scorching heat that’s been in the room since she walked in—finally gets to me.
I grab her wrist and lick the same finger, my lips tugging on the skin. “I can play games too, Sugar. Are you back to finish what we started?”
Her breathing deepens. “We did finish.”
“And it was spectacular.”
“Not denying it.”
“But…what do you really want from me? Is it this?” I press a hot kiss to her palm.
12
Sugar
There are two breeds of girls from the South: Southern belles with their debutante balls, cultured pearls, monogrammed napkins, and big fine houses, and then there are girls like me who were raised in a trailer park on the wrong side of town with a strong tenacity to claw our way out. Don’t get me wrong, Mama was good to me, and she worked hard even though those last years she got a little lost. She got up every morning, made me a big breakfast, took me to school, and went to work. Week after week, she worked, bouncing from one hotel/motel cleaning position to another. We lived near the interstate, and Lord knows there was a slew of them to pick from. She never stayed anywhere long, though, and sometimes I think maybe that was my fault because she was a single mom and it was hard for her to take care of me. She used to tell me she dreamed of going to beauty school, and it kills me that she never got to fulfill her dreams.
I think back to one of the last conversations she had with me.
You have to live life fearlessly, Sugar. Recognize that things are scary and uncertain but jump in anyway. If you don’t, how will you ever know?
And it’s her voice in my head as I stand in Zack Morgan’s kitchen.
He’s just kissed my hand and now he’s staring down at me, waiting for me to tell him what I want. “Why are you really here?” he says, his tone soft.
I pull my hand out of his grasp. My heart is beating double time. Part of me is seriously annoyed that he has this pull over me while the other side just wants to throw him down, saddle up, and ride him like the thoroughbred he is.
I take a deep breath and go for it. “I need a fake boyfriend who plays hockey, specifically you.” I let those words sink in.
His brows go straight up, surprise on his face. “Didn’t see that coming. Why?”
I huff out a laugh, struggling for words. “I—I applied to Vanderbilt Law School and was waitlisted.”
He nods, crossing his arms. “That sucks. Go on.”
“And there’s this interview thing in Nashville this spring where you have dinner with the admissions faculty. Mostly it’s to see who still has them on their list and who’s moved on to another school—which I won’t. It’s Vandy or nothing. I can bring a guest. Maybe you?” I hold my breath.
His eyes analyze me. “Why me?”
“William Fitzgerald is the dean of admissions and a huge fan of the Predators.” I twist my lips. “It’s public knowledge from his social media. He’s constantly posting about how excited he is to see you join the team in Nashville this summer…”
He cocks an eyebrow.
“And…if he thought I was your girlfriend, he might give me a shot.”
“I see.” He paces around the small kitchen, his brow knitting. I study him while he isn’t looking, tracing the lines of his angular face, taking in the shadows under his eyes. I pause, wondering what keeps him up at night. There’s more to him, something deep and dark—
He lets out a deep exhalation and rubs a hand over his lips. I think I’ve blindsided him.
Shit. He’s going to say no.
I start talking fast. “It would just be for that event—if you would go with me. Plus, we don’t even have to talk to each other until then. We can just say we’ll do it and shake on it…or something. It’s a trip out of town, but I can pay for it. I’m working extra shifts and I’m not splurging on any extras.”
“Will this plan of yours push someone else out of a place?”
“No, this event is all about who is willing to not apply to other schools and maybe snag the spot of someone who’s dropped out at the last minute. With my scores, I could get in without you, I just…” I sigh, stopping, that familiar anger rising. “Look, I scored a 178 out of 180 on the LSAT. That’s insane, and