I couldn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, all I could think about
was how I was supposed to act like the girlfriend of the most famous hockey player in the country, who also happened to be my one-night stand from four years ago, and make it believable in front of his father.
No pressure, right?
I kept practicing in the mirror. “Bruce, stop being annoying.” Too harsh. “Honey, should we go?” Too fake. “Babe…” God, no. Absolutely not.
Dealing with rich people meant being composed, poised. They could smell uncertainty like blood. And now that I got this insane opportunity without even fully earning it, I had to make sure I didn’t lose it.
I slipped into one of the outfits I’d picked during my mini shopping spree. Light purple flare trousers that hugged just right, paired with a crisp white turtleneck. I layered it with a long beige jacket that gave me a professional touch and set my black heels beside the bed, ready. I even tied my curls up into a neat bun and put on a little gloss. Not too much. Just enough to look clean and sharp.
I guess I must’ve fallen asleep on my laptop while checking up articles on fake dating etiquette, yes, that’s a thing because the sun on my face and the blaring 7:30 a.m. timeon my screen jolted me straight into panic mode.
“Shit!”
I bolted out of bed, threw on my clothes, grabbed my tiny purse and rushed outside, almost forgetting my phone.
To my utter shock, the sleek white car was already there, parked right outside my gate like some royal escort.
Ian, Bruce’s manager, stepped out casually, not even looking annoyed. “Good morning, Miss Evelyn.”
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I blurted out, panting. “I lost track of, well, I overslept.”
He gave me a small smile. “Mr. Bruce is waiting. Please get in.”
I hesitated for half a second. He was in the car?
I opened the back door and there he was. A black shirt rolled up to his elbows, dark jeans, and a clean expensive-looking watch. His gaze was on his phone, and he didn’t bother to look up. He probably didn't recognize me. He wasn't pretending, was he?
I sat, then he turned.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, eyes flicking up to meet mine.
“Of course I did,” I lied quickly, trying to sound awake and confident.
His gaze narrowed slightly. “Your eyes are swollen.”
My hand flew up to my face instinctively.
“But,” he added, “you look stunning.”
I blinked. It wasn’t even what he said, it was how he said it. Straightforward with no smirk. No teasing tone. Just… a compliment, clean and clear.
I gave a nervous smile. “Thanks.”
The air in the car was strange. Not tense, not exactly awkward. Just… full. Like both of us were thinking about the past, pretending not to.
As the car pulled off, I glanced out the window, heart racing, not from the compliment. Not from the nerves of pretending to be his girlfriend. But because something in Bruce’s presence made it hard to tell what was real.
The car ride to the Roccaforte house was quiet, save for the occasional buzz of Bruce’s phone. I couldn’t get comfortable, sitting there with a fake calm while my stomach twisted in anxiety. I was about to walk into the home of the man who promised me half his properties in exchange for bringing the best hockey player to his house.
When we pulled into the estate, my jaw dropped. The mansion was even more breathtaking in person. A sprawling masterpiece of marble, glass, and manicured hedges. Everything screamed power. No wonder Mr. Roccaforte could casually throw 50 million dollars at me like spare change.
Ian opened the door and I stepped out, heels clicking softly against the driveway. Bruce came around the car, and walked beside me without a word.
The moment we stepped into the house, there he was, Mr. Roccaforte himself. Tall, broad-shouldered, in an expensive robe with a cigar in one hand and that same charmingly dangerous smile on his face.
“Bruce!” he beamed.
To my utter shock, he pulled Bruce into a hug like they’d been best friends for years. Bruce didn’t even flinch. He smirked slightly and hugged him back.
So they did know each other?
Before I could fully process that, Bruce casually wrapped an arm around me and said, “Dad, meet Evelyn. My girlfriend.”
I blinked. What?
Mr. Roccaforte raised a brow, lips curled in surprise. “Your what?”
Bruce pulled me a bit closer, and I stood there frozen. “My girlfriend, Dad. So you can stop with the blind dates. She’s the only one I’m bringing home.”
There was a heavy pause. Then laughter. Loud, hearty, mocking laughter.
Mr. Roccaforte laughed like we were the punchline of a bad sitcom. I felt humiliated. The urge to shrink into the marble floor was strong.
He finally waved Bruce aside. “Come, son. Let’s talk.”
As they stepped into the corner of the massive living room, I stood there, trying to pretend I didn’t just hear that laugh or the ‘son’ echo in my skull.
“Did you know she was here because of me?” his father asked, not even trying to lower his voice.
Bruce shrugged. “So what? You always play dirty to get me home.”
“You still fell for it.”
“The only reason I came back is because you faked a terminal illness, again. Said you had six months left and wanted us to bond before the reaper showed up.”
I stifled a laugh, but it escaped as a quiet chuckle. They both turned to look at me.
Bruce arched his brow. “What’s funny?”
“In one word,” I said, folding my arms, “you both made a fool of me?”
Bruce shrugged, completely unapologetic. “It’s not like you weren’t getting paid.”
Well that was rude.
