Heart of Thorns (Shadow Valley U Book 2)
Heart of Thorns: Chapter 10

The last person I expect to see in the weight room is Briar Hart.

And her reaction to me?

Fear—until she realizes who I am. Then, her expression shifts into something more at ease.

But then, her eyes roll back, and she collapses.

I have excellent reflexes… but unfortunately for her, I’m across the room. She just seems to fold in on herself, though, and luckily doesn’t smash her head into anything on the way down.

What is it with this girl?

I rush to her and drop to my knees, rolling her onto her back. I pick up her legs, my fingers digging into the flesh around her ankles. Elevating them should…

Ah, here she is.

Her eyes flutter, and she comes around rather quickly.

“Why am I on the floor?” Her voice croaks.

“You fainted.” I crack a smile. “I’d like to think it’s because you saw my gorgeous face and swooned a little too close to the sun.”

She scowls.

“Briar,” I try out.

“Put my legs down.”

“You should just lie still for a minute.” I pat her calf. “Just, uh, let the blood flow back to your brain.”

This is actually good timing, seeing as how she’s just who I had in mind for being in a fake serious relationship with—I just need to convince her that it’s a good idea, too.

But she’s still wearing that stupid blue jersey.

“Are you wearing anything under that?” I blurt out.

Her eyes narrow… and then she smirks.

Smirks.

She pushes up onto her elbows and slowly shakes her head. “Just a sports bra.”

I make a face. And I’m probably going to regret this, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I set down her legs and grab her wrists, pulling her into a seated position. She smells nice. Like flowers.

I bite the inside of my cheek and shuck my shirt off.

“Whoa—”

I toss it on her lap.

Her eyes widen. The cool air pricks at my skin, which is suddenly hot. But I ignore it when she balls up my shirt in her hand.

“I’m not propositioning you,” I inform her. “And I’m not doing this to see your tits.”

Before she can voice a protest, I grab the bottom of the jersey and yank it up. Her arms lift automatically, and I tug it free.

She gapes at me, and I smile.

“Give that back,” she demands.

“No.”

“Thorne.”

“Put the shirt on, Briar.” I motion to it.

Her breasts are kind of fucking perfect, though. Sports bra… more like some lacy contraption meant to lure guys into her bed. Her cleavage is killer, and the light-blue fabric barely hides her nipples.

She scoots away from me and yanks it over her head. Her bun comes loose, her hair falling in her face.

But once she’s covered by the thin white cotton, the block letters of Shadow Valley University across the chest, I blow out a breath.

“Was that so hard?” I demand.

“You—”

“I thought you had school spirit,” I continue. “I heard you were on the hockey team⁠—”

Her expression turns mutinous. “Asking about me, Thorne?”

“You’re intriguing.” I shake my head and stand. “And…”

She rises, too. I resist the urge to reach out and touch her again. My skin didn’t crawl, and I don’t want to jinx it. What if it’s just a fluke? That sort of contact has always made me feel like there were spiders creeping up my back.

But not her.

I could be delusional.

But I told my father’s investor I was in a serious relationship… There’s got to be a way to leverage this in her mind. Something she needs?

“What were you doing in here anyway?” I ask.

She scowls. Seems to be her default expression. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” I repeat, skeptical. “No need to lie, Briar.”

She wraps her arms around her stomach but doesn’t go for the jersey I tossed away. She doesn’t try to get her hair back into a picture-perfect bun or any other sort of style. She didn’t flinch away from me seeing her shirtless…

Who is this girl?

“You heard I was on the hockey team,” she says quietly, “but did you hear why I’m not anymore?”

I cock my head. I haven’t heard, but apparently, a lot of other people on campus have. Do I just live under a rock?

I have been a little busy. My entire life revolves around football and dodging the dates my parents schedule for me.

“Tell me,” I say.

Her gaze moves past me, to the doorway, then back. I stand between her and her only escape. I don’t mean to be menacing, but I want answers. I shift, giving her a better line of sight to the door, and cross my arms.

She heaves a sigh. “Fine. I was working on a commissioned mural, and there was a fire, and I couldn’t get out on the first floor. The only way I could survive—” Her throat works. “I jumped out of the second-story window. Injured my knee pretty bad, basically ended my hockey career.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining the scene she paints. Fire, smoke. Fear. Falling.

Pain.

I know a lot about pain. Especially knee pain.

Her reaction about my hand bursting in flames makes sense now. I’m a dick.

“Were you in here to use the equipment?”

She nods fast.

“You could get hurt if you do it the wrong way.” I frown. “I⁠—”

I just need to say it.

“I can help, if you want? I went through my own knee injury. So, I have experience.” I clear my throat. “It’s probably better than you struggling in here alone, especially if you’re prone to fainting.”

“I’m not.” Her cheeks flame. “I never faint.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s the catch?” She steps closer. “You can’t go from calling me a jersey chaser and a stalker⁠—”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

Her eyebrows shoot up.

“I made a bad assumption based on past experiences. You know what they say when you assume…”

“Right.”

“I made an ass of myself,” I continue. “And, if I’m being honest, I do have a catch.”

She stiffens.

“Date me.”

She chokes. “Excuse me?”

“That came out wrong.” I turn away from her, swiping my palm down my face. “I don’t mean actually date me⁠—”

“You saw my tits and now you want to fuck me?” Her voice is hard.

I laugh. “Jesus. No.”

“You didn’t like them, then?”

My face heats. When’s the last time I got this flustered? I spin to face her again, only to find that she’s within reach. Her chin lifts, her head tipping back to meet my gaze. She’s so fucking unafraid, it’s a marvel.

“I don’t mean sex. Or a hookup. I mean… I need you to pretend to be in a serious relationship with me.”

There. It’s out in the open.

I wait for the laughter or the immediate denial. That this is a horrible idea, that… I don’t know, now I’m the stalker or the creep.

It doesn’t come, so I press onward.

“I help you in here, you help me out there.” I motion toward the door.

“Why?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

“Yeah, Thorne, why? Why me? Why do you need to find someone to fake date you? Why does it have to be a serious relationship? Just—why?” Briar’s gaze could pin me to the fucking wall.

She’s not laughing.

She’s so fucking real right now, it makes me want to reel her in and kiss her.

Which is so outside my comfort zone, it’s not even funny. I don’t kiss.

I fuck girls, usually from behind, and they get a limited amount of touching. Sometimes I tie them to the headboard just to make sure they don’t cop a feel. Their nails down my back or along my arms… I fight off a shudder at the thought.

“You want the truth?” I ask.

She nods emphatically.

I look away. I can’t believe I’m about to tell her this. Rhys knows, of course, but everyone else who sees me go on dates with rich, thin, plastic girls? They just think that’s my type. And it attracts more of them, like flies to honey, and I can’t escape it.

“My parents want me to find the perfect trophy wife,” I admit. “They come from old money, and that kind of status demands certain things.”

“Like marrying…?”

“Someone of the same class.” I wince. “Their words, not mine.”

“Gee, Thorne, I’m surprised you’re even allowed to play football.”

I meet her gaze. Her brown eyes are warm, receptive to my story. She’s not judging me. Maybe my parents, but not me. Not yet.

“They don’t want me to go pro. They think college ball looks good on a résumé, but even that is bullshit. If I wasn’t the quarterback, they wouldn’t let me dedicate nearly as much time to it as I do. I’m going to graduate and work for my father. Give my blood, sweat, and tears to the company that’s been in our family for six generations, work my way up the ladder, and take over when he’s ready to retire. But the Board of Directors will only accept me if I do everything right, and to them? That includes marrying a girl who comes from a family like mine. It means she’s going to pop out two-point-five babies who are guaranteed to be blonde brats. A nanny is going to raise them. And it’s all about the money.”

“And that has to do with the here and now…?”

“They want me to get started on the wife and babies thing.” I shrug. My gaze skates away from hers again. “Every week I go on a date with someone who matches their criteria.”

She snorts. “Poor you, going on dates with rich girls. Do they all have Daddy issues?”

“I don’t want them. I want to focus on playing football. And, well, I met one of the girl’s father tonight, and he insinuated some shit about becoming my father-in-law. So I told him there had been a mistake and I was already in a committed relationship.”

With you.

Silence.

I can’t make myself look at her. I don’t often get rejected, and I don’t want to be staring at her when she decides to tell me to fuck off. It feels weirdly vulnerable, having admitted all that to her. We’re total strangers, save our names. And now, I suppose, pieces of our trauma.

“Let me think about it,” she eventually says.

She brushes past me, not quite fleeing, but walking faster than I’d seen her. Even with the slight hitch in her step. She disappears out the door.

It bangs shut behind her, and I kick at the blue jersey.

While not outright, her rejection stings all the same.