The Fake Zone: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Oleander Springs Series Book 3)

I take another sip of my hot tea, hoping it will settle the unease churning through my stomach and muscles. Who knew going to a restaurant alone would be so uncomfortable? My server has given me no less than a dozen tight-lipped pitying smiles despite my assurance I’m here alone on purpose, not because I was stood up.

It’s the dress, I’m sure.

I was told to dress up and take myself somewhere nice on this self-date experiment, and I did so without considering what others would think when I sat alone at a table with my hair curled, makeup pristine, and wearing a dress worthy of attending a movie premiere. This evening is supposed to promote independence and self-worth. Instead, my confidence is dropping faster than the late December temperature. And it’s not solely attributed to the pitying and curious looks I keep receiving but because sitting alone while surrounded by conversation is uncomfortable and has me green with envy.

I want to sit across from someone and hear about their day and then tell them about the book I’m reading for book club that has a hero I’m torn between loving and hating because he won’t kiss the heroine even though I think she wants it nearly as bad as I do. I want to discuss the menu and desserts. At this point, I’d be willing to discuss something as mundane as the weather.

I straighten my silverware and try not to check my phone for the twentieth time. I’m not supposed to look at my phone or a book.

Be with my thoughts.

My thoughts are boring.

As a couple passes, the man glances over my gorgeous dress and then my table set for one before glancing at my face. His eyebrows jump, and he gives a bemused expression as though trying to understand why I’m here alone. I straighten my shoulders and brush off the residual judgment that swims in my thoughts like bloodthirsty sharks.

His thoughts don’t matter. He doesn’t know me.

My self-worth drops a couple more degrees, regardless.

I take another sip of tea.

I only ordered it because a book I recently read had a heroine who loved tea. I’d connected with her so deeply I thought I might love it, too. Three sugar packets later, I realize if tea is the prerequisite for heroine roles, I may be bound forever to supporting roles.

Thankfully the waiter appears with my soup.

I slide my silverware over to make room for the steaming bowl, wishing I’d thought to ask him to bring my meal at the same time to get this night over with sooner. “Thank you.”

“Absolutely. Would you like anything else? More tea? Anything else to drink?” He has a stark widow’s peak and thick eyebrows that move when he talks.

“No. This is great. Thank you.”

He nods. “Are you having a good night?” His eyebrows dance.

I want to go on a tirade and tell him that I’m not, that I struggled with the holidays even more this year than usual, and I’m the only person who’s ready for winter break to end, and how uncomfortable I am eating alone. But I swallow the words, paste on a demure smile and nod. “I am.”

He nods. “It’s beautiful out tonight. Do you have any plans after this?”

“I’m taking a friend to the movies.” He doesn’t need to know that I’m that friend.

He smiles, appearing relieved on my behalf. “Let me know if you need anything.” He tucks his serving tray under his arm and walks away.

I feel the weight of another curious stare as I break the thick layer of Gruyère cheese covering my soup. I’m so distracted trying to ignore the onlooker and pretend I don’t care that I ignore the billowing steam and scald my tongue with the first taste. My spoon clatters against the bowl in my haste to drop it. I grab the glass of ice water, feeling prickles of curious stares from nearby tables, but that doesn’t slow me from draining half the glass like I’m at my first college party with something to prove.

My attention is tugged toward the front, where broad shoulders wrapped in a white button-down demand notice. I take in the trim waist and large hand, the jacket folded over his forearm, before climbing back to those impressive shoulders and higher to see his face, forgetting about everyone and everything else.

A strong squared jaw, the hint of a scowl, a straight nose, piercing blue eyes, and dishwater blond hair send a wave of panic coursing through me as recognition and shame tell me I’ve just ogled—publicly—the wrong person.

For a split second, I consider slinking under the small table and crawling toward the nearest exit to escape, but Greyson Meyers smells blood in the water—my blood—and his eyes flick to mine. He skirts his gaze over me and the empty seat at my table for two.

Greyson, or Grey, is teammates with my oldest and best friend, Hudson McKinley, who is like a brother to me. Hudson is the only reason that Grey-I-only-glower Meyers and I know each other and sometimes spend time in the same building.

Luck arrives in the form of another server stopping to refill my water.

“Are you off soon?” I ask her, my voice caught between a plea and a whisper.

Her caramel-colored eyes fall to me, wide with alarm. “Uh … sorry?”

“I’ll buy you a drink or dessert. Both. Anything you want. A kidney?”

Her eyebrows tip higher with confusion and a hint of amusement. “I’m closing.”

I sigh, shifting so I can hide more of myself behind her.

She tilts her head, her amusement vanishing. “Is someone bothering you?”

“I’m just trying to avoid someone.”

She glances over her shoulder, destroying any semblance of a cover. Grey is the only guy standing at the front, his six-foot-five frame a beacon. “Your ex?”

“God, no. We can’t stand each other. And I don’t date blonds.”

She chuckles. “Why do we hate him?”

I’m enamored with her call to girl code. It’s not me hating Grey—it’s we. “Because…” My reasoning is a blank space, slow to fill, because my dislike for him is largely based on his dislike of me. I know that’s prideful and spiteful and probably a half-dozen more words that end in -ful, so I stick to the poster reasons.

“He’s bossy and stubborn and a terrible conversationalist. And his grumpy ass is judgy as fuck.” My eyes flare as I glance at the nearby tables, hoping they didn’t hear me swear in this full-service restaurant filled with class and money. People come here for wedding anniversaries and proposals. I have no idea what I was thinking when making a reservation here for a self-date.

“I think I’d enjoy being bossed around by him,” the server tells me, her eyes bright with lust. “And while I’m with you on blonds, there are always exceptions—Charlie Hunnam, Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth…”

“We don’t focus on the exceptions,” I inform her, trying not to stare at Grey and his date, but questions are firing off in my head—the loudest being, who is she? Who has broken Grey’s two-and-a-half-year record of being single? She’s stunning with long dark hair, round, sunny eyes, and plump lips.

The server grins as she faces me. “Well, I hate to tell you this, but exception or not, he’s coming this way.”

“Of course he is,” I mutter and take a sip of my refilled water, still trying to ease my raw tongue and floundering nerves.

The hostess leads them closer, and Grey says something quietly before pointing directly at me. I’m frozen, glued to my chair as he walks to my side and swoops down, perfuming the air with his cologne, cedar, pine, and a faint trace of orange, before kissing my cheek. “There you are,” he says. “Sorry I’m late. Did our wires get crossed? I thought I reserved a table for three?”

The server looks at me in bewilderment. I stare back at her in shock.

“We can get you to a table for three,” the hostess says.

Grey nods, already pulling my chair back from the table and offering me his hand.

His date—or whoever he came with—stares daggers at me.

“Let me just get my things.”

The hostess nods to a nearby table. “I’ll just have you all sit right over here.” She leads Grey’s apparent non-date to the table, and I can’t help but admire the short, dusty rose silk dress she’s wearing that would be obscene on me due to my height. It’s ruffled and flouncy, showing off her toned legs and modest hints of her cleavage. Sometimes I really wish I were short or at least shorter than my five-foot-ten frame so I could wear mini dresses like that, not to mention her towering heels that would earn me a few dozen Sasquatch comments.

When my gaze returns to Grey, he scowls at me.

I glare back. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

“I need your help. I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

“Did you hit your head?”

His glare deepens. “You’re here alone, right?” He glances at the empty spot across from me, cleared of utensils and glasses.

“What if I’m not?”

“Mila…” His voice is impatient. “I need your help.”

“You are going to owe me…” I say, grabbing my purse as he takes my jacket and crosses to my new table.

“His hair’s definitely more brown than blond,” the server says quietly.

It is, but I’m not about to admit it.

The server grabs the plate my bowl of soup is balanced on along with my unused silverware and strides the twenty feet to deposit them right in the hot seat I’m intended to fill.

So much for girl code.

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars cash to fake an allergic reaction,” I whisper in a rushed voice as the server returns.

“He asked you to sit with him,” she whispers back. “When someone like that asks you to join them, you say yes.”

“Not when you’re the third wheel,” I hiss.

The server winces, and I know I’ve scored a point in this heinous game of reasoning. “But he asked you to come. Clearly, he doesn’t like her. You have to find out for all of us.”

I wait to see if fate will open the ground and let me escape this hell for another, but as the ground remains firmly intact, I grab my soup spoon and napkin and follow the server to Grey’s table.

I’m never going on a self-date again.

More curious gazes follow me as I slink into the chair and try to smile at Grey’s non-date, who looks as uncomfortable as I do based on her slackened jaw and round gaze.

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” I say, offering my hand because my Southern charm and manners are a habitual response even under duress.

“Mila, this is Emma Kemp. Emma, this is my girlfriend, Mila Atwool.”

“Girlfriend? I didn’t know you were dating anyone,” Emma says.

“Me either,” I say.

A kick to my shin has me wincing. “She’s kidding,” Grey says.

Emma looks between us.

“That’s me. I’m a jokester.” I take a long drink of my tea, wishing it were coffee, and glance back at my table longingly, only to be kicked in the shin again. I sit up straighter, shooting Grey an accusatory glare. “Nervous twitch?”

“Emma’s here because her dad, Linus Kemp, the booster club member we were supposed to meet for dinner, had something come up. She’s standing in for him.”

I know little about the booster club or its members, only that their influence is steeped in the team.

Emma glances at my soup. “Do you always order before the rest of your party arrives?”

I’ve always wanted to stand by the philosophy that women should stick together. That we should share our crowns and privately straighten each other’s if one slips. After all, we’ve been stepped on, forgotten, and silenced for too long. But Emma reminds me how men aren’t the only ones to blame. Sometimes women are, too. I’ve received a multitude of cruel remarks regarding my hair or makeup, clothes, or body aimed at making me feel less about myself, and they were almost always coming from other women.

Grey clears his throat. “It’s my fault. I got the time wrong.” He grabs his napkin, draping it across his lap. “Emma’s a junior at Camden, too.”

“I was telling him how much we have in common,” Emma says, giving Grey a look of longing and sheer hunger. Of course she likes him. Most women are attracted to Grey for his base masculinity, devastating handsome features, and stacks of chiseled muscles, all capitalized by his broody personality. However, his recognition as one of the best wide receivers in college football has doubled his fan base in recent months.

“Oh yeah? Like what?” I don’t mean for my words to sound like a challenge or spark a war, certainly not over Grey. I’m not jealous, and I’m definitely not trying to prove anything. However, I don’t take back the words and revel a little too much in watching Emma shift uncomfortably in her chair.

“Well, for starters, we both love football,” she says, looking flustered and ready to slash me with her perfectly pink manicured nails.

I think of my best friend Evelyn, of my newly found book club comprised of girls who are genuinely remarkable and kind women.

I wonder if Emma and I met under different circumstances, would we be friends? I imagine an invisible crown on her head and swallow my snark with a drink of water and start over. “Are you attending the bowl game this weekend in Orlando?” It’s Camden’s final game of the season.

Emma nods. “I wouldn’t pass up the chance to watch Grey play.” She gives him a smoldering look—a come and bang my brains out, please, look—that reminds me of one of a dozen reasons why I’d never date a guy on the team.

“Mila loves football, too,” Grey says.

“Really?” Emma asks, matching the same level of challenge I posed. “Who’s your favorite team?”

I hold my chin up a little higher. “Camden, of course.” I paste on a smile.