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“We need to talk.” His sharp gaze flickers to mine, and still he says nothing. I like the strong silent type as much as the next girl but seriously? “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yup.”
“Can you stop that for a minute, please?”
Pulling himself up and standing, he places one hand on his hipbone. The unintended consequence of this is that the waistband of his shorts is pushed down and…again, no underwear. Wiping his chest with a hand towel in his other hand, he says, “Talk.”
So charming. “Why would you call me your…umm…girlfriend?” I almost choke on that word.
“She was touching me.”
Huh? I’m stumped, I’m completely stumped. Then I think, there must be some kind of hidden meaning here, and spend an extra few minutes searching for something I do not find. “Are you a germaphobe?”
“No.”
“Do you suffer from some other condition I should know about?” In response to this, I get a triple dose of his signature nasty scowl. “Then what’s with this aversion to being touched?”
“I don’t like it.”
“You. Don’t. Like. It. So you announce to the world, ‘cause I can guarantee this will get to the tabloids in no time, that I’m your girlfriend without thought to the consequences?”
“What consequences?”
I am this close to laughing like a deranged hyena. His face is totally relaxed, like we’re discussing the series finale of Downtown Abbey and not the total and complete destruction of what little is left of my life.
“What consequences? What consequences?” I am fully aware that I keep repeating everything like an idiot, but I am steeped in disbelief. Can he really be this self-centered?
“You keep repeating yourself.”
“I told you what it’s like for me! I’m trying to lay low. The last thing I need is to draw any attention to myself, whatsoever.”
“That won’t ever happen again if people think you’re my girlfriend.”
I ignore this ridiculously arrogant statement and plow full steam ahead. “I don’t ever, ever want to wind up on another newspaper as long as I live. And now you want me to play the pretend girlfriend of the biggest sports star in the country. How is that supposed to help me? How is that staying off the radar?”
I’m getting a panic attack just talking about it. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in…
He scrunches his face up, his head bobs from side to side and says, “Second biggest.” I blink repeatedly just to be sure I’m not dreaming this ridiculous conversation. For a second, I’m sidetracked into contemplating who he thinks number one is. “Why are you breathing like that?”
Nope, I’m awake. This shit’s real.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“You can’t hide forever.”
I don’t know what’s pissing me off more, the smug look on his face, or the fact that he’s dismissing every legitimate concern I have as if it’s trivial nonsense.
“Thanks Dr. Phil, but that’s exactly what I plan to do, hide forever. And what about how this could hurt you? What a PR nightmare this could turn into. Dating the widow of a Ponzi scheme mastermind, whether it’s bullshit or not, isn’t going to endear you to your fans or the Davis family, for that matter. Your contract expires soon. This could hurt your chances to sign again.”
“Camilla––” My name on his lips snaps me out of my rant. There’s a serious amount of exasperation implied in the way he pronounces it, like he can’t believe he has to labor through an explanation. “Does it look like I give a shit what other people think?” That’s the problem. He really doesn’t. “It’ll be fine.”
“For whom??”
“For both of us.”
I go for forceful. “Sounds awesome. But again, NO. You better fix this.”
“I don’t want a relationship and I don’t want the hassle of not being in one. I won’t get touched anymore, and people won’t mess with you. It’s real simple. Don’t make this more than it is.”
The arrogance.
“I’m sure you’ve dated a number of women who would love to be a part of this dog and pony act. Get one of them to do it.” There’s a long pause and I’m momentarily relieved to think I may have finally scored a point. He seems to be mulling it over.
“No.”
Relief erased. I stand there slack faced, marveling at his obstinacy. So it’s no surprise that my hands go to the roots of my hair and begin to tug. It’s like trying to reason with a brick wall, enough to drive anyone absolutely bat shit crazy. He starts doing those hanging stomach crunches double-time as if I’m not still standing there glowering at him. Up down, up down, his knees pump rapidly. I’m momentarily distracted with a washboard I could do laundry on.
“Anything else?” he grunts out. I throw my hands up and march out the door because what else is there to say?
After a thirty minute shower, in which I spend the better part of it holding my head under the jet stream trying to soothe the tension headache one gets after a conversation with one pigheaded man, I feel marginally calmer. With this newfound sense of peace and calm, I step out of my bathroom and it all goes to hell.
