One of his palms sweeps slowly along my arm and over my shoulder, following the thin strap of deep-purple satin. The gentle caress of his fingers is a contradiction to the hunger in his eyes, and a storm of excitement swirls low in my belly. His warm palm splays out as it moves down my back—which is bare because this dress is backless—until he reaches the dip in my spine. He pulls me against him, and I’m pretty sure I moan when the fronts of our bodies meet. “Damn well stunning.” He bows his head, and I shudder when his lips sweep along my jaw.

“Holy shit,” Pattie mumbles from my right.

“Jesus,” comes from my left.

Bishop nuzzles into that hypersensitive space at the edge of my jaw, just under my earlobe. He hums against my skin and then ruins the entire, drawn-out reunion when he says, “How jealous of me is that stupid fuckwad right now?”

It’s like being doused with a bucket of ice water. Of course that’s what this is all about. He’s putting on a show to piss off Joey. How naive of me to assume it could be for any other reason. Sure he gets hard over me, but I wander around in tiny shorts and a sports bra, and he hasn’t been able to whack off like a regular human male in more than a month.

I put my hands on his chest and step back. I actually have to use force to make it happen, and his facial expression makes me question a lot of things. Like why does he look so damn irritated and confused right now, and do I actually have the right to be angry when he’s explicitly told me he’s doing me a favor tonight? Why does he have to be so damn convincing in the facade?

Before he has a chance to speak, or ask a question, or make a statement, the thing I expected to happen tonight does. “Holy shit! Bishop Winslow? Man, that game was kick ass last night! You killed it!” Some twenty-year-old who can’t grow facial hair thrusts his hand out, forcing Bishop to take it, unless he wants to look like an asshole.

And that’s how the next hour goes. Until we sit down for dinner. And even then, the PT team has been broken up, so we’re all seated with aspiring professional athletes who command Bishop’s attention. And I sit there, like I would if I were with my brother—not that I look at Bishop like I do RJ—quiet and smiling. I offer to take photos so I don’t end up in them. I don’t introduce him as my date, because the last thing I need is people suddenly becoming interested in me for something other than my PT skills.

Bishop seems to have different ideas, though. The guy to my right plays football, and based on the size of him, he’s defense. He peppers me with questions, and his eyes keep dropping to my cleavage. I guess it’s not really his fault; it’s there and inviting his eyeballs to have a peek.

Every time he leans in to ask me something, Bishop puts his arm across the back of my chair, and I keep elbowing him in the side. When he tries to whisper something in my ear, I jab him in the IT band.

He mutters profanities under his breath and pulls out his phone. Ten seconds later mine buzzes in my purse, but I avoid looking at the message because I’m already halfway to an emotional breakdown, and I’m afraid his text is going to push me over the edge.

I don’t know why I’m being such an idiot about this whole thing. I knew he was doing me a favor. I shouldn’t be all butt hurt about it, but I want him to be doing this because he wants to be here with me, not because he feels obligated or to make Joey jealous.

They clear the dessert plates, and the DJ cues up the first song. It’s like a bad wedding and a high school semiformal mash-up. I excuse myself to the bathroom as Bishop gets mobbed by yet another group of aspiring athletes—both male and female.

On my way out of the room, at least three people stop me to ask how I know Bishop. Agreeing to have him as my date was a bad idea for so many reasons, not the least of which is the attention he draws. I lock myself in a stall for a full five minutes, trying desperately to get my head and emotions under control.

He’s close to not needing me anymore for rehab, and that should make me happy on a lot of levels, but it doesn’t. Even without the overt sexual advances, it’s started to feel like a relationship of sorts. Obviously it was me projecting. He’s back on the ice, where he wants to be, and the less he needs my help, the less time he’s going to spend taking up space on my couch. This is him repaying the favor.

When I come out of the bathroom, Pattie and Jules are leaning against the sink, waiting for me. “What’s going on?” Pattie asks.

I give her a look like I don’t know what she’s talking about, and really I don’t. I have feelings for Bishop, and tonight I realize how big they’ve become. “I knew bringing Bishop was a bad idea. He’s been mobbed the entire evening.”

“So you’re hiding out in the bathroom?” Jules asks.

I rub my temples. “I’m not hiding. I’m just . . . gathering my thoughts.”

“On the toilet.” Pattie goes to lean against the wall but thinks better of it. It’s a nice bathroom, but still.

“It’s a good place to think.”

“You should be out there, saving Bishop from the fangirls.”

“But then people will know he’s my date, and it’ll put me in the limelight.” I do everything I can to avoid being caught in the social media firestorm that is my brother’s life. Bishop isn’t quite as high profile, but now that he’s back on the ice, that could change. Add a roomful of athletes who know who he is, and he’s in high demand.