Wait...what?

I drag my feet back to the bar, stunned. He’s had sex with her. And possibly with three other girls. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. This is exactly why I didn’t want anything to do with him in the first place. All this Casanova behavior from an ultra-pumped MMA fighter is such a cliché. He slept with Nicole on Tuesday, the night before he almost kissed me.

Not that I should be mad. He’s a free agent. He can do whatever (and whoever) the hell he wants.

But crap, this pisses me off too.

I trip my way behind the counter and grip it firmly. Judging by the worried looks plastered on Bree’s and Mikey’s faces, I’m guessing they think I’m in the middle of some kind of a seizure.

I can already see the humiliating headline: Bartender, 23, dies of heart attack caused by boy she doesn’t know.

My hands move fast as I try to catch up with the number of orders that piled up while I was gone. I make horrendous mistakes. I pour the beer awfully and whenever someone orders a cocktail (which is rarely) I find a way to ruin it somehow. People are finally getting the drinks they ordered ten minutes ago, and all of them probably taste like whale sperm.

Bree plucks the cranberry juice from my hand before I pour it into someone’s pina colada. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

Maybe it’s because I’m pale as a ghost and just about as jolly. Or maybe I’m lucky and she might just be referring to my cleaning the fireplace out of the blue.

“I just noticed all the…dust,” I blurt.

Bree arches one brow as she scans me up and down. “And I’m just noticing all the bullshit you’re feeding me. Start talking, girl.”

Well, I have a long shift to burn and Bree has ears, so it makes sense to let her in on my latest adventures at the XWL gym. I have plenty of chances to share my love-life woes with her, because she has to keep returning the drinks I’ve prepared, people complaining they don’t taste right. I remake all the orders, this time pulling myself together.

“So, you have a crush on a bad boy, huh?” Bree slides beers on a tray.

No. No. No.

Maybe.

“But you don’t want to date him because you’re afraid he’ll break your heart?” Bree—mother to fourteen-and twelve-year-old daughters—has adopted a don’t-bullshit-me tone. It seems to be working just fine on twenty-three–year-old me.

I hitch a shoulder up and fish for a piece of gum. I need to chew my nerves away.

But Bree isn’t done. “Well, let me make it easy for you. Bad boys? They're bad. Taming the bad boy? That's a good idea for a chick flick. Doesn't usually happen in real life, though. Sweetheart, you're far too smart to be another notch on his belt."

She's right. I don't want to become a statistic.

“Don't date the guy unless he makes it a point to show you you're different. Because you are.” She cups my cheeks with her hands and smiles at me. “And I don't just mean your weird musical taste and the plaid boyfriend shirts no one actually wears but you."

"I'll bring them back into fashion," I say, pouting.

Bree throws her head back and laughs. "Of course you will, honey. Don't settle, d'ya hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I spend the rest of my shift ogling Nicole and her look-alike friends, and thinking about Bree’s advice. Nicole is hot in a busty sorority-girl way, but she has fake hair extensions, fake boobs and her clothes suggest she is an exotic dancer (or the least appropriately dressed teacher or business person in the world.)

But maybe I’m just being jealous.

Oh crap, I’m jealous.

I’m jealous of women who sleep with Ty.

I haven’t thought about Charlie Hunnam once this week.

What is up with that? That's it, I'm locking Ty Wilder out of my mind and throwing the key.

Just get this school assignment over with, Blaire. And get the hell out of The Grind.

Chapter Six

Two weeks after I receive Penniman’s assignment, I begin to outline the first draft for my MMA article. I'm nowhere near ready, but for some reason, I'm excited about this task.

I have hard facts and statistics, and I’m going for the gold and have already contacted the chairman of the XWL, Ian Phillips, and his peers.

I’ve visited the The Grind half a dozen times, making good on my promise to Dawson. I still need to ask him a few more things now that I'm more MMA savvy, and I still need to interview Ty because, unbearable or not, he could be the next XWL Welterweight titleholder, and I'd hate to pass on an opportunity like that.

Besides, my intuition cautiously tells me that, for once in a very long time, I’m doing a good job.

But the minute I set foot inside the journalism building, I start worrying about the last time I hung out with Shane. We haven't really spoken since that talk. We’ve both been busy with school and work. Now he is here, earbuds tucked in his ears, bobbing his head slightly as he makes his way down the hall toward the same lecture hall I'm about to enter. He is wearing an "I'm With Stupid" tee with a finger pointing to his crotch. A herd of cute girls hello him shyly, and he stops briefly for a chat, then notices me and plucks out his earbuds.

“How's it going?” He plants a casual kiss on my cheek.