The Right Move (Windy City, #2)

by Liz Tomforde

“I’m sure you can. But I like taking care of people. It’s kind of my thing.” She smiles at me over her shoulder. Fuck, she’s pretty.

“Your curtains can stay. And the plants and your pillows and blanket. But you’ve got to get your naked men off my bookshelf.” Her back vibrates with a laugh. “Deal. Although, you could learn a thing or two from my book boyfriends. You do have that broody, mysterious thing going for you already though.” “And that devastatingly handsome thing,” I add for her.

She pops a strawberry in her mouth and my attention falls on those pink lips. “For someone who likes to have control, it does sound awfully nice when you beg.” I shoot her a pointed glance.

“And you’re worried about making headlines.” Of course, she is. She saw what my sister went through last year. “No. Not at all, actually. I think that’d be fun, but I just got out of a six-year relationship. If he finds out—” “Good. Let him think we’re together. Fuck that guy.” “That’s not what I mean.”

She takes a save-the-date card off the refrigerator, sliding it across the island. “I need to focus on finding a real date to this thing, not being someone’s pretend girlfriend. I can’t exactly be pictured with you for one night then take a random guy to this wedding. Anyone else will be a downgrade from NBA superstar Ryan Shay.” I hold a hand over my chest. “Blue, you flatter me.”

“When’s the wedding?” “Why?” Suspicion laces her tone. “Just answer the question.” “February second.” Pulling out my phone, I check my schedule. No games, home or away. I have practice, but I can get out of it. “I’ll be your date for the wedding.”

AHHHHHH

“Take the night off work. Be my date to the fall banquet, and I’ll be your date to the wedding. Try your best to fake it. That way this arrangement is mutually beneficial. If your little shithead ex is taking a date, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go alone.” Her smile drops as realization hits her. “You’re being serious right now. Ryan, it’s one thing to lie to your GM, but it’s an entirely different thing to lie to my childhood friends. They know me too well. They’ll know we’re faking it.”

But knowing Indy’s ex is a fan of mine is going to make this fake boyfriend thing all the more enjoyable. “Wipe that mischievous grin off your face.” She playfully pushes my head away. “I can’t. This is going to be fun.”

“Fine. You do me a solid, I’ll do you one. I’ll be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.” “My one and only.” “So, is that a yes?”

“So it’s settled then. You’re my fake girlfriend.” “Not so fast. If I’m going to even consider taking you to this wedding, I’m going to need to turn you into one of my book boyfriends first.” That earns a raised brow.

“If you see me across the room, talking to another man, I need you to stare intently then flare your nostrils. Or grind your molars together and tic your jaw.” “Blue—” “Do you know how to growl?”

LMAOOOO

“What?” “Yeah, I don’t really know what that’s supposed to sound like, but every one of my book boyfriends is big into growling. Oh! And can you darken your eyes?” “Darken my eyes?”

Screaming!!!!

It’s been a while, but making a woman come sure as hell was never an issue.

“We’re making a list. No, we’re making a bucket list. For you. If you can knock out this list, I’ll take you to the wedding.” She speaks as she writes. “Book Boyfriend How-To.” “I won’t be that bad that I need a fucking list to become a passable boyfriend.”

I hold my hand out with impatience until she reluctantly places a piece of paper and a spare pen in my hand. “I’m making you a bucket list too.” I hand it over after titling it and finally, a soft smile spreads across my roommate’s mouth. “Indy-pendent Woman 101.” She raises a questioning brow.

“You can teach me how to be with someone, as long as I get to teach you how to be alone. Or at least how to put yourself first.”

Individually, we work on our list for the other. Mine is fairly simple—do everyday tasks alone. Go out to dinner by yourself. Go to a movie you’ve been wanting to see by yourself. Grocery shop and only buy the things you want to eat. Sleep without stacking pillows on the other side of the mattress to trick yourself into thinking you’re not sleeping alone. The last one might throw her off when she realizes I noticed that this morning when she opened her bedroom door, but maybe some accountability will be good for her.

Indy’s list for me starts fairly tame and reasonable: slow dance together, get comfortable with casual touching, plan a date which is finished with in public between parentheses. “Were the parentheses really necessary?” “Yes. Knowing you, you’d plan a dinner date at this very kitchen island, so we don’t leave the house.”

Okay, so she knows me a bit better than I assumed. I get back to my list—show some jealousy. I have a strong suspicion that showcasing jealousy won’t be the issue—keeping it under wraps will be.

AHHHHHHHH

“Heads-up, Shay, I’m an expensive girlfriend. Fake or not. I can’t help it.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got money.”

“Why don’t you date? You could have any girl you want. You’ve got that sexy protective thing going on. Plus, you cook and clean.” Stilling, I pause with a plate in my hand, the water rushing over it. Indy has had no problems telling me exactly how she feels about me but hearing that she thinks I’m sexy hits differently. Like because we’re starting to know each other and we live together, the words hold more weight. But that could be me overanalyzing the girl opposite the kitchen island whose company I might enjoy more than I let on.

“I hope you do,” she says softly. “You’d be good to someone. You’d make someone happy. I can tell.” The untrusting part of me is screaming with the hidden meaning of her words. Because of how much money you make. Or you’re so well-known any girl would love to be on your arm. But there’s something about the kind smile Indy is wearing as she watches me do the dishes that makes me want to believe my gut. That she means I, as a man, as a normal everyday person would make someone happy, and I haven’t let that thought invade my mind in a long time.

Roomie Do you have a dress for tomorrow night? These things are kind of fancy. Clearly Ryan doesn’t know me very well yet because I have an outfit for every possible life event. Wedding guest? Check. Funeral? Check. Formal fundraiser with Chicago’s pro teams? Check. An afternoon spent at a bookstore where I’m casually browsing the shelves, appearing effortless and academic. When all the sudden, a handsome man down the aisle makes eye contact, shyly smiles, then holds up the same book that’s in my hands. Specific, but yes, I have an outfit for that too.

Indy is me

??? I killed your flowers. My chest deflates with an odd sense of relief. He really is dramatic, but I’ll play into it. Ryan! I tried! I really tried to keep them alive, but I think I watered them too much and drowned them. Then when I went down to the flower stand today to buy the same ones in hopes you wouldn’t notice, they didn’t have them. So I bought you some called Black-eyed Susan? Which is the weirdest fucking thing to call a flower. My cheeks are sore from the splitting grin on my face. The idea of Ryan Shay, NBA superstar, leaving his apartment and facing the streets of Chicago to replace my flowers which he tried so hard to keep alive that he over watered them is beyond charming. As if I were a child whose parents wanted to protect my feelings and thought I wouldn’t recognize a new goldfish in my fish tank every week.

I pull my book off the nightstand, needing a fictional boyfriend to distract me from how much I liked hearing see you at home from my very real roommate.

This is the third book I’ve read this week and I couldn’t tell you what any of the heroes were supposed to look like because somewhere along the line, in my mind they all end up being 6’3”, with light brown skin, ocean eyes, and a particular knack for home organization. I don’t know what’s going on. Yes, I’m attracted to Ryan. I’ve always been attracted to Ryan, but he’s infiltrated my mind this week more than he should.

Maybe it’s the prospect of pretending to be together or living side by side that’s causing these unrealistic fantasies to pop into my mind, but the likeliest culprit is that hug in the kitchen from last week when I felt what he’s packing down...

A quick search pulls it up on the TV in my room. Number five is in the corner of the court during warm-ups, two basketballs in his hold, each one bouncing against the hardwood with speed and accuracy. Slight flexes of his hands change their direction. Between his legs. Across one another. Behind his back. Long slender fingers rule every movement. Precision. Power. Control.

The Ryan Shay wearing a Devils jersey is much like the one I live with. Governing of his space, not letting anyone close enough to affect him. But what if someone came along and swiped one of those balls out of his hand. It’d make no sense. He’s simply warming up on his own, away from any other players. But I wonder if he’d get upset at the loss of control, kind of like how he wanted to yell at me for switching his apartment up on him.

Five minutes into his game and I can’t keep my eyes off him. I knew he was good from the reputation he carries, but he’s like a god to some of these fans. The Boston fans outweigh the Chicago ones, but the majority of those wearing red and black are sporting his last name. He’s amazing. Graceful. Composed. Even when plays don’t go his way or calls aren’t made properly, he keeps his emotions locked in. He looks small on the screen, but his talent and ability tower over the competition. It’s sexy as hell.

The way his stomach muscles contract, quick and sharp, I can’t help but picture the way they’d tighten, hovering over me. The way his arms might quiver as he held himself up. Would he be able to hold on to his precious control? Or would he let me take it from him, becoming wild and unruly?

Sliding my fingers down, I slip them under my cotton shorts. I’m hot already. My middle finger grazes my clit and it’s swollen and needy and I’m wet. So goddamn wet because of my roommate. Circling, I imagine my fingers are his. The ones that flex and move and have so much control he runs an entire game with those fingers. With those hands, commanding and powerful.

“What the fuck is a meet cute?” I take a seat on the couch in my living room, projecting my voice to be heard through Indy’s bedroom wall and her blaring music. “It’s the way a couple meets. It’s usually a charming story about an accidental run-in or how two dogs wound their leashes up around their owners’ legs, forcing them to meet face-to-face.”

Lmaooooo

I’m thankful Indy’s in her room with the door closed so she can’t see the slight tug on my lips. Custom-fitted suit, cuff links, and a Rolex look a bit out of place paired with the stupid smile I’m wearing over my twenty-seven-year-old roommate referencing 101 Dalmatians.

“I guess if anyone asks how we met, we tell the truth,” I decide. “You came to my apartment crying then drooled over how amazing I looked as I stood shirtless in my kitchen. Then you threw up all over my shoes. Is that cute enough for you?” One tune shifts to another, but in the break between son...

Lilac-painted toes and white strappy heels are the first thing I see as she steps into the living room. My admiring eye trails the never-ending path of her golden legs, though only one is fully on display tonight thanks to the slit falling dangerously high on her thigh. Shimmering satin paints her body in a bright pink, and I don’t understand the mechanics of it all, but the dress stays perfectly in place by a single strap across one shoulder. I wonder how quickly it’d pool at her feet, revealing what’s underneath, if it slipped off that slope. “Ryan.” “Hmm.” I force my eyes up to meet hers.

AHHHHHHHHHH HES OBSESSEDDDD

She takes a step towards me, and between her natural height and the added inches from her heels she almost meets me eye to eye. “We’ll work on that for next time.” It takes all my willpower to keep my hands at my side when all they want to do is rest on those hips.

It takes all my willpower to keep my hands at my side when all they want to do is rest on those hips. I can only imagine how cool the satin would feel against my palms, how small she would feel under my touch. She’s utter perfection, feminine and beautiful, but we’re roommates and she’s my sister’s best friend, and the only touching that should be done is while prying eyes are watching us. Only while prying eyes are watching us.

Her matching lilac fingernails find my tie as she straightens me out and I can’t help but watch her work. Her eyelids are shimmering, her cheeks are painted rose, and her lashes are darker than usual. Maybe it’s my angle, but they’re the per...

“Five-nine, and no, I’m not going to change into shorter heels.” “Why would I ask you to do that?” She’s done straightening my tie, but her hands are lingering, fingers pretending to work. “Because I’m only a couple inches shorter than you right now.” “I don’t mind.”

Looking down, I watch those flaming cheeks ignite once again. At this rate, I should’ve warned her not to wear blush at all tonight.

Because with how perfect she looks tonight, no one is going to believe she’s mine.

Kai Rhodes is a good guy and one hell of a baseball player. Starting pitcher for the Windy City Warriors, Kai signed one of the biggest contracts in MLB history last season when his free agency brought him to Chicago.

I am intrigued

There’s not a bad bone in his body, and I think my soft spot for him is due to the massive shift his life has taken over the last couple months and how well he’s stepped up and handled his responsibilities. The guy could be out partying every night, getting away with any and every thing, but instead, he’s at home taking care of his son as a single dad.

“And who is this?” Kai’s eyes linger on the woman at my side. Not in a creepy way, but in a respectful you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve had the pleasure to lay eyes on way. I said I liked him, but if he doesn’t take his eyes off her soon, I have no issue retracting my statement.

Jealoussssss

He takes her hand, shaking it, his eyes twinkling like he just found the future mother of his child. “I’m Kai, but you can call me Ace.” “Ace, huh? What’s with the nickname?” “Always been the best pitcher on the team. I’ve got good hands. The right touch. In case you were curious.”

AHHHHHHHHHHH

Kai is basically a golden fucking retriever with his obvious good looks, black-rimmed glasses, and charming smiles. I don’t need him showing Indy those smiles especially when I don’t give her enough of mine.

“You don’t have a kid. You have a baby.” Indy’s tone switches to soft and sweet, her smile beaming as she looks through Kai’s phone. “Yeah,” he sighs. “And he’s looking for a mom.”

The 6’4” baseball player wears a not so innocent grin.

Hottttt