Bright Lights and Summer Nights: A Fake Dating Billionaire Sports Romance (Black Tie Billionaires)

“So ,how serious are things between you and the chick you brought?” Holt Carmichal asks me as we wait for our drinks at one of the pop-up bars on the property.

My head whips in his direction as I try to figure out if I just heard him correctly. I loathe small talk—hate it, really. I was spacing out as he was striking up casual conversation and trying to get details from me about next season. I’d checked out of the conversation so I’m not sure I heard him correctly with the last question. “Excuse me?” I ask, not bothering to hide the annoyed tone to my voice.

“The chick you brought…” Holt begins, pointing the head of his beer bottle in Emma’s direction. I look where he points, finding Emma deep in conversation with my sister and grandmother. The three of them appear to be gossiping like they’re in high school. “Are things serious between the two of you?” Holt pushes. “Or when you move on to the next one, would you be okay with me shooting my shot?”

I’ve had opposing team players trash-talk me, and I’ve been able to keep completely cool.

I’ve had fans from our biggest rival team shout obscene and horrible things to me, and it didn’t faze me.

But for some reason, the thought of Holt Carmichal having anything to do with Emma has my blood boiling. I’m pretty sure I see red—and it’s been a long time since I haven’t been able to keep my cool just because of something someone said to me.

I used to be a hothead; that was all part of my twenties—until now.

My fingers tighten around my own beer bottle. The look I give him must be scathing because he holds his hands up defensively before my anger subsides enough to even get words out.

“She has a name,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth. “And to be frank with you, Holt, the fact you had the nerve to even say that to me has me wanting to smash your face in.”

A choking sound comes from Holt’s throat at my words. His mouth flops open and shut like a dead fish.

An angry laugh rumbles through my chest. “Don’t worry. You’re safe today, Carmichal. It’s my sister’s wedding week, and I’m not trying to create a PR nightmare. But know my kindness can only go so far. Talk about my girlfriend like that again, and I don’t give a fuck what brand deals I lose and what repercussions I’ll face. You got that?”

The asshole can’t even come up with a response. What a fucking loser. I’m well aware that I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I’ve spent my entire adulthood trying to make a name for myself that has nothing to do with my parents’ fortune. Holt can’t say the same. He has a title at his father’s law firm but barely practices law because of the cases he’s fucked up. I have no idea why Jackson is even friends with him, but it’s none of my business.

Holt was really none of my fucking business until he decided to try and insult Emma by not even learning her name.

“Sorry, bro.” Holt takes a few steps away from me as if he isn’t quite confident that I won’t risk it and aim a right hook his way. I’m tempted to, not caring at all about my reputation or what it could do to my throwing hand.

I take a deep breath, attempting to center myself. Emma’s loud laugh from across the yard is a welcome distraction. But hearing her beautiful laugh—so happy and carefree—while a man wanting her attention can’t even remember her name just pisses me off more.

My hand flexes at my side. “Get out of my sight,” I seethe, wishing I didn’t have to see him for the rest of the week—or ever again, really. “And next time, don’t ask a man about having a turn with his woman. It’s rude and tacky as hell.”

“Got it,” Holt responds, his voice breathy with fear.

He begins to scurry away, joining all of his loafer-loving friends, but I have one more thing I have to say.

“And you shouldn’t need to know this because you shouldn’t plan on talking to her at all, but her name is Emma. Get it right.”

Holt at least has enough common sense to not say anything back to me. He hurries away, not even looking back as he makes his way to his friends.

“Well, that was entertaining,” the bartender says from behind me. My body tenses, not realizing we had an audience for the exchange.

I turn around, finding a kid probably barely legal to drink smiling at me. I groan, wondering if he really caught that entire conversation.

The kid—Davis, if his name tag is correct—gives me a knowing grin. “Don’t worry, dude. Jealousy happens to the best of us. Your secret’s safe with me. Huge Manhattan Mambas fan.”

My muscles tense at his comment. “I wasn’t jealous. The guy was just being a dick.”

This makes Davis laugh. Without any prompting or explanation, he begins to make a cocktail. “The guy was a total dick. If you weren’t going to threaten him, I was going to. But I know jealousy when I see it, my man, and that was pure jealousy.”

I stare at him, blinking a few times as I try to come up with a response. “It wasn’t jealousy,” I demand, trying to keep my tone firm. “He was being disrespectful to me by even asking and, more importantly, by not even using her name.”

“Want me to kick his ass?” Davis asks. His tone is joking, and it actually breaks the tension, making a small laugh escape me.

“No. He’s actually harmless.”

My eyes find Holt, who is watching me with a cautious expression. Maybe he really is scared I’m going to say to hell with my morals and march my way over to him. I won’t, but I lift my beer in a tiny salute to him just to make him nervous.

“For what it’s worth, and I mean this in the most respectful way possible, I get it,” Davis pipes up, putting two cherries in a drink that’s a soft pink.

“Get what?” I ask, turning around and resting my forearms against the bar.

“I get why you’d be jealous. Your date…she’s magnetic. As a bartender, I get paid to watch people. I’ve noticed how everyone is drawn to her today. It makes sense why you’d be jealous of someone else wanting her.”

I drag my knuckle along my bottom lip, thinking his words through. Was I jealous? Surely not. I’ve never been a jealous man. But is it that I’m not a jealous person or that I wasn’t interested enough in anyone to make me that way?

Clearing my throat, I straighten my spine and finish off the last of my beer. I’m not jealous; I just don’t like Holt being disrespectful.

But what if you are jealous? an annoying voice chimes in from the back of my head. I don’t listen to it any further. I’ve known her for a day—there’s no way she’s already making me jealous.

Davis has the nerve to laugh at me. He shakes his head, gently sliding the pink drink across the bar top to me. “You can go ahead and take this to her. Something tells me she’ll love it.”

I look down at the drink. “What is it?”Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

“A new recipe I’m messing with. Today, I’m thinking about calling it ‘The Wingman.’ What do you think?”

I roll my eyes at the kid. I like him, which is saying something because I barely tolerate anyone outside of my usual inner circle.

“I don’t need a wingman,” I declare, still taking the drink.

He lifts a shoulder. “Of course, you don’t. You’re Preston Fucking Rhodes. Just let me pretend I was one for a legend.”

This gets me to laugh. “It takes a lot to become a legend. Not sure I earned that title.” My eyes roam to where Emma still stands locked in conversation with Gram and Peyton. “Plus, the sport I play means nothing to her.”

Davis hums in surprise. “Is that refreshing?”

I look at him suspiciously, wondering why he seems to have such a read on both Emma and me. Are bartenders always this intuitive, or is it just him?

I sigh. “To be determined, Davis.”

Leaving the drink on the bar, I reach into my pocket and grab my wallet. I pull out a hundred-dollar bill and slide it across to him. “Thank you for the advice, even though I didn’t ask for it.”

“The tip isn’t necessary,” he responds, looking at it as if he’s not sure if he should take it or not.

I slide it even further toward him. “Doesn’t matter, take it.” I look around, making sure no one is watching us. “If you have a pen, I’ll sign something for you, too. Just don’t tell anyone.”

A squeaking noise comes from his throat. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m not really known for being funny,” I admit.

Davis hurriedly reaches into his pockets, finally finding a pen. He looks around, picking up a napkin and placing it carefully in front of me. “Thank you for doing this, man. I know it must get annoying when people ask you to sign something.”

I sign the napkin for him and hand it over. He laughs at what I signed.

Davis,

Let me know when you need a wingman. I owe you one.

Preston Rhodes

“Good talking to you. Hopefully, she likes the drink.”

“Taking it to her now,” I answer before making my way to Emma.

The moment her eyes meet mine and she gives me a bright smile, I wonder if maybe Davis was right. Is she getting to me more than I thought?

Even if she is, I’m not going to do something about it. I get her for the rest of this week, and I’m going to savor every moment.