Jessa James - Fake Fiancé

I couldn’t change him, of course. I knew that. A leopard didn’t change his spots, or whatever. Blake might play along and follow orders and pretend for a time, if the stakes were high enough. He’d behave while the pressure was on, but he wouldn’t accept this as the new normal. Bad boys always reverted. When the shackles come off a couple months from now, there would be fireworks. He’d probably party for a month straight and fuck a new woman every night. It was in his DNA.

Fortunately, what might happen after this job didn’t concern me. I just needed to put him through his paces for a time. I’d be well paid for the effort, and I looked forward to seeing him squirm. I could even argue that it was for his own good.

Blake happened to be a star hockey player. He was thirty-two and, in my opinion, peaking. Total man-candy. He was big and rough and self-assured—too much so. His physical strength, skills in playing the game, and bad boy attitude had taken him to the top. At six-foot-two, two hundred and ten pounds, Blake played an aggressive left wing for the Detroit Blizzards. He’d earned a reputation for mixing things up on the ice in a seriously physical way. He’d become the enforcer on the squad. His brutal forechecks rattled the opposition and had played a significant role in putting the team into the final best-of-seven round of the playoffs against Winnipeg, which were about to start.

Blake’s rough style of play also made sure the penalty box didn’t stay empty. Not that he got thrown in there more than others, but he had a way of goading the other team into going too far and paying the price.

I didn’t consider myself a great hockey fan, but I knew the guy’s stats like the back of my hand.

I’d prepared for this job.

Most important, I’d watched videos of his press conferences, spent hours poring over raw material without noticing the time slide by.

And now in this room, in his presence, I understood his reputation as a lady killer. He radiated a sexual heat, even at a distance, and shaking his hand I’d felt a hot longing radiate to my core. I’d love to hear him lean in and whisper dirty words in my ear. Carnal promises. Then fulfill them at the end of the night.

He glanced over at me, and I saw the flick of his tongue, wetting his lips. I imagined that tongue between my legs working my clit and I had to suppress a gasp. I hated myself for falling into his sexual trap for a fleeting second. I refused to squirm, to let him know how affected I was by such a simple gesture.

Idiot! I had to control that kind of response. This stud might be hot and desirable, but he was also an asshole who brought nothing but trouble for himself and his team. I needed to get him on track in public, not in my bed. He was my project. My job. I told myself that it was good to know that I found him so damn attractive. If I stayed aware of it, I could watch myself. Keep my walls up, and the batteries in my vibrator fully charged.

He’s an asshole , I reminded myself, as if that made him less hot. I blew out a deep breath, trying to regain my mental composure.

“We’ve said our piece,” Tom Lassiter said, putting his hands on the table and standing. The lawyer jumped to his feet and Tom nodded toward me. “As the head PR rep of this little project, Chloe has developed the strategy. She’s in charge and will tell you what you need to do.”

“Wait,” Blake said, holding up his hand. “What, exactly, am I supposed to do?”

Tom smiled. “Blake, you do whatever the fuck she tells you. This is her specialty. All I care about is results.” He narrowed his gaze, all rainbows and unicorns were gone. “I expect you to cooperate with her.”

The men left with an “or else” hanging in the air.

Blake turned to me and blinked. “You?”

“Me. The name’s Chloe,” I reminded him.

“You’re going to fix what ails me?”

I laughed. “I’m going to fix what is failing you―your image.”

He snorted. “And you can do that?”

“Actually, you have to do it.” I pointed at him. “You’re a mess, Blake. And if you don’t clean up your image, you’re going to get traded to a losing team. After that, watch all your endorsement deals dry up like mist in a desert.”

His gaze was so intense, I could barely breathe. “Fuck you, Chloe.”

I’d expected that, the crude words, the tough guy behavior meant to test me, to knock me off balance. But I was not a little girl to be intimidated. I had the upper hand here, and we both knew it. “Not even on a bet, Blake.”

Ralph Dodge sighed and put his hand on Blake’s shoulder, taking his turn to reassure this grown man who, even in his thirties, appeared to need a whole bunch of coddling. “You want the team to renew your contract, right? You want me to score that endorsement deal I’ve been whispering about? Well, son, both of those are within reach, but they’re hanging by a thread. No one wants to put your face all over their promo and then have you shit on them by getting busted for a DUI or showing up in tabloids naked at some pool party orgy.”

Blake flinched and turned away as his face reddened.

I had to smile. Neither example was hypothetical. Blake was known as a party animal—a work-hard, play-hard sort of guy. But the good times had caught up with him. A week prior he’d gotten caught up in a drug bust at one of those parties and that had tipped the scales. The team was making calls, talking trade. It was only a matter of time before it leaked to the press.

“Look, Ralph,” Blake began. I recognized the tone. “First thing is, don’t call me son. Second is, I’m killing it on the ice. We’re in the playoffs with a good chance of winning. Why does the team give a fuck about my private life?”

“Because it’s not private, Blake.” I held up my cell phone where I had an image from my feed featuring his mug shot from the other night. “It’s public, and loud, and making your team look bad.”

“I had nothing to do with what happened at that party. I like women. I admit it. But I don’t do drugs, and I sure as hell don’t deal them.”

Roger cleared his throat. “We know. But Frank Stell’s agency is connected to a lot of big corporate players, and he doesn’t like the message your behavior is sending. Didn’t you hear Frank talk about the trend to make hockey a more family-oriented sport? It’s not just you, and it’s not just the Blizzards.”

I watched a smile spread over Blake’s face, a cocky smile, one that got women to drop their panties and men to change their minds on deals. “So, they want me not to party so wild? I can do that.” He glanced at me. “I don’t need a PR lady to do that.”

“They expect you to rehabilitate your image and they’re giving you thirty days.”

He frowned. “What the fuck does that mean, Ralph?”

Ralph sighed. “They want to see that you’ve matured, found a new, more wholesome path.”

“They want you to show them that being a barbarian on the ice doesn’t have to mean a life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” I added as I linked my fingers together on the table. “They want players to be more civic-minded these days, to set a good example for the young players. They want mom and dad to pay two hundred for a ticket so little Johnny can come watch you play and get an autograph.”

He laughed. “How am I supposed to reinvent myself in a month? Find religion?”

“That would work,” I replied. He looked shocked for a second. “It doesn’t need to be that extreme, but we do need to convince the world you think there’s more to life than partying.”

I moved to sit on the table and position myself above the superstar. “If you aren’t ready to join a church just yet, then I have another plan.”