An unexpected coil of tension winds tightly through my body as I wait for his answer. I want to cross my fingers, since I’m hoping—really hoping—that he says no, he wouldn’t want to skip it.
Which is dumb. Because I can’t date him.
I just want to know the score.
He scratches his jaw. “Well, considering it’s the Win a Date with a Player auction, and the teams’ PR people post publicity photos, yeah, the prize would be . . . a real date. So we’d go on a real date, presumably. Dinner, dancing, a carriage ride.”
I pretend to retch.
He cracks up. “Yes, I know you hate carriage rides.”
“Because I love horses, and I don’t believe for a second they want to pull carriages in the park. Maybe we could go for a trail ride instead.”
“Consider it done, pardner,” he says, all cowboy and southern sexy.
“So,” he continues, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He seems oddly nervous. Nerves aren’t something I associate with Ransom North, so I’m not sure what to make of them. “What do you say?”
Our friends have been trying to smash our faces together for months, and we’ve resisted like magnets. Yet, if I bid enough, we’ll go on that date they’ve wanted after all.
But it’s not a face-smashing date.
It’s a date for a cause.
Lingering lust for the man aside, it’s a date that could help me achieve my goals.
I’d be honoring my father’s final wishes.
Helping to promote the value of giving.
I can do that with a picture that’d spread a thousand words.
As a social media strategist for a dating and relationship site, I know how powerful photos on social media can be. Shots from a charity event like this, with a sports star of his stature, can absolutely raise awareness for a good cause.
That’s what I vowed to do with my parents’ money.
That’s what I want more than anything.
To keep up their philanthropy after their deaths.
And now, as I roam my gaze over the stud in front of me, he’s part of that good work.
I shove all my desire for him under the carpet. This is about friendship and goals.
For both of us.
The date is simply a detail.
“You don’t have to pay my share. I’ll do it.”
3
Teagan
He stares like I’ve announced I want to fly to Mars for vacation, camp out and eat Skittles on the red planet, then hop an interplanetary jet home.
“Don’t be silly, King.”
I cross my arms, holding my ground. “It’s not silly. I want to. Also, hello? I need to. The King Family Foundation and all.” My voice goes steely, as it sometimes does when I say that name, when I remember all that legacy encompasses.
“I know,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. “But I would never ask you for a donation. That’s just wrong.”
“It’s not wrong. It’s literally what I do.” I give a little foot stomp for emphasis.
He sets a hand on my arm, a tender sort of touch that surprises me. He’s been touchier than usual tonight. Maybe I have too. “You’d be doing me a favor by bidding on me. I want to win for pride and for the cause,” he says. “But no way am I asking you to pay for the date. That’s not fair.”
“North, here’s the deal. Assuming I get board approval for the donation, I’m splitting the price tag with you. That’s just how it’s going to be. I want to pay for it. I want you to hit that goal, and I want our date to be covered on social media because that’ll raise the profile of the foundation, as well as awareness of the work we’re doing for companion dogs. So, that’s my offer.” I tap my toe, a move that’s not terribly foreboding in pink Chuck Taylors, but so it goes. “What say you?”
He lets out a long stream of air, rubs a hand across his chin, then says, “You are ferocious in every single battle, King.”
“Yes, and there is no zombie-laughter mulligan here.”
“All right. Let’s do this.”
“Let’s do it,” I echo, then I nod to the stage, where Bryn and Logan are crooning “Hooked on a Feeling.” So perfect for the two of them. It’s their theme song, those lovebirds. “I think this calls for a song. And you get to pick which one,” I say, tapping his shoulder.
“I won, so I picked the favor,” he points out.
“I’m feeling generous. Pick the song too, North.”
“If you insist.”
His eyes sparkle with a glint that says he has something up his sleeve. We head to the stage, and when Bryn and Logan finish, Ransom scrolls through the song options on the screen, winks at me as he selects one, then hands me the mic.
When I see the screen, I crack up. Quickly, though, I school my expression, draw a settling breath, and launch into “The Boy Is Mine,” giving it my all.
