Deke (Fake Boyfriend, #3)

by Eden Finley

Sweet Neil Patrick Harris, I’m fucked. Ollie looks like he’s going to throw up, and I’m kicking myself for not recognizing him sooner. I should’ve known he was a jock with the way I immediately wanted to climb him like a tree. If he really was waiting in the bathroom for a hookup, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Closeted meatheads are my kryptonite, and apparently, I don’t even need to know that fact anymore before being drawn to them.

After we settle in, dinner becomes a quiet affair, probably because it’s feeding time at Jurassic Park.

“Don’t sweat it. It’s not every day I have a hot guy’s hands on me.” The corners of his mouth tip up ever so slightly. The quick response is on the tip of my tongue. “That can’t be true. You’re hot.” Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this. Why the fuck not? a little voice says. I think it’s coming from my dick.

I sigh. “One drink.” “Three.” “Two?” “Four.” I purse my lips. “I don’t think you realize how this negotiating thing goes.” “Okay, fine. We’ll stay for five drinks.” Jet holds my hand and drags me down the street, and my lazy feet stumble after him.

When Noah told me Jet was Matt’s little brother, I expected a mini, younger, broody Matt. Turns out, he’s an adorable twink with attention deficit disorder.

The burn of staring follows me to the line at the bar, and I know exactly where it’s coming from. Ollie’s gaze is locked on me, as if trying to kill me with the Force. I’m tempted to fake choke, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself when no one will understand what I’m doing. This crowd doesn’t seem like the Star Wars type.

“You know who never has to point out they’re an adult? Actual adults.”

“Your mouth’s going to get you into trouble one day.” “I’m betting on it.”

“For the love of Gretzky, this is why I don’t drink. Like ever. Mouth. Stop. Talking.”

“When are you going to tell them the truth about me?” he whispers. I shrug. “At our engagement party?”

“We’re doing this. Fuck the universe.” I slump. “Oh, man, why’d you have to go and say that? You’re gonna get hit by a bus tomorrow for sure.”

We start hobbling our way to the front door when I gasp. “How are we going to explain this? We got high and fell out of the treehouse?”

I’m legitimately beginning to worry that topping for the first time means he lost a severe amount of brain cells when he came. Sex makes you dumb, people.

Ollie laughs against my skin. “We’re totally the reason these hotels need black lights. You’re lying in a pool of cum.” I wave him off. “Legs jelly. Brain broken. Sleep now. Bodily fluid cleanup later.” “I love it when you’re romantic.” “Sunshine, flowers, candy, semen … it’s allllll romantic.”

“You’ve already proved you can be brutal if you need to be. I must be a sloppy kisser for you to have written those articles about me back then.” A small laugh escapes. “You’re a really sloppy kisser. Like, I think you might need to practice.” I bring my finger up to tap my lips.

“Even if Sports Illustrated is my dream job, you’re my actual dream. Giving us a real shot is what I want.”