I blink at him, half delirious under the spell of his touch. His hand feels so good against my skin—warm and reassuring and right. Even though he’s only touching my face, every cell in my body takes notice. “What does our marriage have to do with your career?”

He drops his hand and steps back. I want to follow him and ask him to touch me again, because I feel so much stronger when his heat is on my skin. Instead, I lean against the counter and remind myself why I’m here. “The owner of the Gulf Gators has a daughter,” he says. “A beautiful, young daughter he thinks walks on water. Our families are friends, and they’ve always had this idea that we’d end up together.” He cuts his eyes away. “When she was visiting in the spring, I slept with her.”

Jealousy is a dull blade sawing through my lungs. The daughter of an NFL franchise owner is exactly the kind of woman a guy like Mason should end up with. And the exact opposite of everything I am. And the idea that he slept with her? Fuck, why bother with the small talk? Why not grab the knife from the butcher block and carve out my heart?

I have no right to be hurt—I have no claim on Mason, and after years of pushing him away, I’m a hypocrite for feeling jealous at all—but that doesn’t change the fact that I am.

“She’s doing an internship with the Gators this season,” Mason continues. “And when she wasn’t taking the hint that I’m not interested in making our night together into something more, I told her I’m married.”

“I’m not following how this is going to help with your career. What does your relationship with her have to do with your job?”

“It shouldn’t have anything to do with it, but Bill McCombs is a very powerful man who likes to give his children exactly what they want. Right now, Lindy wants me. If I’m married and uninterested, I’m faithful. If I’m unmarried and uninterested, I’m an asshole.”

“You want a fake wife so you can fend off some rich bitch?”

“She’s the owner’s daughter, and I’m just trying to keep the peace.” He studies me, his eyes soft. “My career is on the line, and our accidental marriage might be the best thing to save it.”

“Mason, what do you make after endorsement deals? Seven figures a year?”

He shrugs. “It’s not all guaranteed money, but it’s definitely enough to compensate you for your time.”

“Seven figures a year, and on top of that, I bet you have a trust fund.”

“Why are you bringing up money?” His expression is guarded, but I see in his eyes that I’m right. Of course I am. His mom was some sort of model and his family is rolling in money.

“I’m bringing up money because you have all that net worth, and you married me in Vegas without a prenup. Regardless of whether or not an heiress is pursuing you, you should be jumping at the opportunity to end this with no strings.”

“Now I’m supposed to believe you married me to swindle me out of my trust fund?” He folds his arms, making his biceps strain across the soft fabric of his T-shirt. Sweet Lord, he’s fun to look at. “You and I both know I could write you a check right now for everything I have and you wouldn’t take it.”

“You don’t know that.” But it feels good that he believes it—the bittersweet ache of someone believing you’re better than you are. “You’re sure this is just about your career? Four months of a pretend relationship, and then I go back to my life?”

He’s silent for a beat too long, his jaw hard, his eyes studying my face. “Like you said, why would I want to be married to a woman who doesn’t want to be married to me?”

That crushes me, because this isn’t about what I want. It’s about the promises I’ve made. But I can’t tell him that. “Let me think about it.”

“What’s there to think about? We’re already married.”

“Oh, I don’t know, how about my job or my life back in Blackhawk Valley? How about how I’m going to explain this to our friends?” I stare at him, looking into his eyes and wishing I could say yes. I want to do this for him, but it’s so damn complicated. “I’m not taking your money.”

“You have bills to pay.” He casts me a sideways glance. “And clearly your job at The End Zone isn’t cutting it.”

I frown. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs. “There’s a pile of collection notices in the office addressed to you. They started showing up a couple of weeks ago. Someone’s really determined to get the money you owe them.”

I flinch, feeling confused and exposed. “That’s private.”

He holds up a hand. “I didn’t open them. I’m just saying you could make better money working down here than Keegan can pay you to run that bar. That’s in addition to what I’d give you, and obviously, you need it. Is my offer too low? Name your price.”

“I don’t want your money.” My phone buzzes, and I reach for it, thinking it might be my sister.

He shoves his hands into his pockets.

I take my cell from my pocket and unlock the screen to open the last text message. A single swipe of the screen, and I’m eye to eye with some asshole’s cock.

You won’t think my dick is small when I shove it down your throat.

I gasp, as if it isn’t just a picture, as if Ron is actually in front of me and whipping it out.

Mason takes the phone from my hand. “What in the actual fuck?” His eyes go wide and his jaw hardens before he looks back to me. “Who is this asshole?”

Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but I’m glad I didn’t get that text while I was alone. My skin is crawling, and I feel a little dizzy with the implied threat in the message. “I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s probably from a guy I ran into at the bank yesterday.”

He stares at me, dumbfounded. “This is normal behavior for guys you run into at the bank?”

“No, obviously not. I . . .” Why is this so embarrassing? How can I be so grateful that he’s here, seeing what this ass sent, and at the same time wish he’d never found out about it? How can I want to tell him everything about my interaction with Ron while simultaneously wishing I could keep it a secret? “Ron was a regular when I worked at the Pretty Kitty, and he didn’t take it too well when I declined his invitation to take me to dinner.”

Mason scrolls up and reads the text Ron sent me when I was at the airport last night. His nostrils flare as he grips the phone tighter. “What’s his last name?”

“What? Why?”

“Because I think I need to visit Blackhawk Valley and pay this asshole a visit.”

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “He’s just mad that he got rejected. I’ll have his number blocked, and it will be over. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

He draws in a breath, and I can see that he’s struggling to remain calm. “Do you get this shit a lot?”

Honestly, it comes with the territory of being a stripper—even a former stripper—in a small town. “I keep my number pretty private, and that helps. He found my workplace from my account at the bank, so I’m guessing he snagged my number while he was at it.”

“Sounds like his boss needs a call at the very least.” He steps closer and puts the phone on the counter behind me, then cages me in with a hand on either side of me. When he looks down into my eyes, it feels as if he’s washing away all the ugliness Ron’s message made me feel. “I really want to kick his ass, Bailey.” His voice is low and simmers with something volatile, and I feel guilty for loving it, for finding a sense of security in his rage.

“I know you do. And . . . thanks.”

Guys like Ron are a dime a dozen. They think that because they could pay to look at me once, I remain their property on some level. They’re the reason I stopped dancing even when my debt was still piling up. They’re the reason I was so happy to have my friend Sebastian be my roommate in college.

But guys like Mason are one of a kind. He never treated me like a piece of property or made me feel like my most important qualities were physical ones. Not once.

I lift my hand to his face, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Before I can overthink it, I push onto my toes and brush my lips against his. The kiss is soft and brief, and it seems to take him by surprise, because he draws in a sharp breath. I pull away, just an inch, my hand still on his jaw, and the room goes too quiet. I don’t think either of us breathes for several seconds.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“For being you.” I shrug as if it’s nothing, as if he hasn’t been the rock holding me up during the last four years. Again and again, when it seems as if my entire world is crumbling beneath my feet, Mason is solid.

“Does that mean you’ll be my wife?”

The emotions swirl and battle in my chest, and I laugh outright. “It means I’ll think about it.”

Four years ago . . .

The Pretty Kitty was packed tonight. When I change into my street clothes, I’m exhausted, but I’m leaving with a purse full of cash and the knowledge that my sister will be able to pay the rent for one more month.

I don’t officially work here. Gary can’t pay me because this club serves alcohol, and therefore I can’t legally be an employee until I’m twenty-one. But if he’s not paying me, then he can pretend I’m just a customer who likes to get on stage. It’s not his fault my fake ID is so convincing.

Not that anyone’s checking up on him. Blackhawk Valley isn’t that strait-laced. Hell, some of my regulars have badges tucked into their back pockets.

Usually, I’ll let Hammer walk me to my car, and I leave the dressing room to look for him. Sometimes, assholes think that just because they paid for a lap dance and bought a girl a few drinks, they’re entitled to something more. We keep Hammer around for the ones who like to wait outside and ask for their “money’s worth” for their tips. Hammer isn’t really his name. They just call him that because rumor has it that Hammer’s fist feels worse than a sledgehammer to the skull.

I spot him talking to Gary and decide I’m too anxious to leave to wait for an escort. I walk out the back door, find a man leaning against my car, and immediately regret my decision to come out here alone.

But when I see the man with his slow, stoned smile and the greed in his gaze, I don’t turn around and get Hammer. I know this guy from before Nic went to prison. Clarence Houston is more powerful in this town than anyone realizes. People think the Woodisons have all the power because they have the flashy kind of wealth. They own Woodison Farms and the Woodison Pork factory, and employ half the people who live in Blackhawk Valley. But anyone who was raised on the other side of the trailer park fence knows that money doesn’t always come packaged in fancy houses and luxurious Caribbean vacations. Sometimes money comes packaged in expensive habits that go up your nose or straight into your bloodstream. Sometimes it comes as expensive women who’ve been paid to fulfill your dirtiest desires.

As much as I want to get Hammer, if Clarence is here looking for me, there’s a reason. And if that reason is Nic, I need to know what he has to say. I keep my distance, staying within reach of the back door. “You need something?”

His grin is slow and slimy as his gaze slides over me. If I wasn’t already in the habit of showering this place off me the second I got home, I’d be doing it tonight to wash away how his eyes make me feel. “I need a lot of things,” he says. He steps forward. “Mostly, though, I want my money from Nic Mendez.”

I arch a brow. “Your money?”

“Punk owes me fifteen grand.”

The number is a punch to the gut, but I don’t let anything show on my face. “And you think I have it?” I’m impressed my tone doesn’t reveal how nervous I am. The sound of Nic’s name alone still makes my stomach shimmy. But pair that name with someone as powerful as Clarence saying he’s owed fifteen grand, and I’m scared. I’m scared for Nic, and I’m scared for me.

“I heard you’re his girl,” he says.

“Really? You think that just because I slept with him, that makes me his girl?” I usually don’t mind this game, don’t mind pretending to be the slut who gets around. But when the man in question is Nic, I want to be more than that. Pretending that I was nothing more than Nic’s piece on the side feels a little like selling my soul. “I’m not Nic’s girl.”

“Who you belong to, then?”

I fold my arms and mentally correct his grammar before answering. “I don’t belong to anyone but myself.”

“You sure you’re not his girl?”

“I’m positive.”

“I guess I’ll have to find my money somewhere else, then.” He takes another step closer, and I notice the two guys standing in the shadows by Clarence’s jacked-up pickup. I’ve been able to recognize that car and the man who drives it since before Nic went to prison. “Stay away from him,” Nic would say, pointing out Clarence’s car. “And never let him know you’re my girl.”

“Guess you will.” I’m outnumbered in a big way here. Please come out back to check on me, Hammer.

“Sweet girl like you shouldn’t be dancing to pay the bills,” Clarence says, skimming that greedy gaze over me. “You need a man who can take care of you.”

There is no way in hell I’d sign on to let Clarence “take care” of me, but I’m not dumb enough to laugh in his face. Like I said, Clarence is powerful around here. “I don’t need anyone.”

His lips twist into a crooked smirk. “Sure you don’t. But just so you know”—his tongue darts out to wet his lip—“if you were Nic’s girl or if you just wanted to help him out, you and me could work something out.” He skims the tip of his index finger down my cheek. “You might even like it.”

I step back. “Like I said, I’m not his girl.”

He shrugs and tucks his hands into his pockets. “My offer stands. For now.” Then he and the two goons behind him pile into the truck and pull away in a puff of exhaust.

When I climb into my car, I can’t lock the doors fast enough. I’m shaking. Shaking because I didn’t know Nic owed Clarence money, and that spells trouble. Shaking because I’m smart enough to be scared of Clarence.