Page 130 of The Romance Line

“We do.”

He kisses me and then we head to dinner together in his car. It feels like the start of the next phase of us, even though we walk in side by side like colleagues rather than lovers. Still, I can’t help but feel that fizzy sense of hope. Soon, very soon, we might not have to pretend. We’ve made it through this project, and we’re almost out on the other side where we can sit down, talk, and figure out all the next steps.

That feels even more possible when we reach the tableand Clementine is holding a glass of champagne. “To the makeover queen,” she says to me.

Her praisemakes me feel like I’m valuable to them, regardless of who I love. That I’m useful even if I’ve bent a rule. That they’ll understand I’m too important to let go just because I fell for an athlete.

I hope so. I really hope so. “It was a tough job, but someone had to do it,” I say playfully, then we sit, and I take my glass and clink with the others.

But when I steal a glance at Max, something like suspicion passes in his eyes. I write it off though. I must just be seeing things.

46

A CON JOB

Max

“Did you enjoy the eggplant salad?” the server asks, and the question sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a well.

Is he even asking me?

I tear my gaze away from the water glass in my hand, condensation sliding down the outside of it. I look to the kind-faced server who’s standing by my side, clearing my plate, and yup—heisasking me.

I try to reconnect to the present moment. But it’s hard because my mind is stuck like a tire spinning in the mud. It’s not here at this dinner with the VP of Communications, the general manager, my agent, and my secret girlfriend. It’s not at this table in this trendy Moroccan restaurant in Hayes Valley that Zaire loves.

It’s back in Everly’s house an hour ago. And I can’t stop playing her words on an endless loop—but I’m not doing it tonight.

“The eggplant salad was great,” I say flatly, finally managing to muster a response.

“Wonderful. Would you like any more water?”

I don’t want water. I don’t want an eggplant salad. I don’t want couscous. I want to understand what the hell is going on with my girlfriend, who seems far too fixated on the project rather thanus. “No thanks,” I mumble, then stew some more as he moves down the table.

Fine, her comment aboutnot doing it tonighttechnically makes logical sense, but tomorrow is a game day. Which means I have morning skate, then the fucking game itself, then thirty minutes later we get on the bus to the airport.

Plus, she said she had an early Zoom meeting, and I have The Sports Network thingy when I’d normally nap. When did she think we were going to talk about us? She’s not going on our road trip. I can’t imagine she’ll want to talk about it on the phone when I’m on the East Coast.

Is she…putting this off? My jaw ticks as my mind runs wildly into these woods, all while grabbing the branch of this terrible possibility—what if she’s puttingmeoff?

“Max, are you excited?”

I look up from the water glass that I’m practically crushing in my hand. My agent’s sitting next to me, asking a question. “About what?” I ask.

Garrett gives a smile that feels like a correction, like apay attention, buddygrin. “The documentary episode is a go,” he says. “The producers gave the green light. We’ve been talking about it for the last few minutes.”

“That’s great,” I say flatly, clenching my fist in annoyance under the table, or maybe it’s worry. Looks like Everly thinks this documentary news is great too. Fromacross the table, she’s smiling brightly even as she shoots me a curious look. “Isn’t that fantastic, Max?”

She might as well kick me under the table. But is that coming from the girlfriend side of her? Or the publicist one?

“We are truly so happy,” Clementine says from the head of the table, looking regal with her cinched back hair and strong profile. “It all really came together.” Her pleased gaze turns to Everly. “All that one-on-one time paid off.”

Everly smiles. “I’ve never had to do so much one-on-one work with a player before, but clearly it’s worth it. I was hoping this project would show you what I’m capable of.”

What the fuck? I snap my gaze toward her, narrowing my eyes. What the hell does that mean? I try to ask it silently through, I dunno, mind waves.

But Everly furrows her brow my way, like she’s asking right backwhat’s wrong with you?

I’ll gladly tell her. What’s wrong is that the woman I love thinks I’m just a project. That’s what’s wrong.