Blake looks up at me from his phone, his eyes widening with disbelief when he realizes it’s him I’m talking to. Eyebrows knitting together, his gaze flits about the room and honestly, the audacity to look confused right now is so on brand for Blake fucking Mestroni.
“Huh?” He gapes at me like he’s not sure whether I’ve lost my mind.
Folding my arms across my chest, I narrow my eyes, steadying him with a steely, no-bullshit glower. “Ozempic? Really?”
“Oh,” Blake snorts a laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “It was just a joke.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I retort. “Get the hell out of my house.”
“Brookes,” Blake says, his condescending tone grating on every one of my last nerves.
I hold firm, my teeth clenched, gaze set on him as I say, “Cam, call security.”
With an eyeroll like I’m not seconds away from calling security on his ass, because I fucking will, Blake heaves himself up from my sofa, casually tucking his phone into the pocket of his chinos. “All I’m saying is Caitlin was a sure thing…”
He’s talking about Caitlin Dewan. Pretty. Hot. Influencer-slash-model-slash-whatever else, because aren’t they all? And I have no doubt in my mind the only reason he’s so hell-bent on having her as my fake girlfriend is so that he can try to fuck her. It’s his MO. I can’t prove it, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure the guy’s a predator.
My gaze dips down to the empty Gatorade bottle in his hand, and I snatch it from him, spearing him with a pointed look. “And keep your greasy mitts off my grape Gatorades.”
With another eye roll and a low chuckle, Blake shakes his head and starts down the hallway before pausing and turning back to look at me. “Be careful, Brookes,” he says, his tone laced with smugness, “that girl is not?—”
“I fail to see why I’ve had to ask you three times to get out of my house and yet you’re still fucking here.” I groan, turning away from him. And it isn’t until I hear the front door open that I yell, “And tell Caitlin Dewan to stay the hell outta my DMs. I’m not fucking interested!”
When I hear the front door close, I release a breath and shakethe bad energy out of my limbs, walking back to the kitchen to where Cam is sitting at the island, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he stares at his laptop like he didn’t just witness that whole exchange.
“He’s such a fucking asshole,” I mutter, dumping the empty Gatorade bottle into the recycling compactor before moving to the fridge.
“Hemighthave a point, Brookes.”
Grabbing a bottle of disgusting blue Gatorade because it’s the only damn flavor left—Thanks a lot, Blake—I turn, looking at Cam and waiting for whatever it is he feels the need to say.
“I mean, sure, she seems nice and all, but… don’t you think maybe she’s a little too innocent?” He glances over the screen, meeting my eyes. “Why her?”
“Nobody knows her. There’s no messy past to worry about, she needs the money, and, most importantly, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to fuck her and screw everything up. She isperfectfor this.”
I can’t help but notice the look of doubt Cam offers me, but before I tell him to fuck off too, I force a big swig of Gatorade, wishing more than ever that it had a couple shots of vodka in it.
I needed to get the hell out of the house to clear my head. Because thoughts of vodka shots in my Gatorade are not good, especially not before noon. I really didn’t feel like calling my sponsor, so I decided to torture myself instead with a five-mile beach run. But, as my feet pound the sand, a phone call interrupts not only my steady pace, but the music playing through my AirPods.
Slowing to a stop, I look down at my watch to see Happy Slater’s contact flashing on the screen and I can’t help but smile as I press to accept the call.
“Hey, bud.”
“Well, well, well!” Happy’s cocky tone rings through my pods. “If it isn’t the disgraced bad boy of golf.”
I roll my eyes, sniffing a laugh. “Apparently…”
“Frankly, I don’t know what the big deal is,” Happy says. “I saw the footage, and you’re telling me a few fuck yous and a broken fucking golf stick is enough to get your ass kicked off the AGL?” He snorts. “That wouldn’t even get you two minutes in the box in hockey.”
“Welcome to the prestigious world of professional golf, Hap,” I say with a derisive chuckle.
“You should come join the Thunder,” Happy says, entirely unserious. “We need a new goon since Rusty finally retired his hairy old ass.”
I wipe the sweat beads from my brow, chuckling. “I’ll think about it.”
“As soon as you guys are done broing out, can we cut to the chase?” A female voice cuts in, and I grin at the familiar sass.
“Hannah banana?”
