Page 65 of Seal the Deal
Fucking Andrew. How dare he be attractive and a really good fake boyfriend. He’s messing with Nicholas’s fucking mind, and there’s no one to blame but himself.
What he should’ve done was take Andrew to one of the spare rooms, several of which have an ensuite so he could get clean, and Nicholas could get himself under control. Instead, his hindbrain had taken full control, refusing to let Andrew out of his sight. Now he’s in Nicholas's room, in his shower using his body products. He’s going to smell like Nicholas and that is a problem. A six foot two, brown-eyed, particular princess-shaped problem that Nicholas has no idea how to handle.
Rather than deal with his own feelings, something he was taught to avoid at all costs growing up, he heads into his walk-in closet to find something for Andrew to wear. Immediately, he’s met with the sight of the sweat suit Andrew let Nicholas borrow after the rage room a few weeks ago, freshly laundered and folded on top of one of his dressers. That is what he should give Andrew to put on. He picks it up, fingers the soft cotton, then promptly hides it in a drawer before finding one of his own designer sweat suits. All the while, he refuses to acknowledge why it is he wants to see Andrew inhisclothes.
As a child, his emotions hadn’t been tolerated. His father had been too busy to deal with him, and his mother had no interest in his existence. They’d had a child because it was expected—an heir to the Whitmore fortune was needed after all. Unfortunately for his parents, rather than a demure and respectful child, they’d gotten Nicholas, who hated the pompous posturing of his rich, fake parents and let them know it at any and all available opportunities. He’s always been impulsive, loud, temperamental and noncompliant.
From the time he was old enough to speak, he’d been told to be quiet. To be seen and not heard. Unfortunately, the quieter Nicholas tried to be to earn their love, the louder his angerbecame. The first and only time he’d finally felt free had been when he picked up a hockey stick at boarding school and found a place where his rage and need to be seen were praised.
Off the ice was a different story. The same fans that worshiped his behavior on the ice, judged and condemned it outside of the game. It’s exhausting and confusing, and it leaves Nicholas with no fucking idea how to behave around anyone, especially Andrew.
At first, things seemed like they’d be simple enough. Nicholas thought Andrew was a stuck up khaki wearing asshole who hated him. It was perfect. It left Nicholas free to be the same dick he’s always been without worrying about repercussions.
Problem is, Nicholas isn’t sure this is true anymore. He’s still an asshole, pretty sure he always will be an asshole, but he doesn’t want to be that way with Andrew. The problem is he has no idea how to act or what he wants. Everything about this situation is fucking with him.
When he’d reached out to Amanda to help him, he was certain she’d say no. When she said she found someone perfect Nicholas had balked, until he met Andrew and discovered he was perfect—because he was everything Nicholas would never go for. He was particular and earnest and honest in the way Nicholas would never be. He also dressed like an accountant, because he actually was. It was nothing Nicholas would normally go for in a partner—making him ideal.
The plan was to get a fake boyfriend, ignore him until he needed him, then fuck off again after the deal was done.
So far nothing is going to plan. He tried ignoring Andrew, and judging by the way he barged into his work, it’s clear how good of a job he’s doing there. At this point, he’s spent more time with Andrew on their fake dates than he has with any of his bed partners in the last five years combined, none of which he’s ever brought back to his home. It’s always hotels or their place—bothbecause he usually picked up a bed partner while on the road and because it set a hard time limit for him or them to leave.
Emotional entanglements and messy interpersonal relationships have never been on the top of his wishlist.
Now here he is bringing Andrew into his home and his room. Nicholas has no fucking idea what’s going on. Sure he feels responsible for the paparazzi fiasco, but there’s something else there, something about Andrew that has Nicholas on the defensive and the protective. The idea of someone hurting him, of using him, makes Nicholas sick.
Sure Nicholas is using him, but Nicholas already knows he’s a fucking dick no one should trust. That's the problem. Andrew trusts him. Somehow, he earned enough trust for Andrew to let go at the rage room, to share his fucking home clothes and call Nicholas when he was panicked and felt unsafe. No one has ever trusted Nicholas. He’s never been someone’s emergency contact. While he sure as shit isn’t a good enough man to be Andrew’s, somehow he is, and Nicholas isn’t giving it up. At least not until their deal is over.
He’s a selfish, greedy asshole, and Andrew will understand that fully soon enough. Because Andrew is a better man than Nicholas, he has no doubt that Andrew will stay until their deal is done, which means until that time Andrew ishis. On some level, Nicholas is aware this makes him even more of an asshole, but this is nothing new.
This thing with Andrew is nothing more than a transactional deal. If he happens to find himself growing fond of Andrew, or wanting to jerk off to the image of his thick head of hair and handsome face, well, Nicholas is a healthy bisexual man with a taste for the nicer things in life. It doesn’t mean anything. None of this means anything.
Every single thing in Nicholas’s life has been a deal. Even his birth was a deal—a promise from his mother to provide anheir in exchange for the life of luxury she wanted. His existence is a deal. The men and women who come in and out of his bed leaving more sexually satisfied than they entered were a deal. Every fucking thing in life is nothing more than a deal, each with an expiration date. Andrew being his boyfriend is no different. Andrew King means nothing.
Even as he thinks it, an unfamiliar stab of guilt hits him square in the chest. Shit, he really is a fucking asshole.
With a sigh, he grabs the clothes for Andrew, making sure to get socks and underwear too. The little he knows about Andrew suggests he won’t want to put on the same underwear and socks from before he showered. He lays it out on the end of the bed while trying not to listen to the sound of running water and imagining it trailing down Andrew’s bare skin.
Angry and out of sorts, he leaves the bedroom in a sour mood, heading down to his gym in the garage where he proceeds to take out every single unwanted feeling—which is all of them—on the punching bag hanging in the center of the room. It’s too bad Nicholas doesn’t have a game tonight because right now there’s nothing he wants more than to lose himself, to let his skates hit the ice and know exactly who he is. On the ice, he’s Nicholas Whitmore—infamous andtalented. It’s not cocky because it’s true. Nicholas is a damn good hockey player. The fact that he’s got a bad temper and is as likely to start fights as he is to finish them gets him as much attention as the goals he scores, sometimes more.
That need to lash out surges, his fists slamming into the bag with such force his knuckles sting. He should be wearing gloves, or have at least wrapped his hands, but somehow the pain is what he needs.
It’s not until the knuckles on his right hand are split and his body is drenched with a familiar sheen of sweat that he makeshis way back into the house, met immediately by the sight of Andrew cleaning his kitchen.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Cleaning,” Andrew answers, immediately setting the cloth he’s holding down. His eyes turn on Nicholas, appraising him as they drag from his head to his toes and land on his hands—red and bloody. “What were you doing?”
“Why the fuck are you cleaning?” Nicholas asks, ignoring the question.
Andrew walks forward, reaching for Nicholas’s hands. He winces but doesn’t pull them away. “Tell me what you were doing first.”
“Working out,” Nicholas snaps, trying to hold on to his anger but feeling it slip away. That makes him mad too, but the anger isn’t white hot rage like before, yet it still burns.
“I gotta tell you, you and I must have different versions of working out because last time I checked, that form of cardiovascular health doesn’t end up needing medical care.”
“I don’t need fucking medical care,” Nicholas snaps, yanking his hands back.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Andrew replies in that calm tone of his, reaching for Nicholas’s wrists to pull his hands closer.
