Page 24 of Her Game Plan

“Same.” She lifts herself to sit on the countertop across from me. “Sorry about last night. And for not reaching out today. I know you’re doing me a huge favor; I just wasn’t sure how to explain to Finley why I needed your number without telling her about the fake-dating thing.”

“Shit,” I mumble. “I didn’t even think about that. I asked Beckett for your address. I think we’re going to have to bring them into the cone of silence. How big is the cone, anyway?”

Charlotte doesn’t look annoyed at my slip-up. “That’s okay. I’m hoping to keep it as small as possible. If my dad finds out… honestly, I don’t know what he’d do. And I’m not interested in learning the hard way. But after the last six months, we can confidently say Finley and Beckett can keep a secret.”

I chuckle. “Great. I’ll let you tell them, then?” This is starting to feel like a weird business meeting.

“Mum kissed Dad!” Marlee screams from behind us. We both turn to look at her, and her eyes land on me. “Do you kiss Aunt Charlotte?”

I meet Charlotte’s gaze, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“Ew. Gross,” Charlotte replies, her tone teasing. “I don’t kiss boys. They have cooties.”

I turn around to see Marlee nodding sagely as if that was the only correct answer.

“Do we kiss?” I whisper.

Charlotte purses her lips, and suddenly, I’m very invested in the answer. “Maybe. Probably. I mean, we’re both adults. We can kiss and not have it mean something. Unless you’re not okay with that? We’ll definitely have to hold hands. Hug, too.”

“I’m good with whatever.” Because I am. At this point, my body barely feels like my own, just another piece of equipment owned by the team and leased out to companies for commercials every now and again.

“Are you going to be this agreeable the entire time?” Charlotte questions, leaning forward from her perch on the white granite countertops. “It’s unnerving.”

“Why?” I sputter. I’ve never had someone complain about the fact that I’m willing to go with the flow before. And I don’t care. If I had an opinion, I would voice it. But I don’t. If she wants to hold hands, great. If Charlotte wants to kiss, fine. If she wants to make out in front of her niece… well, that might be where I draw the line. But we could sneak into her bedroom or something.

“No one just agrees to everything.” She gestures widely. “You have to have an opinion. Push back.”

“I guess I don’t have a lot of preconceived notions about how fake dating is supposed to work. If you want, I can go watch a bunch of rom-coms to form an opinion, but it feels like a waste of time since I’ve already agreed to help you. So you just need to tell me what is going to help.”

She looks at me skeptically before finally voicing her requests. She tells me about her brother’s confession, that the team needs a new sponsor, and what that will require. I agree, reminding her I would’ve been invited to some of those meetings anyway. People with money like meeting people with fame, and that is, for better or worse, me. She also tells me about her family, how often they like to get together. She’s already told me this, but I reassure her I’m game for whatever family events I can attend while reminding her that it won’t be much.

Marlee wanders over, the music coming from the TV suggesting her show has ended. Charlotte quickly scoops some ice cream for her and convinces her to go back to the show.

“Why do you have twelve flavors of ice cream in your freezer?” I ask when Marlee is back on the couch, watching the next episode.

“Didn’t know what Marlee would want.”

I laugh. “So you bought one of each?”

“Yes. I hate having my options limited. Just because she’s three doesn’t mean Marlee does, either.”

“Okay.” I try to keep the amusement from my voice, but I fail. “So, now that we’ve got your ice cream preference, or lack thereof, out of the way, you want to tell me about this whole living-together thing?”

Charlotte drops her head into her hands. “It wasn’t my finest moment. And if we’re going to do this, you should know something about me: I frequently say things without thinking. I’d like to tell you I’m working on it, but I’m not. It’s worked out well for me until recently. Honestly, even this, as inconvenient as I’m sure it is for you, is so much smarter than anything I could’ve come up with if I’d given myself time to think about it or second-guess myself.”

I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s kind of genius, right? Besides the fact that we aren’t actually dating”—she waves that away, as if it’s not a real problem—“it checks so many boxes at once. Committed to the Stallions? Check. Serious about settling down? Check. Plausible reason for not having told my family at this point? Check. Not a musician? Check.”

“You’re against musicians?” Why am I suddenly jealous of anyone with a musical bone in their body?

She rolls her eyes. “No. My dad is against musicians. I’ve dated a few, and he’s always been vocally opposed. Though my friend Addie would tell you it’s because the men I’ve dated have been assholes—eh, or less assholes, more narcissists. But she’s never been to therapy or taken a psychology course, so you really shouldn’t trust her diagnoses.”

I’m starting to understand her warning about words coming out of her mouth without any consideration. Our interactions before this have always been short bursts of annoyance or arguments, so I’ve always assumed she’s quick-witted. She’s clearly that, but it’s something more. Her words are pouring out of her, no filter to slow anything down. Her mind must process at a speed rarely seen in people for her to be able to form coherent thoughts that quickly.

“Oh! But about the living situation. I told my dad we were moving in together soon. I was hoping to slow-roll it and say we’re still getting everything settled, or we’re renovating a closet for me or something, but Addie—the friend I was telling you about!—she needs a place to live starting the first of August. I might’ve told her she could stay here. And while I intentionally bought a condo with only one bedroom so I wouldn’t be tempted to set up an office in the guest room and work at all hours of the day, I now see how that might’ve been an oversight on my part. So, if I could move in with you, that would be ideal.”

It takes me longer than I’d like to fully process everything she said, but I finally reply, “Okay. You can move in whenever you want. I have six guest rooms. And an office. You should see my desk: it’s fucking awesome.”