Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player
I’m about to do a very embarrassing little happy dance when I hear my name.
“Lacey?”
Of course it’s Liam.
I whip around, too fast, and nearly knock over a hand sanitiser station. He’s standing by the cable machine in a tank top, looking like he belongs on the cover of a fitness magazine for emotionally unavailable men who secretly read poetry.
“I literally told you I’d be here less than fifteen hours ago, dumbass,” Liam says, grinning.
His tank top clings in all the right places, and his arms look like they’ve been personally sculpted by divine intervention. I resist the urge to comment — not because I don’t want to, but because Emilia already got there first. God, that woman hit the jackpot
Bab Populer