He laughs, shaking his head, and pushes the button for the fourth floor. “You’re amusing.”
“No, I’m not,” I argue.
“You’re different,” he amends.
I shrug. “You’re probably right.”
“Oh, I know I am. Most girls drop to their knees when they meet me, but not you.” My mouth pops open. He grins crookedly. “Yeah, they usually open their mouth just like that too.” He uses his index finger to push my jaw up and closed.
“You’re … you’re … Ugh.”
He laughs. “I didn’t say I asked them to do it. I was just being honest.”
The doors slide open to an empty hall and I follow Bennett to his room. He opens the door and lets me in first.
“Ew, it’s so plain,” I groan. I’ve spent the last two weeks making my dorm my home. Heck, even Elle’s side of the room is decorated. But Bennett has done nothing except put sheets on his bed. There’s not even a comforter or quilt. The walls are bare, the floors are bare, everything is just … blank. There’s no personality, nothing that says this is Bennett’s space except for the hockey gear piled at the foot of the bed on the floor. That’s it.
He chuckles and closes the door, pulling the chair at the provided desk out for me to sit on. “Sorry it’s not up to your standards, Princess.”
I cringe. When my dad calls me Princess it’s sweet, but Bennett says it like it’s a bad thing. “It’s just boring,” I explain. “Nothing in here is personal.”
“It’s only temporary,” he reasons, sitting on the edge of the bed across from me.
“Still,” I say, looking around. “I’d think you’d want it to feel homey. Now, what was it that we needed to talk about in private?”
“I need your help,” he starts.
“My help?” I laugh. “What could you poss
ibly need my help with?”
He bites his lip, and for a moment, he looks adorably boyish. “My manager is beyond pissed with me,” he explains, gesturing with his hands, “and he said that this time it’s up to me to fix it.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” My eyes narrow.
He raises his hands innocently in front of his chest, like he’s surrendering. “I want you to be my girlfriend.” I laugh. “My fake girlfriend.” He looks at me pleadingly with puppy dog eyes.
I glare at him, my mouth popping open. “Oh, my God, you’re serious?”
“As a heart attack.” He presses his hands together like he’s praying. “I need you.”
“Why me?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the rickety wooden chair. “You could’ve asked any girl on campus and I’m sure she would’ve jumped at the chance.”
“For starters, we’ve already been pictured together,” he reasons. “It’s the perfect setup. Secondly, you’re a good girl, Grace. That whole goody two-shoes vibe you have going on is exactly what I need.” I glare at him, conveying with my eyes that I’m about two seconds away from strangling him. “Fuck, Grace, I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s cute that you’re so … girly.”
I roll my eyes. “Why should I help you?”
He appears thoughtful, pressing his lips together. “Because hockey means the world to me, and I’m going to lose it if you don’t do this. I have to prove to the media, to my manager, to my coach, to everyone that I’m not up to all my old antics.”
“And what do I get in exchange?” I tilt my head to the side.
He sits up straighter, brightening now that I’m contemplating this. “Anything you want. Money?”
I glare at him. “I don’t need your money.”
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “Whatever you want, name it, and it’s yours if you do this.”
I bite my lip. “I’ll have to think about it.” His shoulders sag. “About what you’ll owe me,” I amend.