The Fake Zone: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Oleander Springs Series Book 3)

If life came with rules, there would undoubtedly be one about not staying with the guy you thought didn’t like you a month ago, whom you struck a deal with and are currently trying to avoid catching feelings for.

Everything about this feels like a bad parody as we carry my bags into his dorm five hours later.

I clear my throat as he flips on the lights. Staying here crosses that intimacy line again. This is his space. It doesn’t just smell like him, it’s a reflection of him. “Thanks for allowing me to stay here. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” He carries my bags toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

Grey doesn’t stop or answer me, which has me following, leaving a wide gap between us. He sets my bags down at the foot of his king-size bed, where a dark green comforter stretches across the top. I take in the minimalist space for a second. A dresser is along the wall beside the door with a TV, and next to the bed is a single nightstand with a simple lamp. A large, framed black-and-white map of the world hangs on the wall beside me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

His expression is intent, hinting at annoyance. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

A month ago, I’d be firing off a sarcastic retort asking where he plans to sleep if I’ll be sleeping here, but now, vulnerability has me afraid to ask, dreading his response will be anywhere but here.

“Do you have any more classes tonight?” he asks before I can process a response.

I shake my head. I skipped my evening class to pack, reasoning that it’s the first week, and will likely only be a syllabus review.

His jaw flexes. “I want to take you to Highgrove. You should talk to my mom. A guy used to stalk her. He’d show up at her job and sit in her section, so she had to serve him. Follow her home…”

Panic rises in my chest. “What happened?”

Grey lifts a shoulder. “We’ll talk about it when we get there.”

“I don’t know if going is a good idea…” Staying with Grey and meeting his mom all within a couple of hours has an entirely new wave of panic inching into my thoughts.

“Cole’s going to meet us at the gym afterward,” he says, turning and heading back to the living room without giving me a chance to tell him I don’t think that’s a good idea, either. Despite all my conditioning, the muscles in my arm, shoulders, and chest hint at being sore from working out with Dustin.

Grey returns with my remaining bags.

“I should change,” I say.

“She won’t care what you’re wearing,” he says, taking the bags to his room. “But grab some workout clothes.”

Everything about my childhood was first impressions, a habit I haven’t been able to lose fully. Whenever I met a new family, I was meant to be presentable, polite, and silent. I rummage through my bags, trying to recall where I’d put my nicer casual clothes. I pull out a green sweater and clean jeans and head into the bathroom to change before shoving some workout clothes and shoes into a gym bag.

A handful of guys from the team call out to Grey as we walk toward the elevator. There will be rumors, just like last year when I stayed with Hudson.

I nearly tell Grey, but something keeps me silent. I don’t want him to think that’s why I’m staying with him or why I hesitated.

Doubts are teasing my insecurities as I follow Grey out of the warm confines of the lobby and across the parking lot while texting Evelyn, letting her know where I’m going.

“How was the gym this morning?” Grey asks as he starts the truck.

“Good.” My voice is too high, and my nerves are too thin, and it has absolutely nothing to do with having a potential stalker.

“Dustin’s a good teacher.”

“He doesn’t talk much.”

Grey sniggers. “Only when he’s working. Otherwise, he never shuts up.”

“Mackey claims my hamstrings are too tight, and I’m going to have back issues when I get older if I don’t learn to stretch.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“I stretch four times a day. I just have tight hamstrings.”

“You need to buddy stretch.”

My thoughts jump to the last time Grey helped me stretch, and my entire body flushes.

We take backroads into Highgrove, crossing two train tracks and passing a dozen crop fields before he pulls into a gravel driveway and turns his truck off.

The outside lights flip on, and the door opens.

Grey’s gaze flashes to mine as he climbs out. I wonder if he’s also freaking out that I’m crossing yet another line into the privacy he’s maintained for so long.

“You guys made good timing. Traffic must have been light, or you were driving like a maniac,” his mom says. “Please tell me it was the former.” She’s stunning, with light hair, bright eyes, and an inviting smile that lights up the dark.

“We left earlier than expected,” he tells her.

It’s cold again tonight, my breath stretching before me as I follow Grey to the front steps, where his mom waves us inside.

Warmth seeps into me as I step into the house, where the savory scents of chicken noodle soup lend to the welcoming space. A couch is adorned with a fuzzy throw, and the kitchen has bright white cupboards and a light countertop where pops of marigold yellow and burnt orange brighten the space with rooster-themed decorations. The space feels comfortable and inviting, like a long, unhurried hug. It reminds me of Hadley, Katie, and Hannah’s house.

“Mila, this is my mom, Colleen. Mom, this is Mila,” Grey says.

Despite seeing her picture and knowing she was young when Grey was born, her youth still surprises me. She could pass as a college student.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I tell her. “Your house is lovely.”

She smiles affectionately before taking a step closer and surprises me by wrapping her arms around me. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mila.” She holds me tightly and then steps back and smiles at me. Nothing is threatening or judgmental about her. I was expecting her to be cold

or indifferent, similar to how I still sometimes think of Grey, but she is the definition of sunshine, glowing with warmth and happiness.

“Please, make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink? I’m making chicken and dumplings for dinner. Is that okay?”

“Chicken and dumplings is one of my favorites. Thank you for having me. I really appreciate it.”

Her smile stamps deeper again. “It’s one of my favorites, too.”

A wave of emotions catches me by surprise, thickening my throat and blurring my eyes as I stare at her as though she’s a unicorn that will fade at any second.

Colleen cocks her head, her gaze softening into a maternal look that makes my chest throb. It’s rare that I miss my mother, but there are times when the pain of missing what might have been, is so great, it renders me speechless.

I smile and avert my gaze to the living room where plants are strewn around. I focus on a plant in a yellow planter, then a picture of Grey giggling as a young kid with wavy hair that reached his eyebrows, a soft red blanket, and finally the book on the coffee table. Next, I listen to the soft boil of dinner, Grey’s voice as he visits with his mom, the wind hitting the side of the house. Lastly, I focus on the scents of the chicken and dumplings, thyme, and roast chicken making my stomach grumble.

My heart slows, and my lungs fill.

“How’s the roof?” Grey asks.

“You fixed it,” Colleen says. “I thought for sure it needed to be replaced, but I think you bought another couple of years.”

“It was an exposed nail. The tar should keep it from leaking again,” Grey tells her.

The smile she gives him is filled with affection and love.

A timer goes off that has her moving into the kitchen. She turns it off and lifts the lid off the Dutch oven. Steam billows out, carrying a punch of rich aromas to my nose.

“It smells so good,” I say.

She grins. “I hear you and Hudson are best friends. That you grew up together.”

I nod, wondering if she and Hudson have met.

Once again, her smile feels genuine. “Do you have other siblings?”

I pause, the question catching me by surprise. The past twenty-four hours have had me on the emotional rollercoaster from hell—maybe longer if I consider my parents leaving. Emotions scratch at my throat once more. I clear it. “I had a sister,” I tell her.

Colleen’s smile fades, regret and anguish creasing her brow. “Oh, Mila. I’m so sorry.”

I force a tight smile and nod. It’s all I can do.

Emotions last for just ninety seconds. It seems impossible. Psychologists claim that any feeling that lasts longer is our thoughts restimulating the emotion, keeping us in a loop.

I’ve been stuck in this loop for over a decade, and it’s barely become more tolerable. Society has deemed it my responsibility to now say something to ease the moment, assure her that it’s been a long time, that I don’t need her apology, that I’m okay—but I believe society is wrong. We can’t hide from pain, and if we spent more time empathizing with others, perhaps we’d spend less time critiquing and criticizing.

Grey steps closer and then pauses. He reads me better than most, seeming to understand I need a moment to allow gravity to press against these still raw emotions and find some semblance of balance, so I don’t become the black hole I’ve always feared becoming.

“Life can be cruel,” Colleen says.

It can, but as Briggs has reminded me so many times, I don’t have to suffer to experience the pain. I can still be grateful for Jon and Alex, for meeting my best friends, and for obtaining a future that my life in Oklahoma would not have provided.

“Are you from Highgrove?” I ask her.

Colleen shakes her head. “Virginia.”

“Really? What brought you here?”

Another timer beeps, and she shuts it off. “I followed my best friend. She moved down here when she met a guy. Two years later, she moved to Tennessee, and I stayed.” Colleen removes a tray of cornbread muffins from the oven. Here in the South, we love our carbs and our cornbread. “Grey mentioned someone’s been bothering you,” she says, tipping the golden muffins onto a cooling rack. “Tell me what’s going on.” Her response is so maternal it replays in my thoughts a second time.

I hadn’t intended to share my story again, rather expected to hear hers, but I find myself wanting to tell her, explaining all the little dots that are faded and don’t make sense.

As I do, Grey moves around the kitchen with her, filling bowls with the chicken and dumplings, gathering silverware and drinks, and refusing my offer to help. I like watching him here, seeing his familiarity and comfort, precision to detail, and competence.

 Competence is sexier than a sports car or chiseled abs, and Grey has it in spades. Football, martial arts, training, and even this insignificant moment where he doesn’t ask how much we want or where anything is because he already knows.

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” Colleen says as we sit at the dining room table. It’s big enough to seat six, the wood surface stained and lightly dented in areas, showing years of use. Some wish walls could talk, but I’d give my eyeteeth to hear the stories this table could tell of birthday cake candles being blown out, homework sessions, and dinner conversations. If the

walls are the skeleton of a home, the dining room table is the heart.

“This guy sounds like a big red flag,” Colleen says, adding pepper to her bowl, and I note how Grey had placed it in front of her, anticipating her needs. I inwardly swoon. The romantic in me gives meet-cutes the middle finger. I have to stuff that romantic voice inside my head down, remind her we have more pressing issues, and Grey’s mother is beside me. Now is not the time to outwardly swoon.

My first bite of dinner is an explosion of flavors, warm and comforting. “This is so good,” I tell her.

“She’s a fantastic cook,” Grey says.

Colleen smiles. “So is Grey.”

I glance across the table at him, my surprise likely evident.

“You haven’t cooked for her?” Colleen asks.

“I barely cook. I eat all my meals at the facility.”

She waves off his excuse. “He makes a baked feta pasta that is out of this world. Seriously. He could sell that recipe for a million bucks. It’s so good. And his fettuccine alfredo is perfection in a dish.”

“I had no idea.”

Colleen nods. “He’s also a great carpenter and handyman. He and my dad made all these cabinets, built the deck off the back, redid the bathroom, all the insulation…” She glances around. “They basically rebuilt this place. He’s always been very intellectually curious and takes it upon himself to learn new skills. He constantly amazes me.”

I love that she brags about Grey. I love it even more that it makes his cheeks bloom red.

“Back to the point,” Grey says. “We’re trying to figure out if he’s stalking her.”

“None of it makes sense,” I echo the words for what seems like the hundredth time. “I feel paranoid even thinking he could be following me.”

“You have to be paranoid,” Colleen tells me. “You have to be mindful of every detail. Predators are patient. The guy who bothered me would come to the cafe where I worked every day, even on my days off, because no one would tell him my schedule.”

Predator. Hearing her refer to Julian as a predator feels almost relieving, as though the concerns I’ve struggled with for nearly a year are valid and accurate.

“Did he talk to you?” I ask her, wanting to draw more similarities.

She nods. “It’s imperative you don’t engage with him, though. If he starts calling you or sending you messages, keep them, but don’t reply. If you encounter him in person, be firm and clear. Tell him you’re not interested, and you want him to leave you alone.” She sets her arm on the table and leans a little closer. “Don’t apologize to him, and don’t sugarcoat anything. They’ll twist everything. And be sure you’re keeping a log of everything he says and does. Every time you see him, every time he contacts you, you need to record it and call the police.”

I try not to frown, thinking of my encounter with the police last night and how helpless I felt when leaving.

“They didn’t do anything when he broke into her apartment but a fine and a misdemeanor charge,” Grey says.

Colleen sighs as she shakes her head. “That’s ridiculous.” Her lips purse with thought. “You need to be careful. I wish there were strict laws to keep you safe and protected, but right now, you need to watch your back. It’s so important you’re with someone all the time right now. When walking to class or heading to the grocery store, always be with a friend.”

“She stayed with Hudson last year after he broke in, and we’re wondering if that deterred him since he didn’t contact her,” Grey says.

Colleen shrugs. “Maybe? There are so many possibilities. Stalking is underreported and understudied. Many mistake the actions to be flattering or nonpredatory, and as you’ve experienced, little is done even when they cross the line, even when they break the law. That’s why it’s so important you keep track of everything that happens.” She looks at me with eyes the same noteworthy blue shade as Grey’s. “I know it can make you feel silly or paranoid, but he’s a threat, and you need to treat him as one.”

“How were you able to get the guy to stop stalking you? Was he arrested?” I ask.

Colleen shakes her head. “I think he got tired of me pulling a shotgun on him every time he drove by and probably found a new victim.” Terror and pride are visible in her gaze, and she doesn’t hide either.

“Mila’s learning self-defense. She trained with Dustin this morning,” Grey explains.

“Good for you. Even without having someone completely terrifying in your life, I think it’s great you’re learning to defend yourself. Too many men don’t understand the word no.”

“You don’t see him at all anymore?”

Colleen shakes her head. “No. But I’m still careful. I’m always paying attention.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’m sure it was terrifying.”

She gives me a knowing smile, and I appreciate she doesn’t work to brush off the trauma she experienced, either. “Did you grow up in Oleander Springs?” she asks me.

It’s a loaded question. Typically, I’d say yes and not second-guess my response. I did grow up in Oleander Springs, but something about Grey’s mom wants me to be more transparent. “I moved there when I was seven.” I reach for the glass of water in front of me.

“That’s quite the scar.” It’s not an accusation in her tone, but something similar. A polite prompt for an explanation. Briggs and Jon share a similar tone. I don’t know how she noticed; few do. The scar is so old, a mostly silver line against my fair skin, except for near the top, where the skin is always red. Usually, my watch covers it, but I took it off this morning when training and forgot to put it back on.

“Sorry if that sounds nosy. I’m a medical assistant for an orthopedist’s office,” she explains.

I shake my head, refusing the apology. “I cut myself on a piece of glass when I was little.”

“It’s amazing how resilient kids are. Grey was a climber when he was little. I couldn’t turn my back for more than a second.”

I fill myself with chicken and dumplings as she tells me how Grey loved hanging from the trees and how much he loved helping his grandpa. Then I tell her about my parents, and when I mention living beside Lake Oleander, she shares how much she loves the area, and I find myself extending an invitation for her to come anytime.

“I will take you up on that offer,” she says. “We’ll have a girl date.”

It sounds a thousand times better than a self-date.

We clean the kitchen together before Grey shares we have to get going.

Colleen gives me a tight hug. “If you need anything, please feel welcome to reach out. I’d be happy to go with you if you need someone or just talk through things. And if you need an advocate for talking to the police, let me know. I’ll go with you.”

My throat thickens once more as I nod and thank her.

The outside air is a welcomed reprieve, stinging my skin and drying my eyes as the wind hits me.

Grey starts his truck and waits until his mom closes the front door before backing out of the driveway.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

I glance at him, the darkness of the cab cloaking his expression.

“Nothing.”

“Are you worried about Julian?”

“I like your mom.”

He stares at me.

“I struggle trusting people, but I particularly struggle trusting women, especially mothers. A condition of my childhood, I suppose. But I really liked your mom.” The admission is high on the intimacy scale, but I can’t bring myself to care.