Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
I check my phone again. There aren’t even three dots dancing. I can hear the dread loud and clear, though, in his eventual reply.
Wilder: We are?
Fable: We are!
Then there’s the sigh of resignation.
Wilder: We are.
Fable: It’ll be fun!
Wilder: If you say so.
A good girlfriend, fake or real, would make things easier for her guy. I hop off the bus and head to my apartment, replying as I go.
Fable: I can help you come up with an idea for your costume if you want. Maybe this is how I can thank you! I’m pretty creative.
Wilder: If you insist on thanking me by picking a costume, have at it. But I’m not going as Santa Claus.
Fable: Please. Santa’s not hot. Of course you aren’t going as Santa.
Wilder: You want me to go as someone hot?
Fable: You’re my fake boyfriend. You’ll look hot.
Wilder: Then, you should pick. Also, thank you.
Fable: I could tell you didn’t want to pick. And I like costumes.
Wilder: I had a feeling.
Fable: Why?
Wilder: You seem like the type who can always have fun.
Fable: Do you ever have fun?
Wilder: I’m having fun right now.
I shut the door to my place and quickly change, then write back.
Fable: Me too. I’m wearing my fuzzy snowflake socks…
I pause, considering my next words. Then, what the hell?
Fable: They look hot.
Wilder: Of course they do. They’re on you.
I gasp. And once more I replay the kiss. Then I tell him what his costume is.
The fake boyfriending doesn’t stop at shopping. The next day while I’m working, an email lands on my computer from Shay.
Dear Fable,
Wilder has arranged for a private suite for you at this Thursday’s game. He said you can invite as many friends as you’d like. Hors d’oeuvres included of course. Can you let me know by end of day if you can make it?
Thanks so much! We paw-sitively hope you can!
Shay
Once more, my jaw drops. Is he for real?
No, he’s fake, girl. But seriously. This is elite-level fake boyfriending. I write back in all caps with extra exclamation points and a thousand thank yous.
And on Thursday night, I roll up to the stadium in my Renegades gear with Maeve, Josie, Everly, Charlotte and Leo, and also Rachel and Elodie. Josie brings Wesley, and Everly brings Max. Elodie brings her husband while Rachel brings her sister, Juliet, since her husband—Carter—is on the field prepping to play the game.
I’ve been to private suites before at the Renegades. I’ve stopped by the owner’s suite. But I’ve never—naturally—had my own private one.
I’m giddy as I head up the elevator to the suite level, bouncing as I walk down the hall, and more excited than I think I’ve ever been when an attendant opens the door, and says, “Enjoy the game, Ms. Calloway.”
But then, when I look at the spread, I’m simply touched. It’s all my favorite foods, from olives and cheeses and nuts to mushroom bruschetta, to corn flautas, to zucchini fritters.
And there’s no mayonnaise or shellfish in sight.
My heart pounds. I don’t deserve this level of fake boyfriending, but holy fuck. I am going to enjoy the hell out of it.
“Go Renegades!” I shout.
“Damn, this is nice,” Wesley says, then strides over to the tables full of appetizers. “Can we come to every game?”
“Yeah, it’d be great if you could get a private suite for every home game, Fable,” Max calls out as he follows Wesley.
“Athletes,” Everly says, smiling affectionately. “Food is a tractor beam for them.”
“Um, me too,” Josie says, then follows the guys.
Everly squeezes my shoulder, then says in a soft voice, “Maeve was right.”
“Oh stop,” I say, but I’m blushing.
By the end of the third quarter my voice is hoarse from cheering on the Renegades and shouting you were wrong at the refs when the door swings open. Wilder’s dressed in a suit, no tie. He strides in during a commercial break and comes up to me as I refill my water.
“Are you enjoying the game?”
“Yes! Thank you, boss—”
I’m about to say boss man, when I stop myself. He’s supposed to be my boyfriend. Would I really call him boss man here in front of everyone? “Thank you so much, sugar plum,” I say, then…fuck it. I plant a quick kiss on his cheek.
His breath catches for a second, but he clears his throat and says, “I told you that you should come to the next home game.”
That’s what he said that day in his office when we made this arrangement. When he seemed bothered that I’d watched the Thanksgiving weekend game at home alone instead of with friends. So he made it possible for me to watch this one with them. All of them.
I look around at Everly and Max, checking out the popcorn offerings. At Josie and Wesley, her head on his shoulder in the front row, at Rachel chatting with Juliet and Elodie. This is so…generous. I don’t even know how to properly thank Wilder. “You really did this to make sure I could see the game in person?”