Jake curses under his breath and gets out of the car with a huff. Five seconds later, he’s walking me to the door with his beefy hand in mine. The man with his dog is walking way too slowly, obviously trying to get a view of the superstar who’d be driving an expensive Italian sports car in Mullet Ridge, South Carolina, of all places.
“I’m getting tired of kissing you,” Jake says. “No offense.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I assure him. At my door, we give the obligatory kiss that we’ve mastered, just in case the guy decides to take to social media with his Jake Rodgers sighting.
When we’re done, I go inside and immediately take off my glasses with the relief most women feel when they take off their highest pair of heels.
My phone is in my hand before I’ve even set my bag down, my thumb hovering over the saved video like it’s a dare.
I put it face down on the counter.
“Soon,” I whisper to myself. “Soon this will all be over, and then I can start my actual life.”
A text comes in from Kayla.
Kayla
Hey, let’s talk tomorrow. Just had a big call with Doug and want to run something by you.
Scottie
That sounds ominous.
Kayla
Oh, stop. It’s all good. Just not worth bothering you when you should be relaxing.
Scottie
YOU should be relaxing, Baby Mama.
Kayla
Girl, don’t you even try to caretake me.
You’re off the clock.
Watch a movie where Tom Cruise blows something up.
Scottie
You know me too well.
I stare at my texts, itching to open another thread, one that hasn’t been active in over a month …
I put my phone down and do exactly what Kayla suggests, numbing myself until the itch is tolerable.
CHAPTER TWO
Lucas
“How can you still bring that woman coffee?” my identical twin asks as I stand in line at Meant to Bean, the local coffee shop with an outside to-go window I stopped by every morning I was in town last season. It’s the most popular spot in downtown Mullet Ridge, South Carolina. Population, like, twelve.
(It’s probably closer to twenty or thirty thousand, but I’m from Chicago. Twenty or thirty thousand is, like, twelve.)
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say, shoving my hands into the pocket of my team-issued performance hoodie. The morning is brisk for the locals, who are bundled up in puffer coats like they’re staving off frostbite, but Logan and I could probably both peel off our hoodies without batting an eye.
“How did I talk about her?” Logan asks, stamping his feet next to mine.
