Fake Dating My Hockey Alpha

　　Lucy

　　"Yes, Tiff, yeah! Bounce on it, you hard rider! Don't you fucking stop…"

　　I jolt awake, gasping for air. That damn dream. Again!

　　The day Jim cheated on me didn't just break my heart, it burned itself into my brain. His voice and her loud moans. Their bodies tangled on my couch, in my house.

　　I was supposed to be out of town, delivering a painting to a client who had personally requested my presence, but what I didn't know was that Jim had orchestrated the whole thing as a deceitful plan to bring Tiff to my house, and if it weren't for my best friend who had seen him walk into my apartment with that girl, I wouldn't have known; I was supposed to travel fifty miles to deliver that painting.

　　"Fuck it!"

　　Now, almost every night, my mind plays that day on repeat like some twisted porno I never asked to watch. I can't escape it.

　　I stare at the half-finished painting in front of me, my mind a complete blank. My gaze drifts between the brush, the paints, and the canvas, where only the faint outline of a man's lip remains. My eyes blink back and forth, but inspiration refuses to strike. Six months have passed, and I'm still stuck. The art gallery is waiting, my clients are waiting, and I'm supposed to deliver a steamy romantic painting; my specialty, my bread and butter. I've been doing this since I was seven, this is what I'm known for.

　　People say I paint lust like it's poetry.

　　I don't just paint, I provoke. My art doesn't hang quietly on white gallery walls. It pulses. It breathes. It is tempting. Those who look at my work don't just see it. They feel it, deep in their bones, in their throats, between their thighs. I paint the kind of pieces that make you ache for a body beside you.

　　But now my paintbrush feels heavy without the spark Jim killed. He took my artistic muse with him.

　　"That fucking piece of shit!" I stab the air with my finger like it's his face. He's out there living his best life, having hot sex, doing romantic shit. Meanwhile, I'm stuck in my room, stuck in my head. I haven't so much as felt any erotic desire, let alone be with a man so how can I imagine it and then deliver it to my dry gallery?

　　I sigh. "I'm going to do this! I'm going to paint something today, no matter what!" I try to pick up my brush again but voices outside my room pull me away. I stop and listen.

　　"It's my new neighbor." I gasp, dashing to the door on tiptoes, my eyes pressed to the peephole. Harry, the luggage porter is standing beside a massively built man, I strain to see what he looks like, he's incredibly tall. The hoodie swallows his face, leaving me with more questions than answers.

　　I wish he isn't turning away from me. I wanna know if he's cute. Handsome. Hot or everything.

　　"You're very welcome to the estate, I hope you enjoy your stay." Harry says, shaking the man's hand. "If you need anything at all, do not hesitate to reach out to me."

　　"Thank you, Harry," the words come in a rich, deep tone. Mr. Next Door digs into his pocket, pulls out some cash and hands it over to Harry.

　　"Oh…" Harry chuckles happily. "Thank you very much sir, you're very generous."

　　Hmm. Mr. Next Door is a sweet guy. I can't wait to meet him. Well, I hope he isn't a shithead like the other guy who was kicked out of the building.

　　I sigh and return to my mini studio, "Come on Lucy, you have to do something! Why the fuck does your mind keep going completely blank when you're in front of the canvas?" Shit, I guess today is going to be like every other day. I'm doomed, for sure.

　　"I guess I'll just go to my art gallery then. Sit my ass down and do absolutely nothing!"

　　I'm gazing out the window, daydreaming about inspiration for my half-baked painting when a ruggedly handsome man walks in, his sharp facial features and massive frame is impossible to overlook.

　　I gasp softly. That's my new neighbor. I recognize him instantly, the same black hoodie he wore earlier, brooding aura and all.

　　"Is anyone going to attend to me?" he growls, his deep voice slicing through the silence. His gaze sweeps the gallery, sharp and impatient, like he's used to people jumping to serve him.

　　Three of my assistants rush toward him, giggling like schoolgirls spotting a top celebrity. Well, to be fair, good-looking men like my neighbor don't usually stroll into the gallery.

　　"I'd like to see the artist," he says curtly, brushing past them like they're invisible.

　　I step forward quickly. "Hello, I'm Lucy Lane—"

　　"Okay," he cuts in, not even sparing me a glance. He completely ignores my outstretched hand, like shaking it would be beneath him.

　　I suppress a groan. Please don't be a shithead. Why does the universe keep sending me shitheads as neighbors?

　　I gently withdraw my hand and trail after him as he scans the gallery. His expression says it all, he's not impressed.

　　Oh, hold on. Is this man seriously trying to say my erotically gorgeous paintings don't intrigue him? The same ones that get praised left, right, and center? No way.

　　"Where's your best piece of art?" he asks, still not looking at me.

　　I grit my teeth. So nothing's good enough for Mr. Broody?

　　"This is all I have," I say with a tight smile. "What exactly are you looking for?"

　　"I don't think you have it," he says, eyes still scanning, like he's searching for meaning in a cereal box.

　　"Well," I offer, trying to keep it cool, "if you tell me what you're after, maybe I can make it work, or refer you to some of my friends."

　　He groans. "No thanks." And just like that, he starts heading for the exit.

　　"Hey—um, we're neighbors, I think. I live next door."

　　"Okay," he says, not even slowing down.

　　What the actual fuck? Who does this man think he is? Carrying himself like some big guy, he's just a certified shithead and I'll make sure he understands I don't give a shit who he thinks he is.