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2025-08-18 23:59:00
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Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Overnight Operation
EMILIAThe vendor is beaming at him, probably because Liam is arguing over strawberries like it’s a playoff final. I lean against his arm, watching his hand gesture animatedly while he charms the poor woman into throwing in an extra pint “just because the missus looks like she deserves it.”Missus. I don’t stand a chance.By the time he’s finished, he’s swinging a paper bag full of strawberries in one hand, mine still trapped in the other.“Do you flirt with every fruit seller, or just the ones with discounts?” I mutter.His grin is shameless. “Only the ones who give me extra because you smiled.”I groan, dragging my free hand down my face. “You’re insufferable.”“Mm,” he hums, leaning close until his nose brushes my temple, voice dropping low so only I hear it. “And you love me anyway.”I do. God help me, I do.“And since when do you even know how to haggle?” I jab his arm. “You don’t look the type.”“What — too polished? Too much of a rich city boy?”“Yes, exactly that.”He smirks,
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Strawberry Juice
EMILIAFor a second, I’m sure I’ve misheard him. Then the warmth in his gaze lands square in my chest, and every thought in my head dissolves into glitter.“You’re serious?” My voice is barely there.“Dead serious,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of my mouth like it’s a promise. “I want to wake up to you every morning, fall asleep to you every night, and have you here in between to tell me off when I leave my skates in the hallway.”There’s a lump in my throat the size of a hockey puck, but I manage a smile. “That’s a lot of commitment… are you sure you’re ready for my thirty-seven bottles of hair products in your shower?”His answering laugh is low and so warm it makes my toes curl. “Baby, I’ll build you a whole new shelf.”My lips part, but whatever I was about to say gets lost in the traffic jam of my brain cells. He must notice the way I’m seconds away from glitching in his lap, because he shakes his head, fighting a grin. “It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me yet. You don’t h
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Walking ATM Card
EMILIAIt takes me less than a minute to slip into Liam’s place. At this point, I’m basically part of the furniture — the doorman and I are on a first-name basis, and I don’t even gawk at the apartment’s ridiculous size anymore. Progress.It’s quiet inside, which isn’t exactly shocking. Liam told me I didn’t need to come over, that he’d swing by and pick me up himself. One of his teammates is throwing a barbecue, and no matter how much I tried to fake my way out of it (“Oh no, I think I’m coming down with... uh… allergies?”), he wasn’t buying it.Maybe it won’t be terrible. I’ve met a few of his teammates before, and they were sweet in that loud, chaotic, “we’ve adopted you now” kind of way. Still, an entire house full of them? That’s a lot of energy for someone who spent her morning making croissants.I kick off my shoes, wash my hands in the kitchen, and fight off a yawn before wandering into his bedroom. And there he is — sprawled out like he’s auditioning for the cover of “Men Who
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Plan B + Author’s Note
EMILIAIt’s kind of amazing, honestly — how every step hurts like I’m walking on nails. I can barely breathe by the time I flip the sign to CLOSED and collapse into the nearest chair. It’s not even noon.“I think I need to hire help,” I mutter, tying my curls into a messy knot. It’s freezing outside — cold enough to make my toes ache — but I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon through hell.Tessa slides in, clocking me from behind her phone. “Finally decided to stop being a cheapskate?” She snorts, but whatever she sees on my face makes her dial it back. She puts the phone down, opens the crumpled paper bag she brought for lunch. The smell alone is enough to make my stomach growl.“Okay, okay,” Tessa says, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll stop laughing. It’s just... shocking. I always figured you’d rather keel over on the bakery floor than hire help and part with money.”I roll my eyes, but my attention shifts fast as she pulls out containers of steaming food and hands
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Put The Wine Down
EMILIAI don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the spot Diana just left.Everything feels unreal — like the air’s been punched out of the room and hasn’t returned. I clench my fists, willing myself to move, and head for Tessa’s room.I try not to think about what Diana said. Try not to picture her face. Try not to feel anything at all.When I reach the door, I notice the lock — turned from the outside. The key’s still in the handle. All I have to do is twist it.I open the door.Tessa’s on the floor, legs crossed, laptop balanced on her knees. Reading glasses perched on her nose. She squints at me.“You’re dressed up,” she says, dryly. “So I’m guessing the surprise went well? I’m also guessing you got rid of the psychopath? I would’ve called you, but she took my phone like I was being punished.”I don’t answer. Just move to the ground beside her, awkward in my dress. I smooth it out and lean over to peek at her screen.“Are you working?”“Was.” She lets out a small sigh and cl
Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Slab Of Man-god
DIANAI have no one to blame but myself.This is what happens when you overestimate people. Emilia really is as pitiful as I remembered — not even interesting enough to provoke. Just exhausting.I’m already heading for the elevator when I text Amanda.> You have three minutes to get a car and prep the jet. Miss that window, and start rewriting your CV.I don’t care how impossible it is — that’s what she gets for spying on me and not having the brains to do it right. No job that involves me is easy.As I near the elevator, the doors slide open and someone steps out — tall, broad, hoodie up, arms full. A bouquet of slightly wilted flowers in one hand, greasy paper bag in the other. It smells like overpriced pasta.I pause, tilt my head.So this is the idiot who’s been pacing outside like a lost mutt.I should ignore him. I almost do. But then I feel it — that tight coil behind my ribs. Not curiosity. Not interest. Just pure, sharp irritation.And I act on it.He doesn’t see me until I r
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