Page 104 of Lucky Shot

The idea of anything more with Hardy is enticing but completely unrealistic.

I live in a studio apartment. His living standard is a penthouse.

I’m broke and collectors are threatening to take my business away from me. He’s rich and has never gone a day without.

I hide from the world and crave its acceptance, and he bathes in the glory it praises upon him.

Our lives are so far removed from one another. We just don’t fit.

Walk on the wild side, my ass.

You challenge me. You’re gorgeous. You’re intelligent and sassy. I’m drawn to you in a way I don’t even understand, and fuck if I don’t want you again. What that means, who the hell knows, but isn’t that the fun part?

In the perfect world with the perfect main characters, yep.

We’re both far from perfect.

And yet, I’m drawn to you too.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Hardy

Where the fuck do I even start?

I stare at the stacks of papers on Whitney’s desk, the filing cabinet full of drawers, the corkboard full of a million Post-it Notes, and my stomach churns. This is so confusing.

“No word from her still?” Martin asks as he pops his head into Whitney’s office.

“No. None.”

“This isn’t like her,” he laments.

“I’m well aware.” I’m short with him, but only out of worry.

“I’ve been begging for her to let me take the reins here for years so she can chase after a coaching job.”

“Your point?” I snap at him.

His face pales. “Nothing. It was stupid. I guess just that she does everything herself, keeps it all close to the vest, so I don’t know where anything is.”

“Right. Sorry.” I look down and then back up at him. “This isn’t like her. Or at least the Whitney I’ve come to know. I’m worried.”

“She wasn’t at her house?”

I glance up at him as I begin to rifle through the papers on her desk. How do I explain to him that she doesn’t live where she told me she lived? That I woke up the fucking apartment manager and told her I knew Whitney lived there because I’d dropped her off there last night only to be told I was fucking crazy?

Or that now I’m freaking the fuck out, worried over where she is while being equally pissed off that she lied to me.

“I think I had the wrong address.” It’s as much of a confession as I’m willing to give. “I’m trying to see if there’s anything here with her address on it. Are you good handling the players?”

“Yeah. Should we call someone?” he asks.

“I’ll figure it out.”

I shuffle through the stacks at lightning speed, not stopping long enough to process the enormity of the numerous bills and late notices sorted in what looks like most to least urgent status. More important is finding a fucking address for her.

I rifle through the shit in her drawers. I thumb through her hanging files and don’t give a shit about her privacy when I see the one labeled “personal.” Something is wrong. I can feel it. There’s no fucking way she’d not show up for her kids without calling someone. None whatsoever.