Bill McCombs smacks me between the shoulder blades so hard that I choke on the water going down my throat. “How you doing there, son?” he asks, his voice too loud, too jovial.

Coughing, I pull my water bottle from my lips and wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand. I stayed after practice to run more routes with Dre, and now I’m sweaty and exhausted and in desperate need of an ice bath. “Good to see you, Bill,” I say between coughs.

“Have you talked to my daughter recently?”

Oh, fuck. The Florida sun is beating down on me, but at the mention of Bill’s daughter, a chill goes up my spine as if I were already in the ice bath waiting for me in the locker room. Bill McCombs is the owner of the Gulf Gators, the NFL franchise that signed me for two years after I graduated from Blackhawk Hills University. Last spring, I made the biggest mistake of my adult life when I took his daughter—my former girlfriend, Lindy—home with me. I’ve been waiting for it to come back and bite me in the ass.

He chuckles a little too loudly. “She’s coming to town after training camp, and she’ll be right in your backyard all regular season.”

I clear my throat. “I saw her when she was here for spring break. I think she mentioned it then.” Tread carefully, Mason. “She’s coming for an internship. Is that right?”

“That’s right. My baby girl’s gonna be a marketing mastermind.” He rubs his hands together. “But more importantly, you two can be reunited.”

I try to get a read on his features. What does he know? Does he mean reunited for the first time since we dated in high school, or reunited for the first time since April?

“I didn’t know you met up with her in April, you old dog.” He smacks my shoulder. “My girl still talks about you all the time. She admires you and what you’ve made of yourself so much. To be honest, Mrs. McCombs and I are pretty proud of you too. We’ve always seen you as a son.”

“Thank you.” This time my smile is sincere. The McCombs are old family friends. They were practically a second set of parents to me when I was growing up. I appreciate everything they’ve done for me over the years, even if I’d rather they lay off on the whole matchmaking thing.

“You’ll make sure you’re around for her welcome-home party? The whole team’s invited, of course. We need to celebrate the start of her real career. My girl’s gonna do big things. Can’t wait.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” I hope this is the end of the conversation, but I’m worried it’s just the beginning of the mess I’ve made for myself.

Hayden Owen catches my eye from where he’s standing a few feet away on the sideline. He arches a brow before sticking his tongue in the side of his mouth in a lewd miming of a blowjob. I know he’s telling me to suck up to Bill, but he has no idea that my relationship with Bill is far more complicated than that of the typical player and team owner. I’ve never told Owen about Lindy.

“I’ll see you at the party,” Bill says, and he heads over to talk to the coach.

What did Bill say to me after drafting me in the second round? “I’m just looking out for my family. I wouldn’t want your career in anyone else’s hands.”

I thought he meant “family” in the metaphorical sense, but now I have a sick ache in my gut that tells me he was looking out for Lindy by giving me a job, and now he’s ready to see his plans come to fruition.

That son of a bitch is dodging my calls.

Alone in my car with the sun beating down on me through the windshield, I scowl at my phone as if it alone is responsible for putting me in this situation. When I woke up in Vegas with Mason’s ring on my finger, my biggest concern was keeping it quiet. After he agreed to that, I assumed the divorce part would come easily. The marriage was a mistake for both of us, so ending it was the obvious solution. Right?

But no, two months later and we’re still married. He’s making it impossible for me to make arrangements to change that. I’ve called him half a dozen times since Arrow and Mia’s wedding, and he either doesn’t answer or is too busy to talk. If we stay married for much longer, someone’s going to find out about it. And if one person does, someone else will, and eventually it will get back to the wrong people.

After shoving my phone into my purse, I sling it over my shoulder and head into the bank. I’m half grateful for my irritation with Mason, if only because it helps me forget the nerves slithering in my belly like a pit of snakes.

When I push from the hot sidewalk in through the glass doors, the cool air washes over me and cools my face. God bless modern conveniences. The guy at the reception desk smiles brightly when I step inside. “Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Jim Brewer?” It comes out like a question, and I feel like an idiot. I don’t know why I’m even here. I already know the odds of me getting this loan are slightly worse than Satan needing a fleece coat in hell.

“He’s expecting you,” the man says. He has a vaguely familiar round baby face, an eager-to-please smile, and eyes that study me just a little too long. I wonder if he knows just by looking at me that I don’t belong here.

“Thank you.” I squeeze my purse strap in my hand and follow him into a dark-paneled hallway.

When we reach the last door at the end of the hall, he takes the knob in his hand but stops before opening the door. He turns toward me. “I don’t know if you remember me.” He clears his throat and looks over my shoulder to make sure no one has followed us. Seemingly satisfied that we’re alone, he says, “It’s been a couple of years now, but I used to see you . . .” His cheeks turn red. “A lot.”

It clicks—why he looks familiar. Awesome. I’m at the bank for the most intimidating meeting of my life, and the man leading the way is an old regular. At least this guy was respectful and kind, which I can’t say for all the patrons at the Pretty Kitty. However, if memory serves, he was a shitty tipper, and I wasn’t a dancer because I found it personally gratifying.

I force a smile. “Right, I thought I recognized you. Was it . . .” He’s not wearing a nametag. Damn. “Steve?”

“Ron,” he says.

“Oh, right. Sorry!” I couldn’t have told you this dude’s name if you’d offered me a million in cash. If this makes me the worst, so be it. “Good to see you again.” Not really.

“Yes. Really turned my day around.” His gaze drops to my tits as if he expects them to be bare instead of modestly covered by my purple shirt. I can practically see the movie reel in his mind replaying every lap dance he ever got from me, and hear his mental soundtrack cataloguing every song I ever shook my ass to. “So good to be reunited.” His hand is still on the doorknob but not turning, so I guess he wants to play catchup. Shoot me now.

I could brush him off, but since he’s standing between me and an important meeting, I don’t really want to be a bitch. Small talk it is. “How have you been?”

He lifts his gaze back to mine and gives a helpless shrug. “Okay. Finally cleaned up my act for the old lady, but I still have the same old problems.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” I have no idea what problems he’s talking about. None.

“She just shuts me out, you know?” His eyes flick down the hall again, but unfortunately, we’re still alone. He lowers his voice. “She puts out, like, maybe twice a year if I’m lucky. And then she has the nerve to get pissed about the money I spend at the Kitty.”

“Oh, that’s rough.” Turn the knob, Ron. Turn. It.

So, okay, maybe I’m the worst ever. That’s fine by me. Lonely dudes told me their problems all the time when I danced. I pretended to care because it was part of my job, but I got through those hours by turning off all emotion. That included empathy.

“Do you ever think about going back?” Ron asks. “The Kitty isn’t the same without you.” Oh, great. His gaze has returned to my tits, and the memory reel has started turning again.

“I’ve moved on. It’s just not the scene for me anymore.” I clear my throat and wave toward the door. “I don’t want to keep Mr. Brewer waiting, but it was so great to catch up.”

I’m the worst and a liar, but he’s opening the door, so all’s well that ends well.

“Stop by the front on your way out if you would,” Ron says to me before turning to the man sitting behind the polished walnut desk. “Bailey Green here for you, sir.” He flashes me a grin. “She’s an old friend, so treat her well.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Mr. Brewer says.

Three steps and the click of a door later, I’m free of my adoring fan. I approach the desk and offer my hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

Mr. Brewer stands and gives my hand a firm shake before retaking his seat. “Please, make yourself at home. How do you know my assistant?”

“Oh, you know, around town.” Awkward. “Have you had the chance to look at my application?” I sink into the upholstered chair in front of his desk, and he taps his pen on the file in front of him. Before he speaks, I know his answer.

“Ms. Green,” he begins, his tone saccharine. “The good news is that the bar looks like it’s a sound business, and I believe it would be a great investment. You should be proud for seeing that for yourself and exploring the opportunity before the local investors get wind of the owners wanting to sell.”

I swallow. “The bad news?”

He grimaces, but it looks more practiced than sincere. “The bad news is that I can’t give you a loan without someone cosigning for you. The business isn’t the problem; it’s your credit score and already profound debt-to-income ratio. Either would make our underwriters take pause, but together . . .” He shakes his head.

“I’m working on that.” I force a smile I don’t feel. “I’ve developed a side business in photography, so as that picks up, I’ll have more income to start paying down my debt. I don’t plan on giving myself a raise once the bar’s mine, and I’ll continue to work there, so the bar’s cash flow will be better than it is now.” I swallow to stop myself from rambling. This was all included in my business proposal. “I just know my friends want to sell it so they can move on, and I don’t want to end up working for”—I cut myself off before saying some asshole—“just anyone.”

“I fully understand that. Have you thought about turning your photography business into a full-time job? As opposed to the bar, something like photography doesn’t take much capital to get started. You already have the equipment, and you wouldn’t need to have a studio right away. If all businesses were so cheap to start up, I’d be out of work.” He chuckles, as if the prospect is hilarious.

“I don’t think there’s enough interest for my niche, honestly.” My shoulders sag. It’s not that I don’t love the idea of making my side gig my primary source of income. The opposite, really. I found a passion for taking boudoir shots by accident, but it’s so fulfilling. Unlike stripping, this little risky business venture is something I do find personally gratifying. Women deserve to know they’re beautiful and desirable, and how rad that I can use a camera and some simple props to make them believe it. I just don’t think it’s possible to turn that into something that pays the bills.

I don’t know why I bothered coming here. Keegan’s been offering to sell me the bar since he was picked up by the Gators, and I always told him no because I knew exactly how this meeting would go. Now that he and Arrow are serious about offloading the responsibility of ownership, I had to try.

“Our background check shows that you’re married,” Mr. Brewer says, and that gets my attention.

Shit. I didn’t even think of that. Just because Mason and I haven’t acted like husband and wife doesn’t mean it’s not legally so. “Sorry. I didn’t think to include that.”

“You should have. It could benefit you, actually,” the banker says. “I didn’t run your husband’s credit because you didn’t include him on the application, but I couldn’t help but notice his name, and if that’s the Mason Dahl I think it is, we should get him on here.” He looks to me expectantly.

“No, thank you. If I buy the business, it will be under my name only. I don’t want my . . . husband involved.” My husband. Wow. That’s the first time I’ve used those words together, and it feels ridiculous, as if I’m a little girl who’s pretending to be married to her celebrity crush.

“You understand that having his name on the application could get you the loan, right?”

“I’m doing this without him.” He probably thinks I’m insane. Who marries an NFL player and then takes her shitty-ass credit score to try to buy an established business along with all of its equipment and inventory?

“Okay. I just wanted to bring it up. You don’t have anyone who can cosign for you? A parent or sibling? Maybe a good friend who wants to be a silent partner?”

I shake my head. Mom might be the only one in town with credit worse than mine, and all my good friends have settled elsewhere. Whether they say it out loud or not, they’re all ready to cut ties with Blackhawk Valley and move on with their lives. Thus, the need for this miserably embarrassing meeting. “No one.”

“I wish I had better news for you.” He takes the thick manila folder off the table and offers it to me. It holds more details about my finances than anyone in my life knows. “Good luck, Ms. Green.”

I stand and take the folder. “Thank you. Sorry I wasted your time.”

He stands, and we do an awkward repeat of our introduction as he shakes my hand. “You didn’t waste my time at all. I hope you’re able to work something out.” He comes around to my side of the desk, then looks to the door and hesitates a beat before turning back to me. “I don’t mean to pry, but if your husband is in Florida, why are you hoping to buy a business in Blackhawk Valley?”

As if it’s not bad enough that this man knows the dirty details of my financial situation, now I have to tell him my other embarrassing secret. I could choose not to say anything, but he might talk to people about my marriage, and that would be a disaster. I swallow what’s left of my pride. “We aren’t going to stay married. We’re old friends. When we were in Vegas together, apparently we thought saying vows would be a blast.” I clutch the folder to my chest. “We’re getting an annulment. It just hasn’t processed yet.” Hasn’t processed is stretching the truth, but it’ll do. “If you could keep this between us, I’d appreciate it. We’ve managed to keep our elopement from the press, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Right. Yes. Of course. I won’t tell anyone.” He smirks. “Too bad you can’t really be married to an NFL player, am I right? Then you’d be able to kiss all that debt goodbye and have your bar.” He chuckles and lowers his voice to add, “Though you probably wouldn’t need to run a business if you were his wife, huh? You wouldn’t need to make investments in anything more stressful than beach houses and designer purses.”

I flinch, but Mr. Brewer misses it. Is that the best I can hope for? Some rich husband who can make my debt disappear?

He opens the door for me and smiles. “Good luck with everything. I hope you’ll come back to see me someday when I can give you better news.”

I thank him again, put my head down, and head straight for the exit.

When I open the door, the heat smacks me in the face, and I’m suddenly so jealous of all my friends and their glamourous lives. If they were faced with a day this hot, they’d go swim in their private pools or take a day at the beach. They definitely wouldn’t spend it getting rejected for a loan for a business they’re not really sure they want or talking to a desperate married guy who’s too well acquainted with their personal anatomy.