Out of My League - Sarah Sutton Page 0,16

course. I could just imagine Scott’s mocking laughter now, ringing in my ears.

“You can always dump me a week later,” Walsh suggested. “Just long enough to make it believable.”

I glanced back toward the house. The shadows blended together, smoke billowing high from the fire.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be so bad, a voice whispered in my head. Use it to your advantage.

Could I do it?

Walsh seemed to think so. “It wouldn’t have to be much. Just in public, we’d act like a couple. Hand-holding and things like that.”

My fingers curled into fists as if he’d already started reaching. “Hand-holding?”

“Uh, yeah. What kind of couple doesn’t hold hands? You and Scott held hands, right?”

“Of course we did!” Sometimes.

“Well, that’s what we need to do,” Walsh said. He had an enchanting smile on his face now, like we’d already signed our fake relationship contract. “Hold hands. Hug. Kiss. Do couple-y stuff.”

Ha. Ha-ha. I was in over my head and we hadn’t even started yet.

“Don’t worry, I’m good at couple-y stuff. You can just sit back and enjoy.”

I stared at his mouth, his full lips, the idea of kissing him filling my mind’s eye. A sharp sensation flipped my stomach, akin to the feeling one got before puking, and I swallowed hard. “No, no kissing, Walsh.” To reiterate that fact, I stepped back. “That’s a rule. No kissing.”

Walsh’s lips twitched as he fought a grin. “Fine. But the other stuff—pretend I’m Scott.”

Pretend Walsh is Scott. I wasn’t sure I could. “When are we even in public together?” I asked, folding my arms over my chest. “How long are you thinking, anyway? Until my article is done?”

If that was the case, I’d be working on it ASAP.

Walsh, though, probably knew what I was thinking. “It needs to be believable. Let’s say until the final baseball game of the season.”

“The middle of July?” I demanded, my voice echoing. “You want to keep this going for a month?”

“I’m not that bad, sheesh. A month would make it more believable.”

A month. One whole month, fake dating Mr. Perfect. A month sounded like forever, but really, would it be that bad? It wasn’t like we’d be hanging out every day. And besides, I might need that long to get my article written and perfected.

I looked away from him, everything running through my mind. So many things about the situation felt wrong. We were lying to others by faking our relationship and I would be lying to him to get inside information.

In all actuality, there was no choice. I needed to nail this article. And Walsh represented the very essence of baseball, even down to the pretty bleachers. He could survive this article; I couldn’t survive without it.

I was dooming myself, but I took in a deep breath. “I’ll do it. For one month, and then I’m done.”

“Well, don’t sound so enthusiastic. I like it when a girl plays hard to get.”

Yeah, this is a bad, bad idea. I already wanted to smack him.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Walsh Hunter.” The words were filled to the brim with sarcasm, and I added an eye roll to help punctuate my annoyance. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

Walsh grinned—the sort of grin that lights the stars in the sky—and it was clear that the twisted game we’d both agreed to had just begun. “That’s more like it.”

Chapter Five

At first, I didn’t know what woke me up.

It could’ve been sunlight, blinding and intrusive, my own personal alarm clock. Or it could’ve been the headache stamping into my brain, about to crack open my skull.

But after a moment of lying still, nearly falling back to sleep, I heard it.

“Amber, come on. You’re mad because I didn’t make you breakfast. You didn’t make me any!”

“The wife never makes the husband breakfast!”

“What? Who made up that rule?”

I pressed my face into my pillow, groaning into the fabric. The warmth of sleep was quickly fading, the sharpness of lucidity shaking it away.

“Yeah, that’s right. Walk away, just like you always do!” I heard my dad say. A door slammed in answer.

Since I was awake and I had to hear them arguing, I made the choice to do it with orange juice from the kitchen. My head felt stuffed full of cotton, everything foggy and clouded. Pushing up into a sitting position, I glanced around my room. It wasn’t very messy, though pencils and pens were scattered all across my desk. Just above my desk were several realistic-looking butterflies painted on the walls, still there from when