Page 1 of The Decoy

PROLOGUE

NOVEMBER

Ellis

I like my life structured and entirely under my control.

As the Global Brand Director for Overtime Sports, my family’s company, I spend my sixty-hour work weeks managing high-profile athlete endorsements, negotiating eight-figure ambassador deals, and protecting the multi-billion-dollar sports hydration empire that my great-great-grandfather built from the ground up.

I don’t have time for a fairytale romance, and frankly, I don’t want one right now. I see what long-term commitments look like in my world. They’re messy, transactional, and usually end in non-disclosure agreements.

Which is exactly why Dylan Boone has been a perfect arrangement for the last six months.

Across the linen-draped table at Le Gratin, the soft glow of the sun coming in through the windows catches the sharp edge of Dylan’s jawline. His deep blue eyes are a stark contrast to his black, precisely styled hair, and his body looks like it’s cut from stone after long workouts as a starting defenseman for the New Jersey Reds hockey team.

He’s completely self-absorbed, insanely attractive, and knows exactly how to use his perfect dick. And mouth, if I’m being honest.

Our arrangement is simple. We have good sex—okay, incredible sex— and zero expectations. He gets the perks of sleeping with me, and I get a pretty face, a big cock, and someone to let off some steam with. And he never expects me to cook him dinner or meet his mother.

It’s effortless.

Until three days ago, when three digital pregnancy tests sitting on the counter of my bathroom flashed with an undeniable: PREGNANT.

I swirl the single ball of ice in my crystal glass of sparkling water, trying to ignore the subtle wave of nausea in my lower belly. I don’t panic. Panicking is for people who lack resources and contingencies. I handle corporate crises for a living, and this is just a slight variable to navigate at the moment.

“Dylan,” I say, my tone calm but authoritative.

He doesn’t look up from his phone screen. His thumb continues to fly across the glass. “One sec, babe. My agent is texting about my extension at the end of the season. If we lock in the second tranche…”

“Dylan.” I tap my manicured nails on the tablecloth. “Phone down.”

He slowly sets the device face down, adjusting the cuffs of his sweater in a smooth, effortless way that’s always been appealing to me. He flashes me his panty-melting grin—the one that’s plastered along billboards along the New Jersey Turnpike.

“Sup, El?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “What has you all uptight today? Your dad giving you a hard time about the ad budget for my next campaign or something? You just need to assure him that if he keeps my face on television and in print, you’ll hit your goals this quarter. Team is winning, and I’m playing some of the best hockey of my career.”

Oh, Dylan. Everything in his universe revolves around his brand, his contract, and his face. On my bottles.

Our non-exclusive arrangement was built on convenience, sure, but I guess I had a delusional idea that beneath the ego, he had some basic human decency and a hint of maturity.

I’m starting to realize I was spectacularly wrong to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I’m pregnant,” I say plainly.

The restaurant noise seems to vanish.

Dylan’s smile doesn’t fade smoothly. It just kind of rusts in place. His eyes blink once. Twice. Then the gorgeous facade cracks wide open, revealing something similar to what I’ve seen from him on the ice. Cold, calculating, and cruel.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he asks, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

“You heard me. I’m pregnant,” I repeat, leaning back in my own chair and crossing my legs. “I’ve taken three tests. And I’ve already called my doctor to schedule a blood test, but I’d say those three tests are pretty telling. It’s real.”

I watch him closely. I don’t expect him to burst into tears of happiness or, God forbid, propose. I know who he is and what we are to each other. But in some corner of my mind, I think I expected a mutual understanding of the gravity of the situation we’re in.

Instead, Dylan leans in, resting his muscular forearms on the table. The color completely drained from his face. Shocked.

“A baby,” he says flatly. He wipes a hand down his face, dragging his palm across his mouth. “Ellis. Tell me you’re not serious.”

I raise a single brow. “Not serious?”