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

If I’d had any idea this night would bear any semblance to a blind date, I would have canceled. Linus Kemp is a booster I’ve been working to impress for the better part of a year since he told me he was interested in offering me a paid sponsorship, promoting the car lots he owns here in Oleander Springs, North Carolina. I thought we were going to sit down with a contract. Instead, ten minutes ago, I was blindsided by a text that informed me his daughter, Emma, would be taking his place because he had to work late.

I never expected to walk inside and find Mila here, certainly not alone. Mila Atwool is all confidence and grace wrapped in jaw-dropping beauty and an impenetrable wall of sarcasm that catches the eye of every man. Seeing her alone sparked a plan of desperation and prayer. I knew I was being catfished—or something too damn similar—and having Mila pretend to be my girlfriend is the perfect ruse. At least it will be if she maintains the role. The only problem is Mila can be as prickly and challenging as a trapped raccoon.

A waiter stops beside me, and his smile and greeting falter as he peers from Emma to me and then at Mila before glancing at the table I convinced Mila to abandon. “You…” the waiter says, pointing at Mila, “moved.” He tries to save face, but it’s too late. His tone is laden with disappointment. The poor schmuck couldn’t be more obvious.

Mila sweeps her long blonde hair over a shoulder, revealing a large pearl earring. “I hope that’s not a problem.” She blinds him with a smile.

“Not a problem at all,” he says.

Mila’s smile somehow turns more radiant. I’ve seen her pull a similar look when a police officer stopped us for jaywalking two years ago while we were at the beach and again when telling a bartender she’d forgotten her ID, though she was only eighteen. It’s deceptive and highly impactful.

The waiter smiles back, blissfully unaware. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brings us complimentary appetizers or desserts.

Emma clears her throat, sitting forward, her back ramrod straight. “Could I have a rum and diet, please?”

The waiter’s smile wanes, and he nods, trying to tear his attention from Mila’s bright red lips, wide blue eyes, and flawless cheekbones.

“Of course, and for you, sir?”

“I’m good with water, thanks,” I tell him.

The waiter nods again. “Would you care for any appetizers?”

Emma looks at me expectantly. “Grey? Would we like any appetizers?” God, those words sound too date-like.

Mila quietly drums her short, bare nails along the edge of the table. “The arancini here is amazing.”

The price of everything on the menu is criminal.

“I don’t eat carbs,” Emma says.

“I think we’ll pass, thanks,” I tell the waiter.

He nods. “Have you decided what you’d like to order?”

Emma nods and orders a salad with a dozen modifications as I turn to Mila, setting my hand on hers to gain her attention.

Mila’s eyes flash to mine. They’re the color of steel, and tonight they look even wider and more striking than usual. I haven’t seen her in two weeks, not since my close friend and teammate Nolan Payne pulled off creating a new tradition for Camden by turning a library into a dance floor for his girlfriend to celebrate her birthday. Mila had mentioned then that she was leaving for California and was planning to decorate a palm tree for the holidays.

“And for you, sir,” the waiter says, interrupting my mental thanks for Mila for being here.

I order the roasted bass and try not to wince at the price tag. Boosters like to show off their wealth by taking us to the nicest restaurants, working to impress us while offering paid and unpaid sponsorships: attending a grand opening or company event, golfing, and more. I need this sponsorship far more than the dent to my shrinking bank account this dinner will leave me.

The waiter nods and turns to Mila. “Would you like anything else? More tea?”

“No, thank you.”

He nods. “I’ll have them wait on your dinner until theirs is ready.”

Mila’s smile turns tight. “Thanks.”

His reluctance to leave is visible in the way he sways and keeps his pen firmly pressed against his ordering pad before he gives a wistful sigh and turns to a nearby table.

“How was your Christmas, Grey?” Emma takes a sip of her water, her eyes trained on me.

“It was nice. And yours?” I ask.

She smiles. “It was pretty amazing. My dad rented several snow machines and had the entire yard looking like a scene out of a movie.”

Mila’s eyes soften and her lips part. “I love the snow.”

Emma looks at Mila with uncertainty, like she doesn’t know whether to trust the sincerity in her words or tone. I silently chuckle, wishing her luck. I’ve been trying to figure out Mila for the past two and a half years, despite Hudson’s many attempts to assure me she’s the most genuine and kind person I’ll ever meet.

“How did you two meet?” Emma asks.

Mila raises one eyebrow, promising trouble.

I give her an exasperated look, waiting for her to make up a tall tale that will make Emma even more suspicious.

Mila rolls her eyes at me, and I hear her silent admonishment that I’m boring and ruining her fun before she sighs and folds her hands in her lap. “A mutual friend introduced us at a party at the beginning of Grey’s freshman year.”

“Actually, we met at Hudson’s. While you were painting his wall black.”

Recognition sparks in her gaze. “That’s right. You asked if I was painting it to match the color of my soul … He’s a romantic.” She shucks her thumb at me.

I chuckle. She had told me she was painting the wall to match the color of her soul when I asked why she chose black. From day one, Mila Atwool has been an enigma with wit and sharp remarks that make her difficult to read and impossible to ignore.

Emma leans back with a predator’s gaze as she sets her mark on me. “Is that so?”

Thankfully, our waiter appears then with our meal, distributing plates with scarce food artfully stacked in the middle of large plates. My biggest complaint when attending one of these dinners is that I always leave hungry.

Emma eyes the steaming plate of pasta the waiter sets in front of Mila like a ticking time bomb. “Cheat day?”

Mila glances from the pasta to Emma twice before flashing a tiger’s smile—all teeth. “No.”

Emma shakes her head and looks at me from under her lashes with a flirtatious grin. If she knew my truck was twenty-five years old and my bank account held less than four-hundred dollars, I doubt she’d give me the time of day.

“Are you looking forward to having some downtime since football season is coming to an end?” Emma asks.

I nod, but the reality is college athletes don’t get an off-season. Even the early months of summer are devoted to football. The following two months will be packed with unofficial practices I’ll have to attend to maintain my position as a starter.

Emma licks her lips. “I imagine it’s crucial for you to surround yourself with people who understand the responsibility and politics of the game. People who will take care of you.”

“Have you seen how many trainers and personal chefs the team has?” Mila asks. “Trust me. They’re well taken care of.”

Emma laughs mirthlessly. “That wasn’t the kind of care I was referring to…” She keeps her gaze on me, unabashed by the insinuation.

I grapple, trying to find a response to turn her down without offending her.

Mila clears her throat and pushes her seat back. “Please excuse me a moment. I need to find the ladies’ room.”

I tap her with my foot and shoot her a look that pleads for her to stay and change the subject. Stat.

Mila winces and then scowls, pushing her chair back farther before she stands.

“I should, too. We’ve been hydrating all week, preparing for the bowl game.”

Mila furrows her brow, a silent, What in the hell are you doing?

“We’ll be right back,” I tell Emma.

Mila leads the way to a hallway at the rear of the restaurant and spins to face me. “What are you doing, weirdo? Guys don’t follow women to the restroom unless they plan to hook up. And why do you keep kicking me?” She swats at my biceps.

“I need this sponsorship deal from her father.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just tell her you’re not interested and leave me out of this. I was having a perfectly good night until you showed up.”

“Perfectly good night? You got stood up. I hardly made your night worse.”

“I wasn’t stood up,” she growls. “I was here on a self-date.”

“A self-what?”

“Date,” she says again, but before I can clarify, she turns on her heel and heads into the women’s restroom.

I should think better of it, but I follow.

Mila’s at the mirror, her eyes growing round as she looks at me in the reflection. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Look, I’m sorry I’m ruining your night, and I’m sorry she’s being a bitch to you.”

Mila stops and stares at me for several seconds before closing the space between us and placing a hand to my forehead.

I brush her hand away. “What are you doing?”

“You just apologized. Twice. I was checking to make sure you don’t have a fever.”

I clamp my molars to keep from saying something that will rescind my apology. “I had no idea she was coming. I don’t know her and don’t want to lead her on. But I also don’t want her telling her dad that I’m an asshole, and we both know that if I sit through dinner alone with her, that will happen because I’m terrible at small talk.”

She sighs, and her shoulders drop a full inch. “You’re the worst at small talk.”

I nod. “Exactly.”

Mila purses her lips as I take the wind from her sails with my self-deprecating remark. “You’re going to have to go out there, so it doesn’t look like we just did the nasty in here. Talk to her about Camden. Classes. Anything that isn’t personal.”

I nod.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes and dazzle her with my charms.”

An older woman steps into the restroom and gasps at the sight of me.

“Sorry. He was…” Mila grabs a tissue and dabs her eyes, “just checking on me.”

The woman’s bewildered expression calms, and she loosens the tight grip on her purse.

“I’m okay,” Mila says, blotting her eyes. “Or I will be. I just need another minute.” She shoves me toward the door with a meaningful look.

I duck out, straighten my shirt, and return to the table where Emma’s picking through her salad.

She looks at me and then over my shoulder before checking each button along my dress shirt, ensuring nothing is amiss before smiling, her relief palpable.

I take my seat. “How has school been this year?”

“Great. How has yours been?” She captures a piece of steak with her fork and brings it to her lips, drawing her tongue over the tines before pulling the bite free with her teeth.

“Busy.”

I glance toward the hall, wondering how long Mila plans to wait. “Was Camden your first choice?”

“How long have you two been together?”

“About a month.”

“That’s not very long,” she says.

I swallow. “I’ve known her for two and a half years.”

“That’s a long time to know someone and not be sure if you’re interested.”

Mila appears before I can respond. Her dress casts a red glow across my glass as she takes her seat. I wonder if she was supposed to meet the same asshole she dated in October that Hudson was ready to punch in the face after standing her up a third time.

“You’re going to school to become a financial manager, is that correct?” Emma asks, ensuring this is less of a coincidence than it was painted to be. She’s done her homework.

I swallow my bite of fish and nod. “Have you declared a major?”

“Human resources,” she says. “I plan to work for my father’s company when I graduate.”

“What about you?” she addresses Mila without saying her name.

“Criminal justice.”

“What does one do with a criminal justice degree?” Emma asks.

Mila tucks her napkin on her lap. “Hopefully, reform some archaic laws.” She gives a charming smile. “Emma, are you looking forward to going to Orlando? I looked at the weather report, and we should have great weather.”

“Oh… You’re going, as well?”

Mila nods but doesn’t offer more.

“Maybe we’ll all have to go out,” Emma says, looking at me as she extends the invitation.

Mila gives a waning smile. “We’ll be pretty busy. But please, tell me more about yourself.”