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I roll over and check the time on my phone. Eleven o’clock. It’s been years since I’ve slept this late. I hobble over to the bathroom first to wash my face, but it doesn’t help much. My cheeks and eyelids are still swollen and red, just like I thought. I have just filled the kettle to make myself some comforting tea when the doorbell rings, startling me.
I peer through the peephole, and the first thing I see is a black baseball cap. A delivery guy is the first thought that comes to mind, but then he lifts his head, showcasing a pair of piercing grey eyes. The same ones I stared into yesterday, right before our mouths crashed together.
What is he doing here? I try to tame my hair as best I can and then wrap my pink bathrobe over my pyjamas when I realise I’m not even wearing a bra.
I crack the door open and scrutinise him. “What are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you too,” he teases, flashing his signature smile. Gosh, he’s hot when he does that.
“Hi,” I say, hugging myself to make sure my bathrobe stays shut. “Seriously, though. What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
I step aside to let him in. He takes off his cap, and I notice he has an undercut—like I imagined— with longer, slightly wavy hair on top that’s a dark espresso brown. It reminds me of the hairstyles the guys sport in the show Peaky Blinders. Maybe he’s from Birmingham?
He ruffles his hair and looks around. “Cool place.” No, that’s not a Brummie accent.
“Thanks. Am I going to have to ask again, or are you going to explain what on earth you are doing in my flat, and how on earth you’ve found me?”
“Right,” he mumbles, eyes darting around. “Don’t I get a drink or something? Is this how you treat your guests?”
“I haven’t invited you, remember?”
He studies me quickly. “Are you still in your PJs?”
I roll my eyes. “Do you want tea?”
“Sure, that’d be lovely.” He sits down on the sofa, eyeing the shot glasses and the half-empty tequila bottle still on the glass coffee table.
I come back with two steaming cups of tea. Grabbing a pair of coasters from a basket under the coffee table, I put the cups down and settle into the armchair across from him.
“Are you moving out?” he asks, nodding to the cardboard boxes piled in the corner.
“Nope. Why are you here, Wade?”
He pulls something out of his back pocket and throws it on the coffee table. It’s the front cover of some trashy magazine. The cover image is a zoom-in on Wade kissing me in front of the airport. My cheeks warm at the reminder before realisation hits me. I’m kissing Wade Hunter—on the cover of a magazine.
The headline says, “England’s Golden Boy Has Found Love.” I pause, unable to tear my eyes away from the picture.
“Here’s the full article,” Wade says, tossing me a folded sheet of paper. Below the picture of our kiss, a caption reads, “Sorry, ladies. Looks like Wade Hunter is taken.”
And below, the short article continues, “One of Britain’s most eligible bachelors, Wade Hunter, was seen out with his new girlfriend yesterday at Heathrow Airport. The footballer, who’s famously discreet about his personal life and has claimed football is his only love, has clearly changed his mind. Hunter appears at peace and happy, a welcome change of pace after he exchanged fisticuffs in a pub fight last month. Let’s hope the Regents’ frontman won’t get distracted by his new blonde babe and will reserve some of his energy to qualify his team for the Champions League quarter finals in two weeks.”
I drop the article on the coffee table. I look like crap in this picture. After all my dieting these past weeks, how do I still look like I’m wearing a plus-size dress?
“So, yeah,” he says while ruffling his wavy hair, bringing me back to reality. “Obviously, we were photographed together yesterday at the airport. My publicist—she’s the one who found you, by the way. Not sure how—thinks it’d be smart to keep pretending for a while, be seen together in public, et cetera. It’d help get my image back on track.”
“Why is it off track?”
“You read the article. I was in a pub fight a couple of weeks back. Not my proudest moment. I’m supposed to be Ivory Sportswear’s new ambassador, but now, they’re rethinking their choice. My club isn’t happy either, and with my contract expiring this year, it’s not the best time to garner a bad reputation.”
“So, you want us to, what, fake date? To help your image? I’m sure there are hundreds of girls who would be head over heels to date you. It says so right here in the article,” I say, picking it back up. “One of Britain’s most eligible bachelors.”
“Yes, but I was seen with you. If I start dating someone else now, they’ll say I’m a womaniser or something,” he rebuts before taking a sip of his tea, which reminds me I haven’t even touched mine.
“Are you?” I throw the piece of paper back on the table.
He picks it up and points to a line of text. “Right here. ‘Football is his only love.’”
