Page 95 of The Backup Plan

Her laugh when I teased her.

The look on her face when I told her all the things I liked—really liked—about her.

I remember saying too much.

I remember meaning every word.

And I’m not embarrassed. Not even a little.

If anything, I feel . . . settled. Like I can now stop pretending I’m not already knee-deep in this thing.

My gaze lands on the pillow I shoved between us and shake my head, a slow grin tugging at my mouth.

Yeah, that’s not going to fly again. The next time we end up in the same bed? There sure as shit isn’t going to be a goddamn pillow between us. Or clothes.

I push myself up and reach for the water.

Needs improvement, my ass.

That was an invitation if I’ve ever heard one.

And I’m not pretending otherwise.

Lucas

Suits should be illegal.

That’s my first thought as I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall near the bar. Tailored black, crisp white shirt, no tie. Clean. Polished. The version of myself teams like to parade out for donors and photo ops.

I adjust my cufflinks and prepare for the next question, because while the glitz and glam of the Lone Star’s Charity Gala to benefit disadvantaged youth in the area for the public starts upstairs, for the players it starts down here. Under harsh lights and with microphones shoved too close to our faces, we have handlers whispering cues to us like we’re about to walk some fancy red carpet than just walk up the stairs to where the next part is happening.

Cole drops into the chair beside me as I finish my third interview. He does that slouchy lean back thing kids do that has no business being done in a tux. He angles his head my way. “Why the hell do you get more press than I do?” he mutters, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt.

I don’t look away from the reporter across from us packing up her things. “Because I’m charming.”

She laughs. Cole scowls.

“That’s bullshit,” he says.

“Is it?” I shrug. “You sell flash. Cars. Clothes. Swagger. Arrogance.” I finally glance at him. “I sell longevity. Stories. Relationships. Sure things. Fans like knowing who they’re rooting for.”

By the startle of Cole’s head, I’ve clearly offended him. “You saying I don’t have fans?”

“No. I’m saying you haven’t built relationships with them yet. You’ve rented their attention. Now you need to prove you deserve it.”

My handler taps my shoulder. “Last interviewer is ready for you over here.”

“Great,” I say as I glance over and smile at Cole. His arms are crossed and jaw is tight.

Feathers are now ruffled. Perfect. He needs to start thinking about shit like this. And that’s why they’ve partnered the two of you, Hale.

I recognize the benefit for both him and the team of me being that mentor for him. The things I learned from a lot of trial and error, he has someone to guide him through.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t want to take him down a peg or two in the process.

The interview is short and within minutes I’m upstairs where the money is being spent.

It’s a cush request—to give them our time and attention. All teams do something like this in one way or another. And it’s exactly what you’d expect a gala to be like. Soft lighting. String music. Champagne flowing like water. Attendees dressed to impress and be seen. Sponsors hoping this philanthropy will put them in good standing with someone.