Jillian marches up to me, her heels clicking on the floor. Her eyes drill holes through me. Her lips approximate a thin line. Her arms go straight in front of her. She pushes my chest. She’s tough, but I don’t move.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, confused, because she should be happy, right? “Your pretty kitties earned so much money.”

The smile that spreads quickly tells me she’s one happy mama cat. “I know! I’m so thrilled!” She shoves me again.

“Then why are you pushing me?”

Another shove. “Because you didn’t tell me.” Jillian gestures wildly from Violet to me. “How could you not tell me you were dating? We were all in the suite together, and I had no idea.”

Jones gives me a satisfied smirk from his post backstage. He knows Violet and I aren’t together. He keeps his mouth zipped, though. Harlan, too, is quiet, and so is Rick.

I take a deep breath, and in that span of a few seconds, I consider my choices. Let her believe the fib, or let her in on the ruse. The thing is, Jillian works for the team. Even though she’s friendly with us, she’s still management. She’s not a teammate. She’s not taking hits for me on the field.

If I told the guys the truth, they’d have my back, since that’s what we do for each other. But I don’t know where Jillian’s loyalties lie, so it’s best not to tip my hand.

“You know how these things go,” I say, keeping it vague as I squeeze Violet’s hand. I startle when I realize I’m still holding it. How did that happen? I guess I grabbed on when we left the stage and never let go. She squeezes back, giving me a smile. Okay, fine, we’re officially still holding hands.

Jillian’s eyes widen, and her grin is huge and hungry. “No. I don’t know how it goes. Tell me.” Her tone is rich with excitement. I suppose these stories can be the fun ones for a publicist. She’s eating it up, like Sierra did. “I want details. You know I’m going to get calls from the press asking about the two of you. I already have reporters texting me, wanting to know the story, wanting to know who your lovely stylist-turned-girlfriend is.” She brandishes her cell phone.

I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “Damn, they work fast.”

And I need to work faster. I need to figure out what our story is. Think, Armstrong, think.

Jones meets my gaze, then steps in. “Here’s what you tell them. Tell them it’s none of their fucking business.” Then he softens and gives the publicist a hug. “Good night, Jillian.”

When he breaks the embrace, he tips his head to the exit. “We have an early practice tomorrow.”

“But we have paperwork to do from the auction,” she calls out as he pushes on the heavy door. “Totals, sign-off from the bidders, et cetera.”

Violet grabs a pen from her purse, while Jillian thrusts the clipboard at her with the papers indicating she won me with a $10,000 bid. My good friend scribbles her signature, yawns, and says, “I’m exhausted. Can we catch up on everything else tomorrow?”

She smiles sweetly at Jillian, charming the minx.

Jillian is powerless before her. “Of course.”

Jones ushers us into the hall, down the stairwell, and to the employee parking lot that the hotel let us use tonight. He arches a brow when we reach Violet’s car. “I assume you two have shit to get straight. So, I’ll let you figure the rest out.” He nods decisively. “You just let me know what you need me to say, got it?”

“Thanks, man,” I say.

“Don’t even think twice about it.”

He walks away, and it’s just Violet and me at her emerald green Mini Cooper. “So . . .”

She nibbles on the corner of her lip. “So . . .”

Your lips taste amazing.

You kiss like a dream.

You turned me on more than you should.

Whoa. I don’t know where the hell those thoughts came from, but I’m evidently drunk from that kiss. I lift the corner of the carpet in my mind and sweep those ridiculous ideas under it. There. I’m not thinking about her lips anymore. I clear my throat. “I believe a thank you is in order. You are a goddess and a saint, and I’m incredibly grateful.”

Just focus on the bid, not the kiss.

She punches my arm in an old buddy, old pal way. “You should be thanking your bank account. You just bought yourself for a pretty penny.”

I laugh. “True, that. I’m quite a generous contributor to charity.”

“You are.” She fiddles with her bracelets and then looks up at me. Concern flickers across her eyes. “I didn’t bid too high, did I? Are you pissed?”

My jaw clangs to the pavement of the parking lot. “Are you kidding me?” My voice echoes loud in the cavernous space. I lower it. “Fuck no. I meant it when I said I’d rather get splinters in my ass. Plus, I’ve got the money, and it’s a great cause.”

She wipes the back of her hand dramatically over her forehead. “I knew it was a lot, and I was a touch concerned that you’d freak out. But mostly you looked like you needed rescuing.”

“Was it that obvious?”

She taps the side of her nose. “I figured it out pretty damn quickly.”

“Thank the Lord.” I tilt my head in the direction Jones made his exit. “What should I tell Jillian when she asks again? Do I tell her we split up? That it was a short-lived thing?” I ask, but each of those options feels wrong, and I’m not entirely sure why. “Or do I say we’ve been together for a while, and leave it at that?”

Violet hums, like she’s thinking. “That could work, especially if you play up the whole privacy angle. Like we haven’t said anything for that reason and we want to keep it that way?”

I screw up the corner of my lips, hunting for an answer, too. “Or, maybe I should see if it all blows over tomorrow? Maybe it won’t be that big a deal?”

Violet’s eyes light up. “There are so many more interesting things to talk about in this town. We’ll be the flavor of the night, and I’m sure by tomorrow no one will care.”

“Exactly. No one will care,” I echo.

She dips a hand into the side of her pink leather handbag—it’s a Coach, and I know this because my mom loves handbags, and I take her shopping for them regularly. Violet finds her keys then flashes me a friendly smile. “I should go. The salon opens at nine tomorrow, but the landlord is coming by at eight thirty for a meeting.”

I groan. “What does he want this time?”

She sighs. “Who knows? Last time, he dropped by to tell me I was generating too much trash, which is kind of ridiculous since most of our trash is . . . wait for it . . . hair.”

“Hair, of course, occupies an inordinate amount of space in the dumpster.”

“I know. The time before it was noise. Because hair dryers are soooo loud,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Violet, don’t be silly,” I say in mock seriousness. “It was probably the sound of the aerosol hairspray that’s violating eardrums.”

She laughs. “But I suspect he wants to lease the space to some buddy of his who’s keen to sell Sausalito tchotchkes to tourists.” Her salon is located in the heart of the tourist town’s commercial district. Prime pickings for peddling snow globes of boats and the houses perched on hills the town is known for.

“Call me crazy, but I feel like the world doesn’t need more tchotchkes.”

She holds up a finger to make a point. “But they do need better hairstyles.”

“Absolutely.”

I realize I’m delaying her. I’m standing here volleying with her when the woman has said she needs to cruise. What am I keeping her for, anyway? For her to tell me she wants to bang in her back seat? It’s a small car, and ideally, I’d rather spread her out on my bed. But if she wanted to test the strength of—

What the hell?

I slam on the mental brakes, skidding away from the five-car pileup of filth I was headed for. Not only am I taking a sex sabbatical this season, I also distinctly remember ridding my brain of all dirty fantasies about my good friend. But the dirty lobe is working overtime tonight, and I need to shut it down. Better to focus on knickknacks, and dickish landlords, and an early bedtime. “We have practice early, so I should call it a night, too.”

She points her keys at the car. “Do you want a ride home?”

I cabbed it over here, so I take her up on the offer. I open the door for her, click it shut, then walk around to the passenger seat, reminding myself that Violet and I simply need to segue back to the way we were.

Inside the car, we’re silent at first, as she grabs roughly at the seat belt. The belt sticks, and she tugs it hard, yanking it across her, her elbow nearly smacking me.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

I hold up my hands. “All good.”

She clicks in the buckle then goes to start the car, but she fumbles the key in the ignition.

Shit. She’s nervous. And since she saved me, I need to make sure she’s cool with us. I set a hand on her wrist, stilling her moves. “Are you weirded out that we kissed?”

She wrenches back. “What? No. Of course not.”

“Okay, then.” I take a beat and try to study her face, to figure out where she’s at. “I guess we’re all good, then?”

“Of course. We’re always good.” She lifts her keys again as I buckle my belt. “But, kisses are weird,” she blurts out.

I snap my gaze to her. “They are?”

“Just since I’ve known you for so long,” she says, as if she’s trying to explain a faux pas.

“Right, right.” I rub my palms on my pants. “Not because you think I’m a weird kisser?”

Her eyes widen into moons. “No. You’re not a weird kisser. Do you think you’re a weird kisser?”

I furrow my brow. She’s talking in circles. She has me all twisted up. “I never thought so before, but I’m beginning to now. Did I kiss you weirdly?”

“Did I kiss you weirdly?” she counters, tapping her chest.

And round and round we go. I shake my head. “No. Not in the least.”

“Good,” she says with a nervous laugh as she slides the key into the ignition, getting it right this time. She backs up, shifts into drive, and pulls forward. “I’m not into weird kisses,” she adds.

Nor am I. But I am into fixing things with Violet and restoring the order of our friendship. “Tell the truth. You’re into sloppy wet kisses. Like a dog kiss.” I’m not honestly sure what she does want, so humor is the easiest way through this awkward patch. “Admit it.”

This time, the sound of her laughter isn’t nervous as she rounds the corner of the parking stalls, heading toward the exit ramp. “Oh yes, that’s precisely what I want. Your slobbery kiss.”

I lean over the console and lick her cheek. A long, wet, slurpy kiss engineered to cut the tension.

She shoots a what gives look as she turns the wheel. “Okay, that was definitely bizarre, Cooper.”

We both laugh, then I straighten my tie. “Fine, you think I’m a bizarre kisser. I can live with that,” I say, teasing, since that’s the safest route. I can connect the dots. Violet hasn’t said she liked the kiss. In fact, she’s danced around the topic, sidestepping it in a way that tells me clearly she wasn’t into it.

There’s a part of me, I admit, that wishes she wanted to hump my leg right now, even though I’d have to turn down humping of any part of my anatomy for the sake of maintaining my season-long streak. But I’m man enough to accept when a woman doesn’t dig me. Hell, if I expect Maxine to get a clue that I’m not ripe for her plucking, I’d better get the hint from Violet that the kiss extravaganza didn’t float her boat. It’s a bummer, but that’s life.

She slows at the ticket booth, grabbing my arm. “I never said you’re a bizarre kisser. I didn’t mean it like that.”

But I don’t get a chance to ask what she did mean, because the bored woman at the gate grunts, “Ticket, please.” Violet hands her our validated ticket, and we roll out of the garage.

Once we leave, my phone lights up like the fourth of July as cell reception returns. My screen bleats with missed calls from reporters, a text from my married friends Chris and McKenna, a slew of messages from Jillian, and even an all-caps text from my mom.

I fire back a reply.

As I scroll through the rest of the notifications, I spot a few texts from my agent. Normally, I love talking to Ford, but with the contract overhang, and the anxiety over whether we’re extending the deal with the Renegades, I’m not in the mood this second. Plus, Trent is calling me, and even his name looks pissed off as it flashes on the screen.

“Hey, man,” I say, keeping it casual when I answer.

“Why, yes, I would love to meet you for a beer right the fuck now and find out what’s going on.”

“I can explain. It’s kind of a funny story.”

“I’m chuckling up a storm,” he says. But there’s no laughter in his voice. Nor in my head.