Real Fake Love Page 3

  “Oooh, honey, both.”

  “You get him, you want me too.” Francisco whips off his practice jersey and flexes. “I have bigger muscles.”

  The tallest of the novelists fans herself.

  The white lady in the Fireballs jersey is furiously scribbling in a notebook.

  Granny Romance leaps at us while Brooks pulls his shirt off and flexes too.

  And Henri Bacon is pretending she’s using her phone as a voice recorder, but she’s staring straight at me.

  There’s no way this is a coincidence.

  I fold my arms and watch her, remember I’m holding the dick-ball hat, and scramble to hide it behind my back again.

  She gives me a finger wave. “Hi, Luca.”

  “You know a romance novelist?” Darren asks.

  “Not really.”

  “She knows you.”

  “We were in the same place once.”

  “Dude, I’d wave back. If you don’t, she might write you into a book and make you the bad guy or kill you or give you fleas in your pubes or something,” Francisco hisses.

  Then he flexes for the selfies.

  “Fleas in pubes! Brilliant!” The one taking notes is also walking blindly, and she trips over a chair.

  Henri dives and catches her. “Whoopsie-daisy!”

  “Now, which one of you ladies wants to write a story about a studly baseball player who hasn’t found the one yet?” Rock asks.

  “I’ll be your one, Cooper.” Granny Romance strokes his biceps.

  “But how’s that fair to the rest of the ladies?”

  “I’ve got experience, sonny. The rest of these chickadees can’t say that.”

  My sanctuary has been invaded by people obsessed with love.

  And Lila’s frowning at me. “Luca? You have something in your eye?”

  Yes.

  It’s called everything in my line of vision.

  “No.”

  “It’s twitching.”

  “I slept wrong.”

  “Were you up late doing renovations again?”

  “Ooooh, a baseball player who renovates things?” Notepad zeroes in on me. “Are you renovating a house? Oh my god. Plot bunny. A washed-up baseball star inherits an inn on an island in Florida—”

  “Or Maine,” Henri supplies.

  “Maine! A washed-up baseball star inherits an inn on an island in Maine, and he has to get help from…”

  “I’m not washed-up,” I tell Lila.

  “You can still be inspiration.”

  Henri beams at me. “Definitely inspiration.”

  I don’t beam back at her.

  “Did you eat something wrong for breakfast?” Lila’s frowning now. “You’re very…growly today.”

  “AC went out.”

  “Again?” Cooper shoots me a look. “Dude. You know I’ve got a spare bedroom.”

  Confession: I don’t have an AC unit in my house.

  I like it that way.

  At least, that’s my excuse for why I haven’t replaced it yet.

  The truth might be a little deeper.

  Also, Cooper is the last person I’d turn to for a spare bedroom. I don’t want to hear whatever goes on at his place.

  Brooks snickers. “Luca never fixed it the first time. Being around women makes him nervous, and he knows no one’s shacking up with him if he doesn’t have basic life necessities.”

  Fucker’s gonna die. I don’t care if he’s like a brother to me, he’s gonna die. “Okay, Mr. Oldest Virgin in Baseball.”

  All seven romance novelists suck in a breath as one. “A virgin baseball player!”

  It’s in stereo.

  It’s actually in stereo.

  And Brooks puffs his chest out. “One woman. For me. For life.”

  “Oh my god, swoon.” The one who’s been quietly downing something in a big Starbucks mug in the corner turns doe-eyes on Brooks.

  “A ghost!” Notepad exclaims. “The washed-up virgin baseball player who inherits a broken-down inn in Maine is getting help from a ghost!”

  “What if he thinks it’s a ghost, and it’s really his long-lost love?” Starbucks says.

  “Who jilted him at the altar!” Henri shrieks.

  Silence falls over the group.

  But only the group of romance novelists.

  Francisco is shaking his head. “But why would she do that to him? And what’s in it for him if he takes her back? Once a failed relationship, always a failed relationship. Move on. People don’t change.”

  “What if she had his secret baby?” Brooks offers.

  My phone rings—thank fuck—and even though it’s my agent calling, and he’s been irritating the hell out of me since a small-time gossip rag printed a picture of me at Jerry’s not-wedding last month along with a suggestion that I have a curse, I pretend like I need to take the call, and I wave it at them, then slip out of the room.

  “Hey, Luca?” Henri calls.

  “Glad you’re feeling better,” I call back.

  And I take the pussy way out, and I disappear.

  4

  Henri

  It’s possible I have a problem.

  But it’s not like I don’t know Luca Rossi. If he was invited to my wedding, I technically know him, right?

  And we did share those few moments that day my wedding didn’t happen. You know. When I caked him.

  Before I knew the full story of why Jerry called everything off.

  Also, I’m not sitting on the step of what I assume is Luca’s house because he’s a baseball player. Or because he’s famous.

  That actually makes this more uncomfortable, when what I want is to ask him for a small favor. It’s a tiny thing that I wouldn’t hesitate to ask any other man. Or woman, for that matter.

  Itsy bitsy on the grand scale of things.

  Really, really small.

  Sort of like his house.

  It’s a two-story house, but it’s narrow, and on a small patch of land, super close to the other houses on the block. The houses are all small, but the yards are mostly well-kept. All of the streetlamps are lit, and a couple walking their dog waved at me a bit ago before continuing on their way.

  I don’t feel unsafe—especially with Dogzilla, my guard cat, in my lap, even if she’s more terrifying because she’s so lazy I sometimes worry she’s dead—but I also know it’s not normal for someone to just sit on another person’s doorstep well past dark, and this isn’t the house you’d expect a guy to live in when he makes millions playing baseball, then tops it with millions more in haircare product endorsements, which makes me worry I’m in the wrong place.

  None of my research on Luca said anything about where he lives. This was the address where we sent his wedding invitation, therefore, it was natural to assume he lives here.

  Also, if it’s weird that I did research on Luca, I don’t want to hear it. It’s professional research because he has an interesting personality.

  Mostly.

  Kind of.

  Alright, fine.

  It could be professional research, but it wasn’t. And I could be living in my mother’s pool house back in the Chicago ’burbs where I grew up, like I did for a few months after my last weddings that didn’t happen, but this time, I’m standing on my own two feet, and I’m actively doing something to get over myself.

  Even if it’s probably weird to be sitting on the doorstep of the man I cyberstalked after his whole love sucks speech. Which I won’t apologize for, by the way, because you don’t get what you need in life if you don’t go for it.

  But maybe Dogzilla and I should be waiting in my car instead? At least that way, I could turn on the radio while we wait. And the air conditioning.

  I’m about to move to the car when a clunker chugs around the corner, one headlight out, and turns into the driveway.

  This is definitely the wrong house.

  I’m sitting on the porch of a stranger’s house, hoping that’s a woman driving, because if it’s a woman, at l
east I know I won’t be in danger.

  Of falling in love with her at first sight, I mean.

  The engine shuts off, and while I don’t often trespass at midnight, I have this feeling that jumping up with Dogzilla and making a run for it right now is exactly the wrong move. A well-timed, “Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else,” will give us all a laugh, I’ll take my cat and leave, and then two complete strangers will have a weird story to tell their friends over margaritas—or an iced tea, in my case—and huh.

  This would make an excellent meet-cute for my friend Dorothea’s next steamy romance novel. I’ll have to drop her a note too.

  The occupant of the car is still sitting in it, and the figure illuminated by the street light looks too big to be a woman.

  Dang it.

  He also seems to be—

  Is he hitting his head against the steering wheel?

  Uh-oh.

  If I picked the house of a nutjob, all bets are off.

  “Be ready to run, Dogzilla,” I whisper.

  My lazy cat doesn’t move, and instead snores in my lap.

  Easier this way anyway, since it’s not like I can count on her to follow alone when I take off running at full-steam.

  Which doesn’t happen all that often, if we’re being honest here. I’m a writer, not a runner.

  But—wait.

  The way his hair is moving—

  That is Luca Rossi.

  I rise, cradling Dogzilla, and when Luca looks my way, I give him a finger wave and a smile.

  The light isn’t bright enough for me to see what he’s saying, but his lips are definitely moving, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s wearing the same long-suffering expression my father usually has when I tell him I’m engaged.

  Again.

  It might also be remarkably similar to the expression Luca was wearing when he recognized me at Duggan Field earlier today too.

  Not my intention to ambush him at work, I swear. I was curious about the ballpark—I’m curious about a lot of things—so when I caught wind on social media of a writer organization that was touring the park, it was easy enough to get here in time today to join the group.

  And it was fascinating to see where the players work out, to smell the chairs the announcers sit in, what it feels like to stand in the dugout, and hear how many light bulbs have to be replaced every day.

  There’s a pop and a creak as the car door swings open, and I suddenly desperately need to know why Luca Rossi, millionaire sports star, lives on a grocery store clerk’s salary.

  For research.

  I swear.

  I like to do research.

  It’s one of the things my ex-fiancé Kyle liked about me.

  “Henri,” Luca says.

  My brain hears what the hell are you doing here, and why are you between me and my bed, and I’m not asking out loud because I don’t honestly want to know.

  I either have a lot of experience understanding people because I write good characters, or I have a lot of experience with frustrating men after five failed engagements.

  Plus my lifelong relationship with my father.

  “Hi, Luca! Great game tonight. That catch you made in center field was like—”

  “The one where I didn’t move, the one where I stepped three feet to my left, or the one where I had to take two steps back?”

  Okay, yeah, he had an easy game. “How did you know where the ball was going to be? That’s like—it’s like you’re psychic.”

  “It’s called being a professional.” He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, opens them, eyeballs Dogzilla in my arms, and then sighs again. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”

  Wow. He’s cranky.

  Not gonna lie.

  I know it’s probably me.

  But that’s no excuse for not forging ahead. I didn’t come all this way to chicken out. “You remember the last time we saw each other?”

  “This afternoon in the clubhouse?”

  “I liked your hat, but I meant the time…before that.”

  He closes the distance between us with three casual steps. “Nope.”

  And I go momentarily speechless as a waft of something delicious teases my nose.

  But only momentarily. A quick recovery is a gift. Or possibly a defense mechanism. “The time we were together…in that town…with that big monument…and the event thing…”

  No answer.

  “The event thing that didn’t—”

  “I’m trying to block it from my memory.”

  “Oh. Oh! Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “That I wouldn’t want to remember your ruined wedding, that you like to redecorate people with dessert, and that your ex-fiancé is the first man that my mother’s dated in three years and I might have to start calling him Stepdad?”

  I wince.

  My heart also weeps because yeah, still not over seeing Jerry lock lips with a woman who could’ve been my mother, and hearing that it might actually be going somewhere is salt in the wound.

  “So, no, Henri, I don’t remember the last time we were together. At least, I won’t, once I get inside and pour myself a large enough vodka tonic. Care for one?”

  Once again, I’m momentarily speechless. “Um, I’m kinda allergic—”

  I cut myself off when one of his brows rises infinitesimally, and then I gasp. Of course he knows I’m allergic. We had an entire conversation about it. “Are you trying to send me to the hospital?”

  “No, but I am trying to get into my house. Alone. Preferably without the sad panda thoughts I’d finally managed to shake before you showed up today.”

  “Oh. That was a hint.”

  “It was.”

  “I’m bad with the subtle.”

  He swipes a hand over his mouth and looks up at the sky, and I’m certain he’s not stifling a smile.

  Probably the exact opposite.

  Time to forge ahead. “I’m here because I need your help.”

  “And now I pay the price for my sins,” he mutters.

  I’d ask what his sins are, but my google searches were very thorough.

  Normally, he really would be the last person on earth I’d turn to for help.

  “I don’t want money or anything like that. And I’d rather no one know I’m here, so I’m not after your fame either, though I wouldn’t mind some tips on how to get my hair as good as yours always is. I’ve tried Kangapoo before, and—wait. Sorry. Off-topic. I need you to teach me how to not fall in love.”

  His entire body goes still, except for his eyes, which slowly settle on me in the dark.

  And oh no.

  It’s the tingle.

  It’s the tingle over my skin that precedes the quiver in my breasts that sends a jolt of sensation rocketing to my lady bits, which will inevitably short-circuit my brain and make me think I’m falling in love with Luca Rossi.

  I. Will. Not. Fall. In. Love. With. Luca. Rossi.

  The eye contact is a lie. It’s not love. And Luca Rossi doesn’t do love.

  I know, because he told me, and then I did my research and confirmed that he’s exactly the man for the job.

  “You want me to what?” His words are slow and deliberate, like he’s grounding himself back in reality after taking a trip on the crazy train.

  I might’ve heard that tone a time or two before.

  But I forge ahead, because I don’t have a back-up plan. “You don’t believe in love.”

  Again, no answer.

  I’m going to have to do this the hard way. “After the last time we saw—erm, didn’t see each other, I went on my honey—post-traumatic event trip solo, and while I was there in the Canadian Rockies, I met this guy, and I felt this—this instant connection to him. He was a lumberjack type, super funny, super smart, super handsome, super into me, and I realized I was falling for him. When I knew nothing about him other than that he looked great in plaid and he knew how to trim his beard and he c
ould tell a thousand different jokes about pickles, and then I was like, Henrietta Bacon, you know better. You. Know. Better. And I realized I need help. I need to stop falling in love, because if I hadn’t hopped the first flight out of Canada after that and forced myself into isolation for a week or two, I’d probably be planning wedding number six right now, and that’s insane. So I asked myself, who do I know who can help me not fall in love?”

  “Maybe a therapist?”

  “No good. Third fiancé. I can’t go back to therapy.”

  “Christ on a meatball…”

  “Which means… It’s you. You won’t fall in love with me. You don’t even believe in love. You’ve said so yourself. I read about your wedding—well, I mean about your not-wedding. And also some of those articles you were quoted in a few years ago. And even though there aren’t any more recent articles, I’m guessing it’s less because you changed your mind and more because someone told you to shut up if you want to keep getting paid to do shampoo commercials. So I want you to teach me how to not fall in love with anyone else too.”

  Wow.

  It’s been a few years since someone has stood there staring at me with their jaw hanging open.

  Not that I can blame him. I did lay it all out there, and it’s probably not every day someone’s willing to do that.

  Or maybe it is. I don’t know what people say to famous athletes.

  He shakes his head like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream. “Where are your writer friends?”

  “They were all from a group in South Carolina, so they’re on their way home.” I have other writer friends, but they’re all over the world and unable to drop everything at a moment’s notice to stop me from doing something stupid.

  “Your hotel?”

  “I didn’t know which one to pick, and I forgot to ask for a recommendation before I left the ballpark. Do you have one you like?”

  “Your parents?”

  “Mom’s glad I’m not crying in her pool house anymore, and Dad’s probably re-allocating funds in case I decide to throw another pre-wedding. It’s what he’s started calling the expense of my weddings, since they never happen even though I start planning them immediately after the proposal, though in my defense, at least two were called off before we got into five-figure spending.”

  He mutters something else that I don’t understand, which is probably best for my questionable ego, and then looks down at Dogzilla again. “What is that?”