Fake Dating My Exs Favourite Hockey Player

~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 paint, 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 want to 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.