because once they come over,” I set a hand on my hip, “they don’t leave.”

He smiles and exhales all the tension out of his body. His legs are crossed at the ankles, and his socks are covered in Bigfoots riding bicycles. Weird.

And now his eyes are closed.

“Rory.”

“Mmm.” Eyes are still closed.

“I want to go to bed.” I’m still standing here in my gown.

“So go to bed,” he murmurs.

He looks perfectly at ease, like he’s over all the time. Like this is his second home.

Something tightens in my stomach. My fake boyfriend is falling asleep on my bed, and I have no fucking clue what to do with that.

“Good night, baby,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“You’re not staying.” I stop in the doorway to the bathroom. “And don’t call me that.”

“Fire-breather.”

I laugh despite myself. “When I come out, you better be putting your shoes on.” I say this, and yet, I know he won’t be.

“You got it.”

My sleep shirt barely covers my ass, and there’s a warning feeling whispering in the back of my mind, telling me to put shorts on, but I hate wearing anything other than underwear and a t-shirt to bed. I hate feeling all restricted, and I get way too hot.

Fuck that. Rory wants to sleep here, he can deal with what he sees.

Of course he’s fast asleep when I come out of the bathroom, or he’s doing a damn good impression of it. I lift his arm above his head and drop it. I heard once that this is how doctors check to see whether patients are passed out or faking it.

It hits him in the face, but he doesn’t wake up. He’s sound asleep.