I offer a hasty goodbye and hang up just as the passenger door of the Civic pops open. Hmmm. Jake is sitting up front with the driver. I peer at the driver’s seat and spot a cute girl with turquoise drop earrings and big hair. Why doesn’t that surprise me?

“Hey,” he calls as he hops out of the car.

For a second I lose my voice. He’s wearing his Harvard jacket, a sin I reluctantly forgive because the rest of him is so damn appealing. His dark hair is swept back from his face, emphasizing chiseled cheekbones and a jawline that makes me drool. He’s completely clean-shaven tonight. Last weekend he had some scruff. Now he looks young and smooth and…fine, he looks incredible.

Unfortunately, Jake Connelly is a very attractive man.

I walk over to him. “Hey.” Then I slide through the back door he holds open for me, and greet the driver as I settle in the backseat.

Jake gets in beside me, we buckle up, and then we’re on our way. According to the email that Ed Mulder’s secretary sent me, Mulder’s address is in Beacon Hill. He must haul in quite the salary at HockeyNet.

“You look weird,” Jake murmurs.

“Weird how?” And that is not what you’re supposed to say to your fake girlfriend. My nerves are already on edge.

“You’re wearing lip gloss. And it’s pink.”

“So?”

“So I don’t like it,” he growls.

“You don’t? Oh no! Let me run home and choose a makeup palette that’s more to your liking!”

From the front seat, the driver snorts.

Jake’s dark-green eyes flicker with amusement. “Fine, disregard my opinion. But I dig the red lips. The pink ones aren’t doing it for me.”

They’re not doing it for me, either, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it. I purposely toned down my appearance for tonight. Some sad, sick part of me is hoping to impress Ed Mulder.

As we head toward Beacon Hill, I scroll through the sports news on my phone. I frown deeply at one headline. “Have you been following this Kowski thing?” I ask Jake. “I swear, the refs have a conspiracy against him.”

“You think?”

“He’s the most fouled player in the league. And the amount of missed calls on him is astronomical. Something’s going on there.” I scan the rest of the article, but the author doesn’t add any new insights. Basically, the referees keep missing calls and Sean Kowski keeps paying for it.

Our driver turns off Cambridge Street and slows down in front of a row of tall brownstones. Man, what I wouldn’t give to live in one of those townhouses. They’re old and oozing with charm, most of them still retaining their original historical features. With its mature trees and gas streetlights, Beacon Hill is one of the most scenic neighborhoods in the city. And it’s impossibly quiet considering it’s splat in the middle of Boston. Coming here is like stepping back in time, and I love it.

“Here we are,” the driver says.

Jake leans forward and touches her shoulder. “Thanks, Annie. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“You, too, Jake.”

I’m trying not to roll my eyes as we exit the car. I guess they’re best friends now. For some reason, the way Jake seems to get along with everyone rubs me the wrong way. It’s hard to think of him as THE ENEMY when faced with evidence that he might be a decent guy.

“Your face is a bit green,” Jake remarks as we climb the front stoop. “I thought you had balls of steel.”

“I do,” I mutter, but he’s right. I’m beyond nervous. I chalk it up to the two very terrible encounters I’ve already had with Mulder. “I don’t know. I just feel sick that I have to try to impress this jackass.”

“No one’s forcing you to,” he points out.

“I want this internship. That leaves me no choice but to impress him.”

I ring the doorbell, and two seconds later the door swings open to reveal a woman clad in black pants, a black shirt, and white apron. I doubt it’s Mulder’s wife, because I see another woman in an identical outfit hurrying toward a doorway I assume is the kitchen.

“Please come in,” she says. “You’re the last guests to arrive. Mr. and Mrs. Mulder are entertaining the others in the sitting room.”

Oh brother, they’re one of those couples? I suppose we’ll all congregate in the sitting room before being ushered into a dining room and the men shall retire to the study while the women do the dishes. Seems like a Mulder move, for sure.

“May I take your coat?” the woman prompts.

Jake slips out of his and hands it over. “Thank you,” he tells her.

I unbutton my pea coat and slide it off my shoulders. I hear a sharp intake of breath, and glance over to find Jake’s admiring gaze on me. “You clean up nice, Jensen,” he murmurs.

“Thanks.” I couldn’t very well wear my usual all-black attire, so I chose a tight gray sweater, black leggings, and cute brown suede ankle boots. My makeup is subtle and I feel naked without my lipstick, AKA, my armor. But I wanted to look classy tonight.

I don’t know what to expect as we approach the sitting room. Will it be an older crowd? Younger? And how many people?

To my relief, there aren’t many. The dinner party consists of Mulder and a pale-skinned woman at his side who I assume is his wife. Then there’s an older couple in their forties, and a younger couple in their twenties. The younger guy seems familiar, but it isn’t until Jake whispers in my ear that I realize who it is.

“Holy shit, that’s Theo Nilsson.”

Nilsson is a defenseman on the Oilers, whose humble nature and Nordic good looks have made him popular with fans and foes alike. Unfortunately, he’s out for the rest of the season with a leg injury.

“I heard he’s originally from Boston, but I didn’t realize he was in town,” Jake murmurs. “This is awesome.”

When Mulder notices us lurking in the doorway, his face lights up. “Jake Connelly!”

I swallow my displeasure. And what am I, chopped liver?

“So glad you could make it!” Mulder exclaims. “Come in, come in. Let me introduce you to everyone.” He gestures for us to come closer.

Introductions are quickly made. The pale woman is Ed’s wife, Lindsay. Her eyebrows are so blond they’re almost white, and her hair is arranged in a severe twist at the nape of her neck. She greets us with a wan smile. Next there’s Nilsson, who goes by “Nils,” and his wife Lena, who has a heavy Swedish accent but speaks perfect English. The older couple rounding out the group is Mulder’s brother David and sister-in-law Karen.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Jake tells Nils, sounding a wee bit star struck. “I’ve been following your season. I hated seeing you go out like that.”

“That game was so hard to watch,” I say sympathetically. Hockey injuries are par for the course, but it’s not very common for someone to break their leg on the ice. “It looks like you’re doing better, though.”

The blond man nods. “Cast came off a couple weeks ago. Now I’m starting the physio, and dear Lord, it is brutal.”

“I can imagine,” I say.

Nils glances at Jake. “I was watching the draft when you went in the first round. We’re excited to have you on board next year.”