Page 8 of Rent a Bad Boy

“And you just hit your own teammate.”

“He made fun of your glasses.” It’s not what he says, but more how he says it. Like it was the most obvious explanation in the world. Like sucker-punching your teammate over a stranger’s broken glasses is standard. “I didn’t like it.”

I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that information. I don’t even have room in my brain for it right now. “So. Do you want the job or don’t you?” Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have sounded so bitchy, considering I’ve just seen what he’s capable of. On the football field is one thing. Off the field? I guess I didn’t expect him to carry his reputation into his everyday life.

And sick as it sounds even to me, it’s even more of a reason to hire him.

“I have money,” I add when he doesn’t answer right away, like that’s going to help. “It’s not a lot, but it’s some. I could pay you to⁠—”

“How much is some?”

“...Five hundred?” It sounds even smaller out loud than it did in my head. Embarrassingly small, the kind of number that wouldn’t cover a decent used car, let alone whatever rate a guy with his particular skill set should reasonably charge.

I half expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, something flickers across his face. It’s close enough to amused that my whole chest goes hot with humiliation. “That’s not enough.”

“I know it’s not a lot, but it’s genuinely all I have.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He takes a step closer, and the air around me suddenly feels several degrees warmer. Every instinct I own goes on full alert. A guy this large stepping into my personal space should probably terrify me—some small, sane corner of my brain insists that it does, except the rest of me is too busy noticing he smells like sandalwood and clean laundry instead of turf and sweat today. “I mean, it’s not enough for what I’m about to ask you to spend it on.”

My stomach drops somewhere near my shoes. Here it comes. Whatever this is, whatever a guy like him actually wants from a girl like me. I brace myself for something terrible that I will have to politely but firmly decline before fleeing the building and maybe the entire college.

“I want you to spend it on glasses,” he says.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Glasses. Real ones. Not whatever pathetic excuse you’ve got taped together right now.” He nods at my face with something that might be the ghost of a smile if I squint hard enough. To be fair, I’m doing a lot of squinting right now. “No offense, but they look ridiculous.”

“They’re a backup pair.”

“They look like a crime scene.” He turns and heads for the exit like the conversation’s settled. Like I’m just supposed to follow.

And somehow, despite every rational impulse screaming at me to walk the other way, I find myself trailing after him.

“I’ll drive you,” he offers as I trot alongside him. “We can figure out the rest after.”

What the hell am I doing? Like, what has gotten into me? Because there is no way in the world I am actually following Everett Stone to his truck after leaving my tray on top of the trash can near the door. And I am definitely, most certainly not getting into the truck and buckling myself in, right?

I don’t know what to do with this guy. I’ve spent all of my eighteen years sorting people into fairly predictable categories: kind or unkind, safe or unsafe, the type who would laugh at my glasses or the type who would politely pretend not to notice. Everett is refusing to fit into a single one of those categories. Quite frankly, it’s an inconvenience I don’t have room for in my course load.

Either way, I’m pretty sure by the time we pull out of the lot that my life just got a lot more complicated.

Brad Pitt would be so unimpressed with me right now.

4

EVERETT

The optometrist’s name is Dr. Carter, and he’s already pissing me off.

“These are going to take some time.” He turns Isla’s taped-together disaster over in his hands like it’s a science experiment. It’s his tone that sets my teeth on edge. The one people use when they want you to know they’re doing you a favor just by existing. “We’re looking at a full lens replacement, new frames. I would need to order them. It could be a week, maybe two.”

Isla’s shoulders drop. She’s sitting in the exam chair with her legs dangling off the edge because she’s too short for her feet to reach the floor, and now she looks like somebody just told her Christmas is canceled. “Two weeks?”

“At a minimum. We’re backed up.”

I’m leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed, not saying a word. Just standing here is enough. The doctor glances over for the third time since we walked in, and I had to angle my shoulders sideways to fit. I’m used to it. People look at me the way they look at a dog they’re not sure is friendly. Most of the time, I let them wonder.

Right now, I don’t feel like it.