Page 28 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I take a breath, laying it all out. "The ones backing the Apex Stadium," I say, watching her closely.
Her eyes sharpen, a flicker of understanding crossing her features. "I've heard rumors about that. Some grandiose project to transform the skyline and the sports scene here in town."
"That's the one," I confirm.
"But what I need to know is, what the hell does that have to do with me?"
I can't help but grin at the directness of her question. If there's one thing I admire about Isabella, it's her ability to cut through the BS.
"Well, here's the thing," I start, my grin widening because I know what I'm about to propose is borderline insane. "I'm suggesting a partnership. The personal kind."
The color doesn't drain from her face, which is something. But the mix of disbelief and mirth that flickers across her features tells me she thinks I'm joking.
"You're screwing with me," she says, but there's a question in her voice, a hint that she's not entirely sure.
"Far from it," I reply. The smile falls away, and I lean in, deadly serious now. "I'm talking about a fake engagement, Isabella."
She blinks, once, slowly, like she's rebooting her brain to make sure she's processing the words correctly.
"Explain. Now," she demands, and I can tell by the steel in her voice that I'm on thin ice.
So I lay it all out—the benefits, how it would ease my investors' minds, showing them there's stability and unity at the core of this supposed rivalry between our teams.
"And the StarPucks," I continue, playing what I know is my ace card, "would gain access to the Apex Arena for practices and games. It's an unparalleled facility, Isabella. It would be a game-changer for your team."
She's silent for a long moment, her brain ticking over, weighing my words. I can practically hear the cogs turning as she considers the angles, the risks, and the rewards.
I lay it out for her, clear as the ice after a fresh Zamboni run. "We make a few public appearances together, get snapped by the press looking cozy. Share some laughs, maybe touch on some cute social media posts — nothing over the top. A little PDA, but all above board. And once the deal with the investors is secure, we can quietly call it off."
Her eyes are sharp, dissecting every word I say, every implication. "And when we call it off?" she asks, her tone suggesting she’s both intrigued and skeptical.
I shrug, an easy lift of my shoulders that I hope conveys confidence. "We'll have a slew of believable reasons. Scheduling conflicts, career demands, the classic 'mutual decision' bit. The public eats up that sort of drama. And even better, we’ll be nice and diplomatic about it, show the world that we’re adults who can work together.”
She listens, absorbing, the gears turning behind those calculating eyes. Is she considering the pros and cons, tallying them up like points in a game? Or is she plotting ten steps ahead, figuring out how to play this to her advantage? With Isabella, it’s probably both.
I watch her, trying to get a read, but she’s as inscrutable as ever. I’ve seen her call bluffs with less at stake than this, but now, as the silence stretches between us, I’m left to wonder at the poker face that’s giving nothing away.
"Think about it, Isabella," I press on. "This could be what we both need to get ahead. It’s a partnership, of sorts. Business, purely strategic."
She’s still for a moment, and then she takes a sip of her wine, as if we're discussing something as mundane as the weather, not fabricating an engagement. "And you think this charade will work?" she finally says, her voice even, but I catch a trace of something else there—curiosity, maybe.
I lean in, my confidence unwavering. "I know it will. We’re convincing enough. We’ve got history. People love a story, and we'll give them one."
She sets down her glass, a soft clink that feels like a timer counting down. "A story," she repeats, and there's a flicker of amusement in her tone now, a slight warmth that wasn’t there before.
"Exactly," I affirm. "A story that ends with the Apex Stadium deal locked down and the StarPucks stepping up their game."
She nods, once, slowly, and I’m left to wonder what’s behind that nod. Agreement? Understanding? The first step in a dance neither of us knows the steps to?
Finally, she leans back, her expression inscrutable. "This is absurd, Dom. You know that, right?"
"Absurd, but effective," I counter. "It's a win-win. You get the facilities and the clout, and I get my investors off my back."
Her eyes haven't left mine, and there's a new calculation in them now, a new consideration. She's thinking about it, really thinking about it.
I wait, the tension between us thick enough to skate on. She's a strategist, my Isabella. She’ll see the potential here. She has to.
The silence stretches out, taut as a power play in overtime. I've pitched wild strategies in boardrooms and locker rooms, but this? Proposing a fake engagement to Isabella Carrington takes the cake. I can see the cogs turning in her head, the slow realization that I’m dead serious.
