Page 4 of False Start, Real Passion
We dive into the details of our next upcoming appearance, the banter flowing easily between us. It’s almost frightening how natural it feels, like we’ve been doing this dance for years.
“So, it’s a date then,” he speaks.
“It’s a gala.”
“So…. a date!,” he replies. “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Make sure it’s sleek…and red.”
***
I shimmy into the dress, contorting myself to zip it up. It’s a miracle I don’t dislocate a shoulder. Makeup is next, a task that takes precision and focus—two things my rattled brain is struggling to summon.
I line my eyes and layer on mascara, wondering if I’ll make it through the night without crying it all off. My hands tremble slightly as I smooth the sleek navy fabric over my hips, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The elegant gown hugs my curves in all the right places, but even the exquisite craftsmanship can’t calm the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach.
At least it isn’t red…and sleek.
The damn charity gala isn’t for another hour, but anxiety is an early guest, seizing my stomach with enough force to send a seasoned PR pro packing. If I didn’t have to take his cocky ass by the hand—and maybe the ego—I’d be gleefully burning this ticket. Instead, I slip into my battle armor and brace for the unpredictable.
His unpredictability sets my teeth on edge. Will he behave himself tonight? Stick to the script we’ve so carefully crafted? Or will he go off-book, leaving me to clean up the mess?
A million things that could go wrong parade through my mind, each one worse than the last. The spectacular unraveling of the scheme to rehabilitate Jaxon’s image leads the parade. Oh, the glamorous drama of being publicly dumped by my pretend quarterback boyfriend before dessert. Wouldn’t that make the headlines sing? If I wasn’t convinced that putting on this show with Jaxon was my professional duty, I’d be on the couch with a glass of wine and some less murderous clothing.
Tonight is our official debut. I wish I could trust him to behave like a decent human.
This is the kind of mess I usually avoid. My career thrives on stability, order, and an unwavering grip on every situation. But now here I am, diving headlong into chaos, like the thrill of saving Jaxon’s sinking reputation is worth the risk of drowning. Why did I agree to this again? The allure of transforming a cocky athlete into a humble sweetheart is hard to resist.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. It’s just another event, Tori. You’ve done this a million times. But this night feels different. Because this night, I’ll be on the arm of Jaxon Reid—star quarterback, notorious playboy, and my biggest PR challenge yet.
A knock at the door jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. I take one last look in the mirror, steeling myself. Game face on. I’ve got this.
I open the door and my breath catches. Jaxon stands before me, all six-foot-something of pure masculine perfection in a tailored black tuxedo. His dark hair is artfully astray, his piercing blue eyes dancing with mischief as they rake over me appreciatively.
“No red?” he asks.
Not tonight, Jaxon. I’m Teflon.
“Damn, Michaels,” he drawls, a slow grin spreading across his chiseled features. “You clean up nice.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the way my heart stutters at his teasing compliment. “Don’t get used to it. This,” I gesture between us, “is strictly business.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” His tone is playful, but there’s a glint in his eye that says he sees right through me. Sees the way my pulse is jumping at the hollow of my throat.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter, grabbing my clutch and stepping into the hallway.
He chuckles, falling into step beside me. “Oh, it’s gonna be a long night, Michaels. A long, interesting night.”
I swallow hard, my nerves kicking into overdrive. Lord help me, I have a feeling he’s right.
***
By the time I reach the hotel where the gala is set to unfold, my head is a kaleidoscope of nerves. Reporters are already swarming outside, and I swallow down the taste of panic. My hands smooth the front of my dress for the twentieth time, but the fabric can’t absorb my unease.
We step out of the limo, and I’m immediately blinded by a barrage of camera flashes. Jaxon, of course, is completely unfazed. He is a devastating mix of polish and rebellion in that sleek black tuxedo. His hair is doing its signature tousled thing, defying gravity and good sense. Confidence radiates off him like he’s in a stadium instead of a hotel lobby. When his blue eyes lock onto mine, the rest of the room blurs out like an afterthought.
He slides an arm around my waist, pulling me close as he greets the reporters with his signature megawatt smile.
