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  The response to the first is me, neither, and the answer to the next one is for as long as you want to, please.

  But she says something better. “Cooper, your hair is so soft.”

  The emphasis is on the so. As if she’s tasting the word. As if it’s rolling around on her tongue, lingering in her mouth. And when she moves back, sitting next to me, crossing her legs, I let my eyes drift down to her neck and the exposed skin above her cleavage, flushed pink.

  As if she’s aroused, too.

  I raise my gaze, blinking, trying to center myself and reconnect to this moment. To my friend. To my best friend’s sister.

  My voice comes out gravelly. “We probably need to let Trent know we have to keep this up.”

  “Yes, Trent,” she says, and there’s nothing to kill a mood faster than his name.

  I’m grateful for the buzzkill. Being this close to Violet is dangerous. Something changed last night. I’m not sure how to name it—the way I feel being near her. But I like it. I like it too much for my own good.

  She calls Trent and puts her phone on speaker on her thigh. Quickly, she explains what went down with the landlord, and I tell him about Ford.

  “So, we wanted you to know,” she says.

  “Hey, I get it,” Trent says, because even if he doesn’t want us together, he’s not a dick. He’s a good guy. “And I’m glad this game of pretend can help you both. Feel free to tell any of your new clients, Vi, that if they want to go to the best sports bar in the Bay Area they should hit Trent’s Brew Company.”

  I laugh. “I’ll always send business to you, too, man.”

  “All right. Holly and I need to do inventory.”

  I scratch my chin. “Why do I feel that’s code for something?”

  “I wish it were. We really do need to do inventory,” he says seriously, and I meet Violet’s eyes and stick out my tongue.

  She laughs quietly. “If you say so.”

  “Have fun pretending, and Cooper, don’t touch my sister,” he says in a deliberately stern tone, as if he’s giving me a Very Serious Warning. He says it as if it’s a ridiculous idea, too. As if I’d never want to touch his sister.

  But as we end the call and Violet grabs her pink purse, whatever shifted last night has become clear. I know how to name the feeling. I understand what it is.

  I want to touch her.

  I want to kiss her.

  I want to taste her.

  Last night, my body wasn’t playing tricks on me. It was telling a truth that perhaps has existed for some time now. A truth that was dormant and is now awakened and insistent. It doesn’t want to take no for an answer.

  I’m wildly attracted to my best friend’s sister, but I have to pretend I don’t want to kiss her, touch her, fuck her, and take her home with me.

  That’s where the true faking starts for me.

  12

  It’s our impromptu first date.

  We stroll along the streets of downtown Sausalito as night falls across the sky and the town’s Christmas lights sparkle on signs and trees above us. We wander past the ice cream shop, and we drop into a wine store that’s having a tasting. The sommelier is oblivious, but a customer drinking a red can’t take his eyes off us. That might have to do with the fact that he’s wearing a Renegades jersey. It’s a Jeff Grant jersey, but hell if I care.

  When we leave, he calls out, “Kick some Dallas ass this weekend.”

  I turn around. “Absolutely. Nothing less.”

  Out on the street, with the cool December breeze softly blowing, Violet takes my hand, and her touch ignites a spark inside me.

  I look at our joined hands for a moment, liking how we fit. Then I remind myself she’s just touching me as part of the date.

  “Are you ready for this weekend?” she asks.

  “Yeah. I think so. We had a tough practice today, but I think we’ll take no prisoners on the field. I’m going to spend more time tonight studying the playbook.”

  “Don’t you have it memorized by now?”

  I smile. “I do. I’ll memorize it even more.”

  She laughs, then her voice turns serious again. “Do you ever get nervous before a game?”

  I look to the night sky, pondering her question. “Honestly, no. Because if I do, then I’ll overthink every move. I need to be in the zone both physically and mentally, so I don’t give myself time to feel nervous, if that makes sense. Mostly, I’m pumped full of adrenaline. But a focused kind of adrenaline that beats out the nerves and leaves only this intense desire to get out on the field and win.”

  “Intense desire,” she says, like she enjoys the sound of those words. “You make football sound so passionate.”

  “Of course it’s passionate. How else could you play but passionately?”

  “I style hair passionately,” she says, playful, fluffing out her hair.

  “You touch hair passionately.”

  “I guess your hair just brings out the passionate hairdresser in me,” she says as we reach the fountain near the ferry. A string of red and green lights decorates the ceramic fountain. The water gurgles a gentle tune. She snaps her fingers. “The Passionate Hairdresser! Would that be the most ridiculous or one of the most ridiculous names ever for a salon?”

  I tilt my head and screw up the corner of my lips, as if I’m considering it. “Second most.”

  She gives me an intense look. “Because Curl Up and Dye is the most ridiculous, right?” she asks, emphasis on dye.

  “That would indeed be the worst.”

  She laughs then flops down on the edge of the fountain, gazing at the lights of San Francisco in the distance. “I have to say, Cooper, I’m so happy Jeff Grant finally retired. I know this city loves him, but I was rooting for you the whole time.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, sitting next to her.

  “Of course. I never wanted to say it at the time, because I didn’t want to put pressure on you, but I’m so glad it’s your team now. Ever since high school, since I watched you play on Friday nights, I always wanted to see you in the pros.”

  “Are you coming to my game this weekend, then?”

  She blinks, meeting my eyes. “What?”

  “You say that like it’s a surprise. You’ve been to a couple already. I get you, Trent and Holly and your parents and my mom and Dan tickets. You’re my people.”

  “But this time I’d be coming as your girlfriend?” she asks, drawing quotes around the last word.

  I sketch them back in the cool night air. “Yes, since that’s what you are right now. And if you’re my girlfriend, I would think you’d want to come to the game in that role. Wear that jersey you sleep in,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.

  She lowers her voice. “I won’t wear my sleep jersey. But I will wear one with your number on it. Root for my man and all,” she says nudging me with her shoulder.

  I drape an arm around her and pull her close. “You should absolutely root for your man. Besides, I suspect you’d be a good-luck charm.”

  “What if I’m not? What if you have the worst game of your career?”

  I set my finger on her lips, shushing her. “Never say that again.”

  She smiles beneath my finger. “Sorry.”

  “You’re not allowed to speak. You’re in trouble for saying something horrible.”

  “You’ll have the best game of your career,” she whispers.

  I nod. “Much better.”

  “And I’ll be your good-luck charm.”

  “Excellent. That’s what I thought.” I lower my finger, thinking that’s one lucky digit to be so close to those pretty lips. “By the way, you really thought I was a weird kisser, didn’t you?”

  Might as well get it all out in the open now.

  She laughs, then arches an eyebrow, challenging me. “I can’t seem to remember.”

  I shake my head. “You’re killing me.”

  She taps her bottom lip. “Just give me a peck and remind me.” She grabs her phone. “I’ll take a kissi
ng selfie.”

  “That reminds me. Ford wants me to send him one.”

  “Ford wants a shot of us kissing? He’s the weirdo.”

  “It’s for Instagram or something. He’s setting up an account for me.”

  “Well, let’s give him something to post.”

  She holds up her phone, selfie style, and I suppose it’s time to find out how weird she thinks I kiss.

  This time I lead. This time I’m in charge. I cup her cheek, and look into her eyes. I swear, I fucking swear, I see desire flicker across them. She parts her lips, and I wait, and I wait. Making sure she wants it. Making sure, this time, she feels it everywhere.

  I breathe her in, and it feels like I’m holding in so much. Then I kiss her.

  I’m only gentle for a few seconds. I kiss her harder and deeper, and if she thinks this kiss is weird then she’s an alien. This kiss rocks the motherfucking world of kisses. Soon, she lowers her phone, and that’s my cue to stop. But I don’t, since she doesn’t. She brushes her lips over mine, sliding, dusting, kissing. She flicks the tip of her tongue over me. I groan as her tongue slides between my lips, and we kiss, hard and greedy, for one, two, three seconds.

  Then we stop.

  She looks intoxicated. I feel infatuated.

  She sets a hand on my shoulder. “Better send you home to memorize that playbook.”

  But the playbook I want to learn is the one for her body.

  13

  When I return to my place a little after eight, with plenty of time for a good night’s rest, I can’t believe I actually do this, but I send a picture of me kissing Violet to my agent. His reply is swift—Awww. Melting from the cuteness. Xoxo

  I write back, instructing him to never reply to a kissing photo again.

  When I get into bed, my text notification winks at me. I groan, thinking it’s Ford. But it’s Violet.

  Violet: There’s something I have to tell you.

  * * *

  Cooper: Tell me.

  * * *

  Violet: You’re not a weird kisser.

  * * *

  Cooper: I’m not? I was pretty sure I was. :)

  * * *

  Violet: Not at all.

  * * *

  Cooper: A little bizarre? It’s okay. I’ve had a day to process your condemnation.

  * * *

  Violet: Not even a little, I swear. Not even the smallest amount of bizarre.

  * * *

  Cooper: What am I then?

  I wait, my skin warm, my heart doing funny things in my chest as I stare at the bubbles that tell me she’s tapping out a reply.

  Violet: You’re the opposite of weird.

  * * *

  Cooper: Ah, so a normal kisser, then. I can live with that.

  * * *

  Violet: No. God, no.

  * * *

  Cooper: An average kisser?

  * * *

  Violet: I’m almost afraid to tell you because I don’t want it to go to your head, and it might be big already.

  * * *

  Cooper: It’s big. Everything is big, Vi.

  * * *

  Violet: Can you see me roll my eyes from across the bridge?

  * * *

  Cooper: I can see it and I can feel it. But please, let’s not digress. I can handle the praise. Heap it on me.

  * * *

  Violet: You’re an amazing kisser.

  * * *

  Cooper: Yeah?

  * * *

  Violet: That’s what I wanted to say in the car last night. But then your phone rang, and there was craziness, and yada, yada, yada. So, now I can tell you. Your. Kisses. Rock. I mean for a pretend boyfriend. :)

  * * *

  Cooper: So do yours. For a pretend girlfriend. :)

  * * *

  Violet: Good. I didn’t want you going to bed thinking your kisses were anything but epic.

  * * *

  Cooper: I’ll take epic. But I’m not sure I can sleep now.

  * * *

  Violet: You need your beauty sleep. Good night, Cooper.

  * * *

  Cooper: Good night, Violet.

  * * *

  Violet: See you soon.

  * * *

  Cooper: See you soon.

  * * *

  Violet: Why does a moon rock taste better than an earth rock?

  I laugh as I ask why.

  Violet: Because it’s a little meteor.

  I find a laughing seal emoji and text it to her. I don’t send Ford a screenshot of that. He’d have a field day with it. Just like I’m having a field night right now because it feels like neither one of us wants to say goodbye. Like I could text her all evening long.

  It’s only as I start to drift off that I realize I’m supposed to be keeping it in my pants this season. But we only kissed, I remind myself. My dick is safely in my drawers, thank you very much, and no way will it come out to play. I might want her, but at the end of the day, we’re only friends who pretend.

  A few years ago, the Miami Mavericks drafted a quarterback in the fourth round named Quinn Mahoney. Boasting strong college stats and an impressive bowl record, he was regarded as a solid, steady choice. He turned out to be a steal since the Mavericks went all the way to the Super Bowl with him in his second season.

  Mahoney is a thinker. He’s quick on his feet, possesses razor-sharp instincts, and is fast in the pocket. I admire the fuck out of him.

  Mahoney is also the reason I’m up at the crack of dawn, lacing my sneakers, and pulling on a running T-shirt.

  The dirty little secret about quarterbacks is this—you don’t have to be fit to play the position. Ironic, isn’t it?

  Look around, and you’ll see the guys in the league who are in the best shape are usually running backs and receivers. But the guys who lead the team downfield? Most won’t be posing for the Abs-R-Us calendar. You don’t have to be a specimen to know where to throw and launch a ball with on-the-money accuracy. A quarterback’s best asset is between his ears and in his chest—brain and instinct.

  But hell if I’m going to ever have anyone say about me what was said about Mahoney in his draft report.

  Frumpy body with hardly any muscular definition. Mahoney doesn’t look the part. His uninspired body type will turn off some teams.

  Mahoney has a ring, a wife, a baby, and a fat contract, so his frumpy body didn’t change his fortune.

  Still.

  Maybe I’m vain, but I don’t want that kind of epithet thrown at me. But more than that, I like being fit. I like how it feels. I like how it looks. I like the effort it takes to get there. And I don’t ever want a woman to say Cooper Armstrong is uninspiring when he removes his shirt. I especially don’t want Violet to say that. If the situation ever presents itself, I want her to rip off my shirt, tear off my shorts, and murmur, “Your body is unreal.”

  Then I’d show her how inspired this unfrumpy body can make her feel.

  Crap. Fuck. Dammit.

  I did it again.

  My brain went there.

  Out-of-bounds.

  I lift my hand as I run up a steep hill. “This is your fault for being my closest companion,” I mutter.

  My hand doesn’t reply.

  “You could at least make a joke.”

  Still nothing. I lower my hand.

  I force myself to remember the rules. Violet’s a friend, a fake girlfriend, and my best friend’s sister.

  On top of that, I have a season on the line and a pact with my guys. Winning is my only job right now. And honestly, that’s the real reason I run from Pacific Heights down to the marina and back up Divisadero on Thursday morning as the dark sky hugs the city by the bay. The streets are quiet. My only company is a lone car gliding by now and then and the rare early morning exercise warrior. The first time I ran this steep stretch of road, years ago, it felt like my lungs were on fire and my thighs would burn to ash. Now, it feels like a good workout.

  As I reach the top of the hill, my breath comi
ng fast and hard, I turn around and inhale the view. My reward. The city lies at my feet. From here, I drink in the hills and homes, the curl of the early morning fog, and the Golden Gate Bridge, a beautiful beast standing proud between the Pacific and the bay.

  My gaze drifts farther, imagining what’s beyond the bridge on the other side, in a little rental cottage tucked into the hills of Sausalito. Surely the woman who lives there is fast asleep under the covers. I wonder what she looks like sleeping. How her hair looks fanned out across her pillows. If she snores or breathes quietly. If she starfishes or curls up on her side near the edge of the bed.

  I blink away the possibilities, shelving them in a drawer of things I will never know, right alongside what causes static electricity, and why the hell do baby carrots taste astronomically better than the regular small ones?

  My phone buzzes in my shorts pocket with an incoming text. I grab it as I head the other direction, and it’s like a reward for heeding the five a.m. workout wake-up call.

  Violet: Since second grade, anything kid-related, and the time you threw the game-winning 26-yarder to Jones with 1:30 left against the Seattle Stallions.

  I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of her message. With the street unfolding blissfully on the downhill, I jog lightly as I reply.

  Cooper: I tried Google Translate with womanspeak as the language, but it came out as gibberish. Also, what are you doing up now?