Wade
I’ve been pissing off Gabe Finch since her first NHL press conference.
The snarky sportscaster hates my guts—hungry kisses and an unforgettable night don’t change that—and I can’t get her out of my head. When her cheating ex-fiancé won’t leave her alone, a protective instinct possesses me to butt in and pretend to be her boyfriend.
Big mistake.
Paparazzi capture our exit from the crowded club, and now, our PR teams want us to fake-date for clout.
Should be easy. I can do fake. I’ve faked who I am for years. But with Gabe, everything feels too real, and the façade quickly crumbles despite my usual safeguards.
Maybe for her, I want it to.
Gabe
Wade Boehner is a decent goalie, but wholly unserious and far too arrogant. Plus his frontal lobe only reached maturity, like, yesterday.
I probably need my brain scanned, too. My impulse control short-circuits whenever the handsome idiot struts around.
One angry New Year’s Eve kiss, one night together last summer, and one whiskey-fueled performance as his girlfriend top the list of my poor decisions.
Our bosses want to take advantage of the situation, so for the next four months, Wade and I have to play the happy couple without killing each other. Totally doable, if he could keep his yapper shut and grubby paws to himself. But no, the annoying show-off wants hand-holding and lovey-dovey gestures broadcast on the Jumbotron.
Worst of all? When we’re alone, he slips me glimpses of the real Wade, and I’m afraid of what I’ll feel if I let myself believe he’s more than a brainless, carefree jock.
I’ve been pissing off Gabe Finch since her first NHL press conference.
The snarky sportscaster hates my guts—hungry kisses and an unforgettable night don’t change that—and I can’t get her out of my head. When her cheating ex-fiancé won’t leave her alone, a protective instinct possesses me to butt in and pretend to be her boyfriend.
Big mistake.
Paparazzi capture our exit from the crowded club, and now, our PR teams want us to fake-date for clout.
Should be easy. I can do fake. I’ve faked who I am for years. But with Gabe, everything feels too real, and the façade quickly crumbles despite my usual safeguards.
Maybe for her, I want it to.
Gabe
Wade Boehner is a decent goalie, but wholly unserious and far too arrogant. Plus his frontal lobe only reached maturity, like, yesterday.
I probably need my brain scanned, too. My impulse control short-circuits whenever the handsome idiot struts around.
One angry New Year’s Eve kiss, one night together last summer, and one whiskey-fueled performance as his girlfriend top the list of my poor decisions.
Our bosses want to take advantage of the situation, so for the next four months, Wade and I have to play the happy couple without killing each other. Totally doable, if he could keep his yapper shut and grubby paws to himself. But no, the annoying show-off wants hand-holding and lovey-dovey gestures broadcast on the Jumbotron.
Worst of all? When we’re alone, he slips me glimpses of the real Wade, and I’m afraid of what I’ll feel if I let myself believe he’s more than a brainless, carefree jock.
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