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  Violet makes it to the front, and since the stage is two feet off the floor, I bend and offer a hand. Then I think fuck it.

  I grab her slim hips, lift her on stage, and plant a quick kiss on her cheek. I catch a faint whiff of her shampoo, or maybe it’s her perfume, like peach and a soft breeze. It flutters across me and catches me off guard. I wasn’t expecting to enjoy her smell so much.

  She gasps her surprise, and Sierra emits a small eek. The hospital rep beams, as if she’s a proud matchmaker. She extends a hand to Violet. “We are so very grateful for your generosity.”

  “It was truly my pleasure,” Violet says, and I can tell from her voice she’s still surprised she’s on stage. “We’re so happy to give our support.”

  Sierra arches a brow at the word we’re.

  “I mean, I am,” Violet corrects, bringing her hand to her chest, even though, of course, I am so happy to give the support. I tug her in close, my way of letting her know her we comment was just fine. She fits nice and snug next to me. Sierra notices, her green eyes sliding over us. “You two are so adorable together. You know each other, don’t you?”

  Sierra sure knows how to read a situation. Violet and I have always gotten along well. Even though she’s Trent’s sister, the three of us have been buds, and I consider Violet one of my closest friends, too.

  “She’s from my hometown,” I answer quickly. “I’ve known Violet my whole life.”

  “Well, he moved to Petaluma when I was five and he was six,” Violet interjects. “Not entirely our whole lives. For instance, I never saw him in diapers.”

  “Thank God for that,” I say, wiping my brow in a whew gesture.

  “Do you remember the day you met Cooper?” Sierra asks.

  Violet nods. “I was riding my bike with the purple tassels and pink wicker basket, and I saw him moving in down the street. All I thought was boys were yucky.”

  Laughter floats from the tables, and Holly shouts, “I used to think that, too.”

  “We’re still yucky,” I say with a smile.

  “You’re adorable,” someone shouts from the audience.

  “And what do you do now, Violet?”

  “I’m a hairstylist,” she says with a smile. She’s humble, too, since she’s more than a stylist. She’s a business owner.

  “She’s not just a stylist,” I chime in. “She owns a salon.”

  Sierra flicks her hand through her auburn locks. “I’ve been looking for a new hairdresser.”

  Violet laughs. “I’ll give you your first cut on the house.”

  Sierra beams. “I’m there!”

  Another person yells, “Violet, I want your boyfriend. Can you share him?”

  Violet swallows and blinks at that word. Boyfriend.

  The hospital rep thanks Violet again then exits the stage while Sierra continues her questions. “Tell us what made you bid so high for Cooper.”

  The hostess thrusts her mic at Violet. She looks at Sierra, then me, her eyes saying you decide, Coop. I was just trying to save your sorry ass.

  “She wanted to make sure no one else got me, of course,” I say, as if there can’t be any other answer.

  “Well, naturally, that’s the point of a high bid. But does that mean you’ve been wanting to bid on him for a long time?” Sierra asks, and as soon as the question comes out of her mouth, I know what’s happening. She’s constructing the story everyone wants to hear. The hometown girl crushing on the guy who made good. Before either of us can correct her, since that’s not the case in the least, Sierra’s eyes light up, flashing with the thrill of discovery. “Wait! You two are together. You’re boyfriend and girlfriend, aren’t you?” Sierra asks, then points to Violet. “And that’s why you didn’t want your man to go home with anyone else tonight. Am I right?”

  She’s wrong. She’s so wrong she’ll never be right. Violet shakes her head, but when she sees Maxine in the crowd, still staring at me, Violet’s no turns into a maybe as she looks at me, her eyes asking me if that’s the new story.

  I glance at the woman who wants me to be her hallelujah and make a split-second decision.

  Fuck yeah.

  Sierra has handed us the perfect cover. Who cares that Violet and I would never happen? God bless reporters and their hunt for a story.

  I smile brightly. “That’s right, Sierra. That’s exactly it. We might as well admit it now.” I drape my arm over Violet’s shoulder and tug her closer. “She’s my girlfriend, and I couldn’t be more thrilled she won me, since she’s the one I want to spend every night with, but especially for a good cause.”

  I hope to hell Trent isn’t pissed at me, but when my eyes find him in the audience, he looks more like he’s rubbernecking. No surprise—he knows Violet and I would never be together. I’ll just make sure he knows the score later, on all counts.

  Sierra gives me an expectant look. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” I ask, knitting my brow. What else does she want from me? She’s got the story, she has a record-high bid, and the auction was a hit. Time for us to strut off stage, toast to our little ruse, and go our separate ways home. Problem solved, game over.

  Right?

  But Sierra pins me with her journalistic gaze. She gestures pointedly to the lady in my arms. “Don’t you want to kiss the girl who just gave ten thousand dollars for a date with her boyfriend?”

  That was a play-action fake I wasn’t expecting.

  I square my shoulders, clear my throat, and sneak a peek at Violet. Her amber eyes are unreadable, and I’m honestly not sure what to do next.

  Then, someone starts clapping. Another woman cheers. Hoots and hollers bounce off the walls.

  Seems the audience wants a show.

  When you play a game on TV in front of millions, and in front of fifty thousand people in the stadium, you aren’t uncomfortable with an audience witnessing your failures and your victories. But when I angle to look directly at Violet, nerves spike inside me, and I’m not sure why. I’ve known her for more than twenty years, since that day she thought I was yucky.

  Maybe I’m still yucky to her, and that’s why she’s frozen.

  Hell, the woman saved the day, but I can’t imagine Violet wants to amp up the ruse. Maybe she’ll want to come clean this second, and admit we aren’t really a couple.

  I swallow, prepping for the unraveling of our little fable. Instead, her gaze shifts to the audience, as if she’s pointing at them. As if she’s saying give them what they want.

  I blink. Holy shit. She’s serious?

  “Kiss me,” she whispers so damn quietly.

  She’s serious.

  “She’s open, Coop. Give her a kiss!” someone shouts from the crowd, and I suppose I should ask for Trent’s permission. I should check and see if he cares that I’m about to kiss his sister. But she’s already signed the permission slip, and she’s the one calling the shots.

  As I bend closer to her, I don’t think of a damn thing but her lips, and her request.

  Kiss me.

  I tell myself to keep it chaste. Keep it tasteful, because this is being simulcast. But hey, it’s local cable access. So maybe a little tongue is fine. TV tongue, not porno tongue. Just a quick kiss to seal this charade. No one will know she’s just my best friend’s sister.

  Her chin is tipped up, her amber eyes are inviting, and there’s that scent again. Peaches. It does something to me. Floats into my nostrils. Scrambles my brain. Makes me want to taste her pretty peach lips for real.

  Kiss me.

  I brush my lips to hers and tell myself to pull away, pull away, pull away. All we need is a kiss for the cameras. For the show. To put a neat little bow on this night. Then, we can dust off our hands and return to what we’ve always been.

  Buddies.

  But I don’t pull away.

  I don’t break the contact. Nor does she. Neither one of us makes a move to stop. And that, right there, changes the game. This isn’t a peck anymore. It ratchets up the kiss scale. Violet s
lides her lips over mine, and I groan from the feel. My head is a haze, and I’m not sure I can move. She moves, though. She kisses me as if she’s telling the whole crowd I belong to her. As if she wants everyone to know she’s claimed me. That she’s taking me home tonight and every night.

  Hell, this girl can act.

  The problem is my dick is a method actor.

  Because this should just be an ordinary staged kiss.

  But he’s gone rogue.

  The idiot between my legs is malfunctioning, pointing at the wrong person in an absolutely inappropriate manner. Violet resides in the not-allowed-to-think-of-as-hot category. I’m friends with her whole family, for Christ’s sake. I’m not supposed to be attracted to her, I shouldn’t be turned on by her, and I’m not going to let myself get carried away with this performance. But tell that to my body, because I’m immensely turned on as Violet and I kiss more deeply. I’m sinking into this kiss, and I need to wrestle some control back. It’s not possible for me to be this goddamn attracted to a woman who’s been like a sister to me.

  I let that word echo in my head. Sister.

  Except, there’s nothing sisterly about the softness of her lips, or the peach taste of her gloss, or the scent of her fresh and minty breath.

  I’m not thinking of sisters. I’m thinking of this woman.

  I take over, cupping her cheeks with my hands. I hold her face and seal my mouth to hers with a deeper, more passionate kiss. I forget where I am. I forget the crowd. The attendees. The emcee. My teammates. Jillian. Maxine. Trent. I kiss Violet on stage, savoring her taste, reveling in the sweetness of her lips, delighting in the scent that engulfs me. I kiss her like she is my girlfriend, like she’s the only one who should be winning a date with me, because she’s the only one I could possibly want.

  When our lips slide apart, her lip gloss is smudged. Her amber eyes are glassy and dazed. I wonder how mine look and if they match hers.

  The crowd goes wild.

  Sierra cheers, then says, “The quarterback and the hometown girl. Now, that is a winning bid.”

  The collective awww tells me this is a story they like.

  But when I head backstage, Violet’s hand in mine, I see we’ve slid into a whole new pack of problems.

  5

  Jillian marches up to me, her heels clicking on the floor. Her eyes drill holes through me. Her lips approximate a thin line. Her arms go straight in front of her. She pushes my chest. She’s tough, but I don’t move.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, confused, because she should be happy, right? “Your pretty kitties earned so much money.”

  The smile that spreads quickly tells me she’s one happy mama cat. “I know! I’m so thrilled!” She shoves me again.

  “Then why are you pushing me?”

  Another shove. “Because you didn’t tell me.” Jillian gestures wildly from Violet to me. “How could you not tell me you were dating? We were all in the suite together, and I had no idea.”

  Jones gives me a satisfied smirk from his post backstage. He knows Violet and I aren’t together. He keeps his mouth zipped, though. Harlan, too, is quiet, and so is Rick.

  I take a deep breath, and in that span of a few seconds, I consider my choices. Let her believe the fib, or let her in on the ruse. The thing is, Jillian works for the team. Even though she’s friendly with us, she’s still management. She’s not a teammate. She’s not taking hits for me on the field.

  If I told the guys the truth, they’d have my back, since that’s what we do for each other. But I don’t know where Jillian’s loyalties lie, so it’s best not to tip my hand.

  “You know how these things go,” I say, keeping it vague as I squeeze Violet’s hand. I startle when I realize I’m still holding it. How did that happen? I guess I grabbed on when we left the stage and never let go. She squeezes back, giving me a smile. Okay, fine, we’re officially still holding hands.

  Jillian’s eyes widen, and her grin is huge and hungry. “No. I don’t know how it goes. Tell me.” Her tone is rich with excitement. I suppose these stories can be the fun ones for a publicist. She’s eating it up, like Sierra did. “I want details. You know I’m going to get calls from the press asking about the two of you. I already have reporters texting me, wanting to know the story, wanting to know who your lovely stylist-turned-girlfriend is.” She brandishes her cell phone.

  I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “Damn, they work fast.”

  And I need to work faster. I need to figure out what our story is. Think, Armstrong, think.

  Jones meets my gaze, then steps in. “Here’s what you tell them. Tell them it’s none of their fucking business.” Then he softens and gives the publicist a hug. “Good night, Jillian.”

  When he breaks the embrace, he tips his head to the exit. “We have an early practice tomorrow.”

  “But we have paperwork to do from the auction,” she calls out as he pushes on the heavy door. “Totals, sign-off from the bidders, et cetera.”

  Violet grabs a pen from her purse, while Jillian thrusts the clipboard at her with the papers indicating she won me with a $10,000 bid. My good friend scribbles her signature, yawns, and says, “I’m exhausted. Can we catch up on everything else tomorrow?”

  She smiles sweetly at Jillian, charming the minx.

  Jillian is powerless before her. “Of course.”

  Jones ushers us into the hall, down the stairwell, and to the employee parking lot that the hotel let us use tonight. He arches a brow when we reach Violet’s car. “I assume you two have shit to get straight. So, I’ll let you figure the rest out.” He nods decisively. “You just let me know what you need me to say, got it?”

  “Thanks, man,” I say.

  “Don’t even think twice about it.”

  He walks away, and it’s just Violet and me at her emerald green Mini Cooper. “So . . .”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lip. “So . . .”

  Your lips taste amazing.

  You kiss like a dream.

  You turned me on more than you should.

  Whoa. I don’t know where the hell those thoughts came from, but I’m evidently drunk from that kiss. I lift the corner of the carpet in my mind and sweep those ridiculous ideas under it. There. I’m not thinking about her lips anymore. I clear my throat. “I believe a thank you is in order. You are a goddess and a saint, and I’m incredibly grateful.”

  Just focus on the bid, not the kiss.

  She punches my arm in an old buddy, old pal way. “You should be thanking your bank account. You just bought yourself for a pretty penny.”

  I laugh. “True, that. I’m quite a generous contributor to charity.”

  “You are.” She fiddles with her bracelets and then looks up at me. Concern flickers across her eyes. “I didn’t bid too high, did I? Are you pissed?”

  My jaw clangs to the pavement of the parking lot. “Are you kidding me?” My voice echoes loud in the cavernous space. I lower it. “Fuck no. I meant it when I said I’d rather get splinters in my ass. Plus, I’ve got the money, and it’s a great cause.”

  She wipes the back of her hand dramatically over her forehead. “I knew it was a lot, and I was a touch concerned that you’d freak out. But mostly you looked like you needed rescuing.”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  She taps the side of her nose. “I figured it out pretty damn quickly.”

  “Thank the Lord.” I tilt my head in the direction Jones made his exit. “What should I tell Jillian when she asks again? Do I tell her we split up? That it was a short-lived thing?” I ask, but each of those options feels wrong, and I’m not entirely sure why. “Or do I say we’ve been together for a while, and leave it at that?”

  Violet hums, like she’s thinking. “That could work, especially if you play up the whole privacy angle. Like we haven’t said anything for that reason and we want to keep it that way?”

  I screw up the corner of my lips, hunting for an answer, too. “Or, maybe I should see if i
t all blows over tomorrow? Maybe it won’t be that big a deal?”

  Violet’s eyes light up. “There are so many more interesting things to talk about in this town. We’ll be the flavor of the night, and I’m sure by tomorrow no one will care.”

  “Exactly. No one will care,” I echo.

  She dips a hand into the side of her pink leather handbag—it’s a Coach, and I know this because my mom loves handbags, and I take her shopping for them regularly. Violet finds her keys then flashes me a friendly smile. “I should go. The salon opens at nine tomorrow, but the landlord is coming by at eight thirty for a meeting.”

  I groan. “What does he want this time?”

  She sighs. “Who knows? Last time, he dropped by to tell me I was generating too much trash, which is kind of ridiculous since most of our trash is . . . wait for it . . . hair.”

  “Hair, of course, occupies an inordinate amount of space in the dumpster.”

  “I know. The time before it was noise. Because hair dryers are soooo loud,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  “Violet, don’t be silly,” I say in mock seriousness. “It was probably the sound of the aerosol hairspray that’s violating eardrums.”

  She laughs. “But I suspect he wants to lease the space to some buddy of his who’s keen to sell Sausalito tchotchkes to tourists.” Her salon is located in the heart of the tourist town’s commercial district. Prime pickings for peddling snow globes of boats and the houses perched on hills the town is known for.

  “Call me crazy, but I feel like the world doesn’t need more tchotchkes.”

  She holds up a finger to make a point. “But they do need better hairstyles.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I realize I’m delaying her. I’m standing here volleying with her when the woman has said she needs to cruise. What am I keeping her for, anyway? For her to tell me she wants to bang in her back seat? It’s a small car, and ideally, I’d rather spread her out on my bed. But if she wanted to test the strength of—