“No.” I want to tell him this whole thing has me on edge, but I can’t quite form the words. They’re on the tip of my tongue, but I’m not the kind of sports agent who gets on edge. I’m the woman with a reputation for being cool, calm, and collected—always. I remind myself that this is the reason I should take my wine and leave—the reason why I said I didn’t want to interact with Mack in the first place. “No, I wasn’t expecting anyone at all. Just wanted to see if things were going okay up here. He seems to like her?” I glance over at one of the other football players who seems to be looking in our direction, and I give him a nervous smile. Most of them probably suspect that the relationship is a marketing move, but it’s not something we necessarily want to advertise.
“Yeah, he seems to like her fine—but…” Wingate’s voice trails off and he takes a glass of dark, rich red wine in his hand. He looks at me and shrugs.
“Cat got your tongue?” I take a sip of my own wine, letting the taste overtake my senses, letting it relax me as I stand there, watching the football players at their most well-behaved. “I’m in this for the money that comes after we finish our job here, W. I think I need to know what comes after that ‘but.’”
Wingate shrugs again, and I remember how he used to infuriate me—infuriate both me and Mack, come to think of it. Wingate was always the one watching, mulling things over. Mack and I always called ourselves “people of action”—act first, figure out the details later. That aspect of my personality is why I’m damn good at my job—but it’s also why I’m here in Charlotte in 95 degree weather, trying to smooth over my ex-fiancé’s image problem with a country singer who kind of seems like a bitch.
“He just didn’t seem like himself is all,” Wingate finally replies. He bites his lip and drinks more of the wine, nodding again at the football player watching us from across the room.
I can tell there’s more to say. My pulse quickens, and I can’t quite pinpoint the reason why. “What? Did he want the more authentic experience of seducing her himself and getting her into bed for a one-night stand?”
Wingate shakes his head. “Naw. Nothing like that. To be honest, Ren, he said he didn’t know why you couldn’t act as his fiancée. Or girlfriend, or whatever your plan is for this. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good goddamn plan. But he seemed to be having second thoughts about it. And I did tell him—to my credit—that he knows goddamn well why you can’t be his stand-in girlfriend.”
I gulp. “Well good. Thanks, Wingate.” I stand there, stiff as a board, not quite knowing what to say. I would have thought that Mack hadn’t been thinking of me for years. After all, his brother made it clear that I wasn’t the woman he wanted anymore. He told me that I needed to go be on my own because Mack wasn’t coming for me, and he had no intention of pursuing our relationship. And when I felt I couldn’t go any lower, his brother Jared had said that Mack didn’t love me and there was no way in hell we were getting married.
How do you go from that to wondering why I can’t be his girlfriend? Even if it is six years later… and even if it’s only fake…
Not for the first time, I feel like something isn’t right, that there’s a piece missing from the story I’ve told myself for the past six years.
“You think you should be here? You said you were planning to keep away from this man while you were doing your job, Ren. And as much as I love Macklin, I think that was probably a good decision. And here you are, standing not fifteen feet away from him, your eyes wandering over… Maybe you should take your wine and go relax. I can come over after this whole thing is tied up.” Wingate pats me on the shoulder and goes over to his football friend again, not even looking back over his shoulder to see my reaction.
For the first time in a long time—years, maybe—I’m left wondering what to do. I came here to make sure everything was going well—and it is. But was there another reason, one I’m not acknowledging?
From across the room, Mack’s eyes finally meet mine. Kinley is hanging off of his arm and talking to one of the other players, glass of wine in hand. The wine is disappearing faster than it should, but she keeps her composure all the while she’s talking—just like the hostess she’s meant to be. The photographer’s camera keeps flashing, but once Mack’s gaze has caught mine, he doesn’t look away. I stand there, sipping my own wine until it starts to taste sour in my mouth. Eventually, Kinley’s arm falls away from Mack’s, and I watch as he crosses the room toward me. Time nearly stops, going in slow motion, as he approaches. My heart catches in my throat, stomach dropping to the bottom of my body, nerves on fire. Each bodily reaction gives me shame. It’s not the same sensation as watching a new lover from across the room—instead, I’m watching someone who broke my heart, someone who still maintains control over me for reasons I don’t fully understand. When he’s close enough to reach out and touch me, he stops, putting his hands in his pockets just like he always did when he was nervous. He wears an uncertain smile on his face, and the top button of his immaculately tailored button-down shirt is unbuttoned, showing a hint of his white t-shirt beneath. I can smell him—the scent of his piney cologne, mixed with the smell of his skin, the thing that makes Mack uniquely himself. Heat floods my body, and I step back, nearly bumping into the wine bar with its selection of expensive, bold wines.