Page 19

I might’ve come as the Wookie’s wing-woman, but he certainly didn’t need me.
If anything, the blush climbing up his neck like wisteria told me he still wasn’t a fan of the spotlight.
All I could do was snicker and shake my head from where I watched the chaos from across the rooftop bar.
The Harts were nothing if not generous with their entertainment.
Maybe that was just a league thing, but my God—no expense had been spared.
Fog rolled across the entire floor, illuminated emerald green by hidden lights.
Some celebrity DJ had the dance floor bustling, and I’d thoroughly enjoyed every moment of grinding against one player or another until my legs demanded a break.
A break I found sitting in a sleek high-top chair, waiting for my Dracula-inspired blood-red cocktail and fanning my sweaty face with a folded napkin.
The players and coaches were great, honestly. It was the socialites that made me scowl permanently. A feeling that only burrowed deeper when a pack of vapid women in slinky couture sauntered up to the bar.
Hell, the jewels hanging off the leggy blonde beside me probably cost more than I made in a good month. And that might not have bugged me... if my bank account wasn’t currently sitting in the double digits, and I hadn’t just squeezed my ass into a costume I’d had since high school.
“Oliver Hart is such a waste of a beautiful face.”
I nearly flailed at the disembodied snark before catching myself, poorly concealing the flinch by turning to face the bartenders.
Excuse me?
My ears perked as a second voice scoffed, “Honestly, babe, I don’t know why you bother. The man’s married to his calendar. No time for distractions.”
“Unless you count his kids,” a third voice said bitterly.
If hearing Ollie’s name had made me bristle, that tone—tossingaside Tillie and Beaulikedistractions—made my muscles bunch with rage.
Vapid idiots.
“Come on though, he’s the hottest single dad in Emerald Bay. Can you imagine the tabloids if he bothered to open his eyes to what’s right in front of him? Power couple in the making.”
I choked down my laugh as the male model of a bartender set my drink down with a smile.
Golden-skinned, golden-haired—he looked straight off a cologne ad.
Typical Hart hospitality: models tending bar.
“Pffft,” the third viper snickered.
“He doesn’t date. He just... finds other ways torelieve stress.” There was so much innuendo packed into that last line it practically needed its own velvet rope.
And sure, I’d assumed tabloids were right about Ollie sowing his wild oats... but I’d spent enough time dropping by unannounced to know better.
I’d never seen a car in his driveway that wasn’t family.
If I’d learned anything, it was how expertly people twisted truth to fit their narrative. Hell, I’d watched Alice craft stories that were entirely fictional.
“I’d happily relieve his stress,” the first voice said, dropping sultry enough to cloud a mirror.
The three of them collapsed into titters fit for a high school gymnasium.
Staring down at the fog rolling off my drink, I threaded my fingers around the stem of the martini glass.
Slowly turned halfway toward the party.