“Sorry, Q. You’ll have to try the restaurant another time. It’s only me and Mira tonight,” Henry says. His next move pretty much stops my heart when he grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together to pull me past Quinn before he can say anything else.
He’s holding my hand.
Henry fucking Price is holding my hand because he’s jealous.
He opens the passenger door of his car for me, and I slide into the seat, careful not to flash him as I get in. I drag my fingertips over the smooth leather interior after he shuts the door. “Where are we going?” I ask Henry, trying to distract him from the fact Quinn tried to crash our date. I’m not mad about how Henry responded, but I do feel slightly bad that Quinn walked in at that exact moment.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, directing a slanted smile my way.
“Apparently, you’re full of surprises. Makes you pretty mysterious,” I tease, hinting at how the media has wrongfully stereotyped him as this mysterious bad boy. However, our previous plan—with the addition of the relationship—seems to be having a better effect on his image than we anticipated.
Henry chuckles, and I hope that means he picks up on my reference. I know he’s under a lot of pressure, but he never gets to . . .be. Part of my plan is to make our PR stunts environments Henry can just exist in. “I thought you were supposed to help make me less mysterious?” he questions, and I roll my eyes.
“That’s the goal, but I’m excited for what we have planned on Saturday. I think you’ll actually have a good time.”
He raises an eyebrow, appearing skeptical. “You sound awfully sure of that.”
“Well, you get to play with puppies, so who wouldn’t be happy about that?”
“I thought Owen promised there would be no holding puppies?” he asks, his eyes glimmering with amusement. Did he not read the schedule Stacey sent him a few weeks ago?
“No, he said holding puppies wouldn’t interfere with football. We’re simply combining the two,” I say. “To celebrate the first game of the season and what not, we’re hosting a Puppy Bowl Saturday with a local animal shelter to help with adoptions, and for every touchdown you throw Sunday, Uncle Owen has offered to donate five thousand dollars.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Uncle Owen’s a huge animal lover. But the real kicker is that if you throw any interceptions, you’re donating seven grand per interception.” That was my idea. He shouldn’t have pissed me off earlier. It was only supposed to be five thousand per interception, but I suggested to Stacey that seven might make the public be more forgiving toward him if he does throw an interception.
“So they get more money if I suck? How the fuck is that fair?” Henry shakes his head like it doesn’t make any sense to him.
“Just let me finish,” I interject, laughing at his reaction. “If we win the game, the stadium has agreed to donate a percentage of every ticket sold to the animal shelter.” Which is a lot of fucking money—that was my idea, too. Actually, the entire thing was my idea, but that’s not important. It’s a tax write-off for them, and good press, so it’s a win for everyone involved.
Henry’s face softens for a moment, redirecting his attention back to the road. His hands are loosely gripping the steering wheel, a picture of assuredness as he drives a car that costs more than some people make in a year.I wonder what his hands would feel like if he put them on me? What would the calluses on his hand feel like scraping over my skin? Does he like to be gentle or rough?
“How much of this was your idea?” he asks, connecting the dots together, pulling me from my explicit thoughts about his hands.God, I’m a mess.
My cheeks flush and I glance down at my hands. Is it dumb that it gives me butterflies knowing he can tell I helped with it? “I submitted it with my application for the internship, but I never thought they’d actually use it.”
“It’s a great idea. They’d be dumb not to use it. I’ll have to make sure I’m on the top of my game so it’s Owen’s wallet that’s hurting and not mine.”
“Either way, I get to play with puppies so I’m happy, but if I were you, I’d try not sucking on Sunday,” I tease, smiling as I’m rewarded with a smile in return. That’s exactly how it feels when he smiles—like a reward. As much as I like his slanted half-smiles, it’s the ones that transform his whole face that make my heart skip a beat. I wish Henry would smile like this more, but if he did, I don’t think it would feel as special when he does.
“Shit, maybe we should have gone to play with puppies tonight instead of going to dinner.” He shakes his head as if scolding himself.
“I’m excited for dinner. I like food,” I say, but honestly, I think I’d like anything as long as Henry is the one next to me.
“I like food too, so we must be a perfect match.”
I don’t know if Henry is aware of what his words do to me, but they make my heart soar. Even if he’s joking, we are a perfect match.
I play with the edge of my dress as I try to think of a response, rolling the satin fabric between my fingertips.
Lately, I think we’ve spent too much forced time together, and it’s had a negative impact on our friendship. It’s nice to willingly spend time together tonight—well, I guess we’re only going on a date because we’re fake dating, but still. Actually, that sounds wrong. It was nice of him to ask to spend time together . . . not that he asked, of course, but he eventually did so after the fact.
Henry breaks the silence in the car as we’re stopped at a red light, halting the racing thoughts inside my head. “You look great, Mirabelle,” Henry says, and I turn in surprise.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling at him as my heart does flips in my chest. “You look nice too.”
The music playing faintly in the background fills the comfortable silence in the car, but my nerves from earlier reappear in full force as Henry pulls up to the valet at one of my favorite restaurants. The front of the building is swarmed with paparazzi, all beginning to take pictures of Henry’s car, the bright flashing of the cameras dimmed by the tint of the windows.
