Page 19

And then I get a text from Peyton. It’s a picture…of the bed…with double the pillows for her new and improved pillow wall. Where did she even find all of those? I snicker, wondering how long this took her to build.

Hunter : I hate to tell you but no amount of pillows will make me less desirable. Your efforts are futile.

Peyton : I ordered barbed wire fencing to go over top but shipping says four to five business days. Hopefully I can resist you in my sleep until then.

I huff out a laugh, and then I get an idea.

I search for a furniture shop, and since it’s only just after dinner time, they’re open.

A man answers the phone, and I tell him what I need.

“Hi, I’m looking to order a king-size bed for my girlfriend, and I need it as soon as possible.”

I see Trey give me a questioning glance.

Yeah, it’s unusual, but nothing about this arrangement is normal and we’ve been making it work.

“A king-size bed sir? If you’d like to bring her down to the store we can—”

I cut him off quickly. “I’m on a time crunch and I’m not available to come by. Can you just give me your best seller that women usually pick out? It needs to be in stock. And can you deliver it the day after Thanksgiving?”

The salesman clears his throat. It’s an odd request to not even care what it looks like, but sure enough, the man wants a sale and agrees.

I list off my credit card number and Peyton’s address, and there it is. Problem solved.

Another hour later, I say my goodbyes and head out of Slade’s. As soon as I walk out his front door, the sun’s starting to set.

I round the front of my truck.

And that’s when I see it.

A sleek, black Mercedes idles in the spot next to mine, engine still purring like it’s waiting for something—or someone.

As I approach, the tinted window glides down just halfway, slow and deliberate.

The smile that greets me is sharp enough to cut glass.

Bethany.

Her perfume hits me instantly—sweet, cloying vanilla with a bitter undertone. It used to be my favorite scent in the world. Now it turns my stomach. It smells as artificial as the rest of her.

She’s wearing oversized designer sunglasses and a smug little expression, like she’s already won whatever game she’s playing.

“Are you really just going to ignore me, Hunter?” Her voice is sweet poison, smooth as ever. “It won’t work forever. You know that. We have too much history.”

“Are you stalking me? How long have you been waiting out here for me to come out? You know this is a gated community. How the hell did you get in?”

Has she lost her damn mind? Wait, I already know the answer to that.

“I have an old friend I was visiting a few blocks away, and she mentioned that Slade is close by. Then I saw your truck. I would call it a coincidence, but you and I both know that it’s fate.”

It’s not fate. It’s Bethany Richards realizing that I’m finally free from under her husband's thumb and now she wants to set my new life ablaze. But I’m not going down without a fight this time.

“What are you really doing here? And don’t keep using the friend excuse. We both know that you don’t have any,” I say flatly.

Her chin lifts, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the steering wheel like she’s bored already. “Just wanted to know when you’re going to kick this Bleacher Reporter girl to the curb. I’m not here for games, and we both know that I’m the last woman you dated seriously.”

“That’s really what you came here to ask? Peyton and I are serious, and I’m staying in Seattle. You can head home without me whenever you want, Beth. No one is going to miss you here.”

Her lips twitch. “Haven’t you considered that there is someone else to consider here? Like your mom?”

That hits like a punch to the ribs.

She knows exactly where to aim.

“You mean, take the trade you’re trying to convince Everett to sign off on,” I snap. “Go back to New Jersey. Back to your team.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “Would that really be so bad? Your mom needs you right now…more than ever. I can tell she’s not feeling well.”

My stomach knots at the mention of Mom.

“What do you mean, ‘she’s not feeling well?’” I ask, the sound of it causing hair to stick up at the back of my neck.

What does Bethany know?

“She just doesn’t sound as chipper on the phone, and her best friend Bonny has shared some concerns with me.”

Bonny—my mother’s best friend since beauty school and her salon manager.

“What did she say?” I ask, stepping closer to Bethany’s car.

“Just that Carly has seemed more tired recently and wanted to know if I was coming back home soon to check in on her.”

I hate that Bonny thought to call Bethany instead of me.

Bethany didn’t grow up in the best home.

She was taken away from her mom when she was young, and then bounced around between uncles, aunts, and grandparents most of her life…

anywhere the courts could think to put her, but then she’d run away.

They’d have to place her somewhere else because that family member wouldn’t take her back.

So when we started dating, she connected with my mom almost instantly, worming her way into my mother’s life.

Bethany helped take care of her the last time she was sick, back when I was too far away to do anything about it.

Mom still talks about her like Beth is her long-lost daughter.

She was disappointed with Bethany when she found out what she did to me.

She told me that even though Bethany hurt us both with her actions, that my mother wouldn’t stop loving her—and that Bethany has deep wounds that need mending.

And that’s the problem. My mom loves her, and they’re still connected at the hip it seems.

Bethany leans a little closer to the open window, voice dropping.

“But if you want to play house with your little podcast girl, go ahead. Just don’t forget—you’ll get bored and sabotage things with her soon enough.

That’s been your thing ever since you lost me.

I’m the one that got away, and we both know it. ”

I cross my arms over my chest, keeping my distance. “We don’t have anything, Beth.”

Her smile disappears. “You don’t mean that.”

I do. I mean every damn word. But she’s not the type to care.

She shifts her car into gear and pulls away without another word, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of vanilla and the sinking weight in my chest.

I stare at the spot where her car used to be, jaw clenched, every worst-case scenario running through my head. What if she knows something about Mom’s health that I don’t? What if she’s using it, dangling it in front of me like a carrot on a stick?

And the worst part?

For a second, I almost consider it.

Almost.

But I already burned my career once for Bethany Richards. And unless my mother needs me to move home, I won’t do it again.

The drive across town feels longer than usual. Probably because my brain won’t shut off.

Bethany’s voice keeps looping in the back of my head like a bad soundtrack. The smug smile. The subtle digs. The way she weaponized my mom without blinking.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and force myself to breathe. She’s bluffing. She has to be.

Still…I can’t shake it.

I turn down Peyton’s street, the quiet residential block almost too normal after Bethany’s ambush today. Like none of it should exist in the same universe as a tidy row of townhomes, and a podcast host who thinks I’m a menace.

Her townhouse comes into view, and despite myself, something in my chest loosens.

The porch light’s on. Her little blue SUV parked neatly in front.

And I hate how much this place feels like home already. At least the closest thing to feeling like home I’ve had in a while.

I cut the engine and sit there for a second, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.

What the hell am I even doing? Moving in with a woman I barely know. Faking a relationship. Letting her lay down ground rules like this is some kind of reality show.

But the thing is…she’s the only person in my life right now who doesn’t want anything from me. Not my money. Not my name. Not control.

Nothing except a few interviews and a kid’s career day.

But when she smiles—when she’s not rolling her eyes at me—there’s something about her that makes it easy to breathe.

I grab my duffel from morning skate and head up the front steps.

Before I can even knock, the door cracks open like she’s been waiting.

Peyton stands there in sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, like she has no idea she looks better than half the women who paid five figures to bid on me.

Her eyes flick down to my bag. “You’re late.”

I smirk, shaking off the weight of everything that’s been crawling under my skin all day. “Miss me already, Collins?”

She doesn’t answer—just rolls her eyes and steps aside to let me in.

But the corner of her mouth twitches.

And damn if that doesn’t feel a hell of a lot better than anything Bethany Richards could ever offer.