“Because I’m hot?”
“Because you’re impossible.”
“Also hot.”
“And because she knows who Richard Montgomery is.”
His jaw shifted.
There it was.
That tiny flash.
Drew still hated the Montgomery name touching anything between us.
At Thanksgiving, I had seen what it did to him. The way his father used the name like a leash. The way Everett and Beckett wore it like armor. The way Drew carried Travers like it was the last piece of his mother no one could take from him.
My mother would not understand that.
My mother would see Montgomery and start counting.
Family money.
Business connections.
Miami hedge fund dynasty.
Stanford football body.
Possible NFL upside.
Potential husband material if she could ignore the football and focus on the fortune.
The word bagging floated through my mind in her voice before she even said it.
As in: ‘Well, baby, if you were going to rebound, at least you bagged a Montgomery.’
My stomach went cold.
Drew stepped closer. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“No athlete says that and means anything but catastrophic denial.”
“You’re recycling material.”
“Good material holds.” His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist. “Talk to me.”
“I just don’t want her to turn you into a prize.”
His face softened.
Then, because he was Drew, his mouth tilted. “I mean, I am one.”
“Drew.”
“What? You’ve seen me shirtless.”
