“Why don’t you just marry his hot, totally fuckable daughter? Sounds like if you did, he’d trip over himself to give you a new contract the second you’re eligible.” On that note, Hayden Owen drains the rest of his whiskey and gives me a proud smile that says, I just solved all your problems. You’re welcome. “Seriously, it’s almost unfair. Cardinal rule of football is to never fuck with the daughters—not the owner’s, not the coaches’, not the GM’s. Hands off the daughters, no matter how hot. But in your case, you get to. Fuck her, marry her, hell, give that old man some grandkids and he’ll probably hand you one hell of a signing bonus.”
I narrow my eyes at Owen. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Oh. Right.” He tips his head back and laughs. “Because you’re already married to the chick who’s hounding you for a divorce. I forgot. Damn, and I thought my love life was a mess.”
“I wish I’d never told you,” I say, and he smirks. Asshole. Aside from my current marital status, I can’t marry Lindy McCombs because I’d rather have my balls ripped off than spend my life with her. But those aren’t words a guy says out loud when said guy needs to be in the good graces of Bill McCombs. “Lindy doesn’t interest me.”
Owen cocks a brow. “I’ve met her, and I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”
I scratch my jaw and study him. “You are one shallow son of a bitch, know that?”
He shrugs, unoffended. “You’re the one who slept with her when you don’t even like her.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me. Not one of my finer moments.”
“Okay then, think of your career.”
“I am thinking about my career. That’s why I’m worried.” I rub the back of my neck, where tension has been gathering every day since my conversation with Bill. I signed a two-year contract, so it’s not as if I’m in danger of losing my spot this year, but if the Gators’ hands-on owner is pissed at me and won’t let the coach take me off the bench, I can kiss a new contract goodbye.
I take a deep breath. I’m being paranoid. I shouldn’t assume the worst. “I don’t want to talk about Lindy.”
“Bill does, though,” Owen says. “I overheard you two tonight, and he seemed very interested in talking about his daughter. And you. And how much she admires you. Tell me, are you looking forward to reuniting with your high school sweetheart? Because you told him you were, but my lie detector said that answer was bullshit.”
“Didn’t your mama ever teach you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?”
Owen smacks the table and laughs, but I know, beneath his ribbing, he’s starting to worry about my fate on the team. He knows as well as I do that with another capable receiver on the field, he won’t be buried in double coverage, and he might actually get the chance to score. We’re better off if we’re both playing.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “Lindy is reasonable, and when I tell her—again—that what happened in April was a mistake, she’ll understand. She’s matured too much to run to her dad and demand I be punished for leading her on.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
I don’t need to answer that question. “I wish she didn’t have this damn internship here. Our parents will spend the entire season pushing us together, and though I regularly remind them that arranged marriages aren’t a thing in twenty-first-century America, I don’t want it to mess with my career.”
My phone buzzes with a call and rattles against the tabletop. Bailey’s face appears on the screen. Her blond hair is piled into a messy knot on the top of her head, and she’s sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes. I snapped the picture while we were at the pool in Vegas, and every time I see it I smile. As always, my happiness at seeing her face is immediately followed by that sick pull in my gut that reminds me I can’t postpone the inevitable much longer. She doesn’t want me, and it’s time to let her go.
Owen grabs the phone from my hand and grunts. “This the one who’s got you all tied up in knots?”
I take it back and swipe left to decline the call. It’s been more than two months since our drunken wedding vows. I promised her we’d get our marriage annulled after Arrow and Mia’s wedding, but their wedding came and went, and I’m afraid that if I let Bailey go now, she’ll be out of my life forever.
She wants to end our marriage. It needs to be done, but it can wait. A divorce just feels so damn . . . final.
“Why don’t you just tell Bill and Lindy the truth about Bailey?”
A handful of truths about Bailey come to mind, but I know he’s referring to our marriage. “Why would I want him to know?” I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing—that we did it to begin with or that I woke up thinking she would finally give us a chance just because we’d exchanged rings and signed some papers.
Owen taps my phone. “If Bill knew about your wife, he wouldn’t pressure you into making babies with his daughter. I mean, he might not like it at first, but it could go a long way to keep the peace. Bill can’t blame you for shirking his daughter’s affections when you’re already married.”
“I guess. In theory.” I shrug. “It’s a moot point. The only part of this marriage that interests Bailey is how we end it.”
“Didn’t you say she wants to be friends? Maybe she’d let it drag out a couple more months—just to get you through the princess daughter’s visit.”
I take a sip of my whiskey and process his words. It makes a lot of sense and it might work, but not without serious complications. For one, Bailey would have to agree to tell people about our marriage—something she’s been totally against to date—and move in with me. Two, I’d have to live with Bailey for a whole season knowing she’s not really mine, and at the end of it I’d have to let her go. That sounds like a special kind of hell I’m not keen on inviting into my life.
“It’ll work out.” Owen stands and tosses a couple of bills on the table before smacking me between the shoulder blades. “One way or another, it always does. You coming to my place for the cookout?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I promised my parents I’d drive home for the meeting with their event coordinator. They’re planning their thirtieth anniversary party.”
Owen’s lips curl into the charming smile that landed him on the cover of GQ last year. “Thirty years, no shit?”
“No shit.”
“Which puts your mom in her fifties?”
I sigh, knowing where this is going. When she was younger, Mom was a model for a high-end lingerie company, and she’s remained an icon for the brand. “Yeah.”
“Damn. She’s still got it. Send her my regards.”
I grunt as I push out of my side of the booth. “You wish.”
My phone buzzes with a text.
Bailey: You’d better be dead in a ditch somewhere, you call-dodging asshole.
It’s ninety-five degrees in Blackhawk Valley tonight, and the air is thick and sticky with humidity—not so different to what I imagine it’d be like to live in a giant, sweaty armpit. If hell is a dry heat, I could go for a visit about now. Instead, I’m scrubbing tables on the patio of The End Zone because no matter how hot it is, the smokers want a place to drink where they can also provide carcinogens with the most direct path to their lungs.
The bar is quiet and will remain that way until BHU is back in session in the fall, but it’ll pick up a little with the after-work crowd. I want to have the patio ready so I can help Tia behind the bar if she needs it. I toss my rag in my bucket, and I’m reaching for my broom when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to check it and my jaw drops in surprise.
Sweet baby Jesus, it’s a miracle. Mason answered my text. I lean against the side of the building and unlock my screen to read his message. I’m so used to him ignoring me, I’m almost too shocked to be annoyed by his response.
Mason: Not dead or in a ditch. Just busy.
I’m sure he’s busy—busy enjoying the beach or busy spending his money. Busy living a charmed life while I’m sweeping up cigarette butts and melting in the heat. I narrow my eyes as my thumbs fly across the screen to type my reply.
Me: In that case, I’m going to have to come down there and kill you myself.
Mason: Perfect. When can I expect you?
Yes. I’m definitely going to kill him. I’m heading to Seaside tomorrow to do a last-minute session with a friend and hopefully see my sister, but it looks like a visit to my accidental husband remains on the list. I type a series of expletives in the reply field then force myself to delete them and shut off my screen. I’ll see him in the flesh soon enough, and those words are more effective when delivered in person.
“Bailey!”
The sound of the familiar voice behind me makes me pause before turning. He taps my shoulder, and I turn to face him. Shit.
It’s Ron, the assistant from the bank who remembered me from the Pretty Kitty. I’ve never seen him at The End Zone before—probably because he prefers establishments where the servers aren’t fully clothed. I’d like to think he’s here for a drink, but judging by the way he’s eyeing my tits, I’d guess today’s reunion gave him ideas. Joy.
“Hi, Rob.” I know it’s Ron, but I’m a bitch, and I don’t love that he came here looking for me.
“Ron,” he corrects with a smile. “You forgot to stop on your way out today.” His face is flushed and he’s breathing hard, as if he ran here from the bank.
“Sorry about that.” Not sorry.
“I looked up your workplace on your loan application. I hope that’s okay.”
I stiffen. It’s not.
“I wanted to give you something.” He holds out a business card. “My cell’s on there. Since you’re not working at the Pretty Kitty anymore, I can finally take you out for that dinner we always talked about.”
We? In our many “conversations,” I’m pretty sure Ron’s the only one who ever talked about us doing dinner. I just offered the excuses. I stare at the card before blinking up at his bright pink face. Sweat is rolling down his cheeks, and he wipes at it with the back of his hand. “You’re married, Ron.”
“Does it really matter?” His grin is probably supposed to be mischievous, but he just looks like another douchebag in a long line of douches I’ve met in my life. Seriously, the world is full of assholes. Even if it makes me a hypocrite, since I used to strip in front of this asshole, I feel really bad for Ron’s wife.
“Yeah,” I say. “It matters. I’m not interested in going out with any man who’s spent years as a regular at the Pretty Kitty, but I wouldn’t be interested in a married man regardless of how desperate he is for attention.”
He pulls back. “So you can rub your ass against my dick and take my money, but you’re too good to eat a meal with me?” He rubs his sweaty pink chin. “Do you know what that makes you? But don’t worry. I can pay.”
I put my hand on his chest, and his sneer drops away as his lips part and his eyes dilate. Too easy.
Smiling, I tug on his tie to pull him down as I bring my mouth to his ear. “It makes me a woman who knew how to play you when I needed cash,” I whisper, and when he tries to yank away, I tighten my grip on his tie. “And it makes you a pathetic schmuck who can’t even score with his wife because he doesn’t see her as anything more than a walking pussy who can cook.”
He yanks away, and I release his tie at the same moment, making him stumble back a few steps then fall on his ass between two tables. “What turned you into such a bitch?”
I shake my head. “I was always a bitch. But I am sorry I rubbed my ass against your dick. I didn’t mean to. It’s just so small I didn’t realize it was there.”
Tia pokes her head out the back door. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Ron says, standing and smoothing his tailored pants.
She sneers at him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
I wave her off. “I’m fine. Rob was just leaving.” Then I grab my broom and bucket and head through the staff door into the kitchen. I stick my shaking hands under hot water as if I could wash away the film of disgust that meeting left on my skin.
I can’t believe any girl would settle for marrying a guy like that, and here I am, married to Mason Dahl—best guy I’ve ever known—and doing backflips for a divorce.