DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE The Fake Zone: Chapter 26
This location is Gerald Barnhardt’s newest and largest. No doubt he invited us here to show off a little. It’s huge, swanky, and impressive.
“Damn,” Grey says, looking awestruck.
“Don’t get distracted,” I tell him. “In a few years, you’ll be worth so much, you could buy this place. Or hell, build one in Highgrove.” I’d been nervous about tonight, but things seem normal between us. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or just relieved. Regardless, I’m happy to be here and take my mind off the fact my parents returned to California this morning without a planned return date.
Grey’s gaze drops to mine, and he smirks.
My stomach drops, recalling the way he’d made a similar expression in reaction to when he pinched my nipple. Before the thought can settle, he looks sideways at the long lines again, his unease a fading shadow I only recognize because I’ve known him so long.
“You have a hell of a lot to offer, Grey. Just because you don’t have a million dollars in your bank account yet doesn’t mean you’re not worth a million dollars. Alex has to attend stuff like this all the time to get funding for scripts. It’s all part of the game. You’re here to get paid because they want your face on their brand. Don’t think they’re doing you any favors. This is all business.”
Grey’s gaze sweeps over my face, reading me for sincerity. I don’t know if it’s my desire to assure him or his trace of vulnerability that makes this moment feel more intimate than his face between my legs. “They want you, Grey. Don’t forget that.”
“Are you Grey Meyers?” The question pulls our attention to a stranger twenty feet away. His shock is visible with wide eyes and dropped jaw. “Dude, check this out. Grey Meyers is here!” he says, turning to a friend.
I want to roll my eyes, but instead, I smirk at Grey with a silent, See? I told you so. They all want you.
They do.
They’ve all become increasingly popular and recognizable, and no one hesitates to ask for autographs and pictures as this man does.
“Greyson!” Mr. Barnhardt appears, smiling proudly. “Thanks for coming tonight. I’m so glad you guys could make it.” He shakes Grey’s hand and then mine. “Lovely to see you again, Mila.”
“You as well. This place is amazing,” I tell him.
His smile broadens, confirming his reasoning for inviting us here was to flex his wealth. “Let’s head upstairs. We’ll wait for the others and get something to drink.”
The stairs lead to a narrow hall that has bays extending the length of the building. The course spans so far into the distance the net is nearly invisible.
It’s another obnoxiously warm night that feels like early autumn, perfect for Topgolf and terrible for snow that has me slipping out of my coat as Mr. Barnhardt proudly tells Grey about the amenities of the building before instructing us to follow him to the area he’s reserved for us tonight.
I move to follow when Grey pulls me back, his arm a bar around my shoulders, pressing me against his chest. Cedar and sandalwood tease my nose as a golf club swings in front of me so hard, I feel and hear the air turbulence. If I hadn’t stopped, I’d likely be on the floor with a broken leg or ankle. Maybe worse.
Grey shifts, positioning me at his back, one arm tucked around my waist as he faces the man who swung the club. He’s visibly inebriated, barely standing upright as he drives the club into the tiled floor with enough force to make it snap.
“Hey,” Grey’s voice is a growl. “What are you doing?”
The drunk man looks at us with glassy eyes, smiling like Grey complimented his swing. He’s a little older than us, his cheeks tinted red from the alcohol.
“Sorry, man. He didn’t mean to. He’s had a rough week,” the guy’s friend says, coming to his side.
“I couldn’t care less,” Grey says. “Get a handle on him or leave.”
Mr. Barnhardt quickly approaches us, gaining the attention of a nearby employee. “Get these guys some pitchers of water, coffee, and some breadsticks on the house.” He turns to us, eyes on me, as I slowly unwind from Grey’s touch. “Are you all right?”
I nod, trying to shake off the unwanted feeling of being a damsel in distress.
“I’m sorry for the scare. Let’s get you over here so you can take a seat.”
Grey walks beside me, a wall to the bays, with his hand between my shoulder blades.
We stop at the last bay, where the upbeat pop music and bright lights make tonight feel like a real date rather than my being here as Grey’s fake girlfriend to help him secure a binding deal.
“I took the liberty of ordering some of our most popular dishes, but please, let me know what I can get you both to drink?” Mr. Barnhardt says, tapping one of the large touch screens near the tee.
“Iced tea would be great. Thank you,” I say.
“Is sweet tea okay?” he asks.
I grew up trying to drink my iced tea like Jon, wanting to hate sweet tea as vehemently as he does, but I’ve slowly begun realizing I feel relief rather than disappointment when they only serve the sweetened variety. “Even better,” I tell him.
His smile is approving because here in the South, people who don’t like sweet tea can’t be trusted.
“I’ll have the same,” Grey says, glancing at the golf clubs and then the green ahead of us, his body shifting away, allowing enough space for another person between us.
Mr. Barnhardt enters our orders before turning back to us. His wealth is displayed almost overtly, rings with channels of diamonds on both ring fingers, clothes made of rich fabrics in designer brands, and shoes a supple leather.
“Tell me, Greyson, how do you feel about deciding not to enter the draft?” he asks, turning to Grey.
Grey’s confidence is a mask that he wears so damn well. “It was the right decision. We’ll have the advantage next year, making us unstoppable.”
Mr. Barnhardt’s eyes gleam as he grins. “Let’s hope so. If your face is all over my businesses, I need you to be a winner.”
I wince but recover before he can see it, pasting a smile on my face. “Grey’s one of the most sought-after wide receivers in the country, not just our conference. Everyone recognizes his face, and he’s practically a god here in Oleander Springs. Did you see how quickly people recognized him in your lobby?” I don’t know the proper etiquette or details for a sponsorship meeting, but I do know it’s vital to establish that we know Grey’s value.
Mr. Barnhardt’s gaze turns to mine, hints of surprise or maybe shock visible for a second before he nods. His gaze flicks to Grey, and they continue discussing football: the team, Coach Krueger, and the new offensive plays—all subjects that have Grey’s deep-seated knowledge and dedication shining, making him look every bit the star.
When Mr. Barnhardt’s colleagues show up, I’m a little disappointed to see all five are men. It makes me feel even more like a trophy.
“Are you a model?” the man who was introduced as Jeremiah asks. The question is shockingly common from men who are shorter than me.
I shake my head and take a drink of the iced tea they put a pink straw in to mark as mine.
“She should be,” Mr. Barnhardt says, eyes lingering on me, dancing a fine line of being inappropriate.
Grey glances at me from where he’s talking to the COO, and though he didn’t hear the exchange, he seems to read my body language and excuses himself before coming to stand next to me as Mr. Barnhardt and his colleagues make small talk, catching up on their weekend.
Grey’s brow lowers a fraction. Once more, his eyes contend for being brighter than the stars as he studies me. “Everything okay?” His voice is a smooth and deep sound that slides down my spine like a caress.
I nod, allowing the façade of intimacy to continue as I tilt my face toward him and smile.
Grey rubs his thumb softly across my back. “Thanks for being here.”
At least two of them are watching us. I lean forward and press a kiss just above his jaw. “Shine for them, Grey. Show them you’re worth a million bucks.”
He turns his face, and my heart skips, certain he’s going to kiss me again. I want him to so badly my breath catches. His nose, lips, and chin gently press along the right side of my face, breathing me in before kissing my temple. It feels like I ordered an ice cream sundae and was given a single sprinkle as disappointment careens in my stomach.
We begin the game, three of the men going first before it’s my turn.
“Do you need help?” Mr. Barnhardt asks. “Do you need someone to show you how to swing?”
Sarcastic retorts form on my tongue, but I swallow those with the reminder that this is about Grey’s payday. I’m not about to jeopardize it due to a stranger underestimating me. Besides, I’ve always been a fan of actions speaking louder than words.
“Should we get her some ladies’ clubs?” another of them asks.
“She’s as tall as you,” one replies.
Grey clears his throat and looks at me. “If she needs anything, she’ll let us know. Mila’s more than competent.”
I select the pitching wedge and move to the tee. I only took up golf because Alex loves the game and bribed me by allowing me to drive the cart and later because Hudson plays. I hear both voices as I line up and draw my driver back. I swing, crushing the ball down the green. I won’t admit it to Grey, but my recent workouts have made me stronger and aided in hitting the ball harder.
When I turn around, one of the men assesses me. I know he doesn’t think I’m half as pretty as I was thirty seconds ago before hitting the ball farther than him.
Pride shines on Grey’s face as I return the club and resume my seat beside him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take it easier on them with the next shot and let them win. I just needed to flex for a second.”
Grey’s fingers thread through my hair as he leans close. “Don’t you dare take it easy on them.”
“Like attracts like, I see,” Mr. Barnhardt says, gazing at us. “That was impressive, Mila.”
“That hit barely scratches the surface of how impressive and amazing she is,” Grey tells him.
With the excuse I’m supposed to appear like his girlfriend, I find every excuse to stand closer, finding myself so damn present that the end of the night shocks and disappoints me.