Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“But you’re right,” I say calmly, reaching for a clean shirt and pulling it over my head. “She’s not part of a game.”
She’s the chess board.
His hands curl into fists. “Stay away from her.”
“So you’ve said.”
He shakes his head. “You’re poison, dude.”
“Am I? Or are you the problem?”
My phone buzzes on the bench next to my thigh, and I glance down at it to read the message preview:
I can do 7? If that’s not too late?
Juliette, Juliette, you’re making this way too easy.
I slide my shoes on and tie them, mindful of the daggers being glared into my skull. Stand. Grab my jacket from the hook, slow and unhurried. Let him see how little this rattles me. How steady my hands are.
How controlled.
“She’s not collateral damage,” he snaps at me to regain my attention. “She’s my sister.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and begin a slow stroll past him, close enough that I clip him.
“And?” I laugh. “What’s your point?”
“Bishop, I swear to fucking god. Can’t you be a decent human about this? My sister isn’t anything like the women we date. She’s not like—”
“Bailey?” I turn to look at him, dropping her name into the sentence to gauge his response. Sure enough, the color drains from his face.
His throat works like he’s trying to swallow a shard of glass.
“You’re the one who keeps bringing this shit up,” I go on calmly. “Not me.”
I snap my fingers. “Oh, hey. Speaking of which—Bailey keeps texting me to talk. I don’t know if you’re still fucking her or whatever, but just so you know, she texted me at least thirty times today.”
His mouth opens.
Closes.
“Well? Are you? Still fucking her?”
His eyes flicker to the shower stalls.
Back to me.
Away to the equipment manager’s office.
A slow, humorless smile pulls at my mouth. “That’s all the answer I need.”
He drags a hand down his face. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It’s never like that,” I say. “It’s always a misunderstanding. A weak moment. Too much to drink. Mercury was in retrograde.”
“Bishop—”
“You didn’t just screw my girlfriend,” I cut in quietly. “You screwed our friendship.”
He shuffles on his feet, wringing the towel in his hands. “It’s not like you and I were that close.”
“No?”
Guilt crosses his brows. “I didn’t mean—”
“Naw man, it’s cool,” I cut in. “When I went to your place because I was worried about you, I didn’t realize you couldn’t give a shit about me.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and ugly as our teammates buzz around us, going about their business, oblivious to the tension.
“I never meant for it to get that far with her,” Declan admits, finally looking ashamed.
“And yet it did,” I say. “Funny how that works when you can’t keep your dick in your pants.” I inhale a deep breath. “Well. I have to go watch film, but do me a favor, would you? Tell Bailey to save her battery. I blocked her this afternoon and, if you were smart, you would too. Some advice? The way you get them is the way you lose them.”
She’ll cheat on him, too. Go after a bigger prize with a bigger wallet and a bigger cock.
“Fuck you,” he mumbles. But there’s no heat behind it; the fight is slowly leaving his body, replaced by shame.
“Fuck me? Already been done,” I say mildly, shooting him my winningest smile. “Sleep good tonight.”
I don’t wait for his reply.
Pushing through the locker-room door, I let it swing shut behind me, cutting the noise as cold air from the hallway blasts me.
I check my phone.
Juliette: I’m kind of nervous now.
Aaron: Don’t be. I don’t bite.
Hard.
ELEVEN
JULIETTE
I cannot believe I’m doing this.
Alone in the elevator, my neck tilts as I watch the numbers go up for every floor I pass, a countdown to my private humiliation.
Twenty-eight.
Thirty.
Thirty-four.
“Oh my god. What floor did he say again?”
I sneak a look at my phone to check our messages.
The penthouse.
Right.
Of course this is where he lives. Because why wouldn’t the most intimidating, broody, mysterious professional athlete I’ve ever met live at the literal top of the city?
“Relax,” I whisper to myself.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall, and I touch the pearl barrette in my braided hair, second-guessing my entire “chill hang out” outfit.
Oversized cream sweatshirt: It’s slouchy and made of the softest material. My brain was screaming “touchable!” as I was getting dressed, but now I’m not so sure. The gray sweatpants sit low on my hips. They’re thin and comfortable, but underneath…
Lingerie.
Pink bra. Skimpy matching thong.
It’s the kind I wear to remind myself that I am, in fact, an adult woman.
Cookies in my hands.
Lingerie under my fleece.
The contrast feels ridiculous but empowering.
Another thing I’m second-guessing? The box of cookies are warm, fresh from the oven, baked before I left my apartment. The chocolate chip smell is sweet and delicious and suddenly feels so… juvenile.