Page 14 of End Game

“Shut up,” I whine. “Was that girl texting him while we were at the Festival? Did he see her there? Will he see her when we leave?”

“So what if he does?”

Reality settles in atop the embarrassment and twinge of self-pity. He will see other women. I’ll see other men. But still.

“Maybe it would’ve been nice not to feel like I was a point on the scoreboard,” I sigh.

“You don’t know that’s what it is.”

“Oh, I do. At least number two.” My head hangs, my chin almost touching my chest. The position makes my neck pain rear its ugly head again, the twinge making me grimace.

“I just don’t want to look at him, Pop. I don’t want to look at him and know I was ‘Saturday and Sunday,’ you know? I need a little dignity.”

She pulls me into a quick hug and then stands.

“We go home.” Marching to the door, she stops before she pulls it open.

“And I know you don’t want details, but your brother promised to take me on the boat tonight and do very, very wicked things to me.

You are the only person I’d leave that invitation for, but I might never forgive you. Just so you know.”

“I owe you.”

“Ha,” she says, pulling the door open. “You owe me twenty.”

Branch

Settled.

What a terrifying fucking word.

It’s not a bad feeling, though, as I stretch out. My muscles are relaxed, my cock satisfied, which is a miracle in and of itself.

I haven’t ever felt this relaxed—not even on vacation in the Dominican Republic last year with a model whose name started with an L.

There’s something about this place that just digs into your bones and takes over everything . . . and there’s something about that girl that has taken over my brain.

I don’t know what it is, exactly. Sure, she’s beautiful.

Her sense of humor is spot on. She’s intelligent and classy and has a mouth that I would love to discipline with my tongue every time she breaks from sophistication and says something dirty.

She’s a conundrum, a riddle, a seemingly hot ass chick that has something underneath that I want to explore and I plan on doing just that tonight if I can figure out a way to get Poppy to get Finn out of here.

Everything inside me yells to be careful, tread lightly, because this one is a hazard.

Layla isn’t dangerous like most women with their plots and plans.

She’s a risk because she doesn’t have either.

There’s something incredibly sweet and attractive about that.

My only saving grace is that she’s Finn’s sister and the weekend will be ending soon enough.

We should be safe and enjoy this while it lasts.

A vision of her legs around my neck, the pink of her pussy bared just for me has my cock going rock hard and my brain working overtime on how to take care of that as quickly as possible.

“What?” Finn asks, making me jump.

“What, what?”

“What are you thinking about?” he laughs. “You just had the weirdest look on your face.”

“Ah, nothing.”

“No, it was something . . .”

“How are the new plays?” I ask, motioning to the playbook in hopes he’ll be easily redirected. “Anything too crazy?”

“Just variations on what we ran last year. We’ll see how Chauncey does in the other slot. Some of this shit is going to make him or break him.”

“I—” I stop talking at the sound of something banging behind us. Finn flashes me a curious look as we get to our feet and head into the greater part of the house.

Layla and Poppy are coming down the stairs, dragging their suitcases behind them. Everything I’ve heard Layla say about leaving replays in my mind and nothing I can find makes me think her plan was to leave today.

My gaze sears into her and she feels it. I can tell by the way she refuses to look my way. My jaw sets, my arms crossing over with I know is a tell-tale sign I’m irritated, but I can’t make myself uncross them either.

“What the fuck?” Finn looks at the girls. Only Poppy will look at him back. “Where are you going?”

“We’re heading out,” Poppy says too happily.

“I didn’t think you had to leave until tomorrow,” Finn bounces back, clearly as irritated as I am that they’re leaving. “We had plans, remember?”

Layla gets to the bottom of the stairs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I have some work to do and I just can’t work here,” she lies. “I’ve gotten crap done since we arrived and you know me and work ethic.”

“You seem to have been pretty productive to me,” I point out, goading her into looking my way. She doesn’t.

“Did Branch piss you off?” Finn asks. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.”

If he only knew.

“No, Finn,” she says, forcing a swallow.

The motion causes a little gold chain to move against the hollow of her throat.

“Nothing like that. I just really need to get back. There are a couple of promotion contracts on my desk and I need to unpack. I had no business coming up here this weekend. Work, then play, and Lord knows I’ve not earned the play part yet. ”

“Fine. Let us help you with your bags,” Finn says, reaching for Poppy’s floral piece when his phone rings in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at the screen. “Hey, I need to get this. It’s Machlan. Can you wait a second?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Machlan,” Finn says, disappearing into the kitchen.

The awkwardness is tangible as the three of us stand in the foyer. Poppy clears her throat and touches Layla gently on the shoulder. “I’m going to take my things outside.”

Layla nods, gripping her necklace, and watches Poppy cart her bag out the door.

“What’s going on?” I ask before the door even shuts.

“Nothing. Why?”

“I didn’t know you were planning on leaving today.”

“Plans change,” she shrugs.

Nodding, I try to stay loose. “They do. But that was quick. I had your pussy in my mouth?—”

“Branch!”

“What? It’s the truth.”

“And it’s also not public information,” she hisses, looking towards the kitchen. “Look, if you don’t mind keeping this our little secret, I’d appreciate it.”

My brows pull together. “I get you don’t want Finn to know. But why are you acting all weird about it?”

“I’m not,” she says, tucking another strand of hair out of her face. “I just, you know, am more of a private person than a lot of people and I’d rather not land on a magazine.”

She gulps, like she misspoke, and I can’t help but lift a brow. She looks away and plays it off.

“For what it’s worth, it was a fun weekend,” she says.

“I agree. The best one in a long time.”

We share a smile, one that stings my chest. Making a move to help her with her bag, I’m stopped when she stops.

“I got this, Branch.”

“Let me be a gentleman and help.”

She laughs, the sound pulling my lips up too. “You erased any gentlemanly behavior already today.”

A hundred things race to my lips, a host of things I want to say are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t. Something in her eyes stop me.

“Good luck this season, Branch,” she says quietly.

“Thanks.” I dig for pockets to stick my hands into, but my shorts don’t have any. “Maybe we’ll run into each other sometime.”

“I don’t think that would be good for either of us.” She re-grips the handle of her luggage. “Fantasy Land is over and we’re back to reality.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means . . .” She looks around the room before settling her eyes on me. “It means this weekend was great. See ya.”

I can’t even form a response to that. I stand in the doorway like a chump and watch her walk to her car. A part of me wants to chase her and ask her to stay and another part of me remembers why I don’t chase women. Even her. Finn’s footsteps are what finally breaks my haze.

“Hey,” I say. “They went on out. I’m gonna get a drink.”

Blowing by him, he tosses me a curious glance but doesn’t say a word. I pour a glass of lemonade, smiling at the remnants of the candy apple in the trashcan beside the refrigerator.

She felt so good wrapped around me. The way she teased me, taunted me, slightly mocked me and had me laughing was something I haven’t really experienced before.

Sex is usually one of a few things: a power struggle, an interview, the means to an end, a physical need.

With Layla this weekend, it was . . . different.

The door shutting rings through the open-aired house and Finn’s shoes squeak against the wood floors. He comes in, scratching his head. “That fucked up my plans for the night.”

Mine, too.

“You think Layla really had to work?” I ask.

“Hell, no. That was a lie.”

“Why would she lie?” I take a drink to keep from making any sort of face that would give Finn a clue as to why I’m so curious.

“I don’t know,” he says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “My guess is it’s something to do with Callum.”

“That motherfucker,” I grumble.

He shakes his head. “He might’ve called her or texted her or some shit and she just didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell her this, but he called me a couple of nights ago too.”

“For what?”

“Manipulation.” He twists the top off his beer and tosses it into the trash.

“Told me how worried he is about her, how she’s not taking the break-up very well and he hopes I’ll keep an eye on her.

What he means is he’s afraid she’ll move on and wants me to keep her busy so she doesn’t meet anyone else. ”

“Piece of fucking shit.”

Finn downs most of his beer in one gulp as I try to sort this out in my head. He twists the bottle between two fingers.

“Machlan said to apologize to you,” Finn says.

“For what?”

“Apparently there is a story running on Exposé today about you and some chick from Crave.”

The glass slips from my hand and hits the floor with a loud, ominous crack. “Shit,” I mutter, scooping up the large shards with my bare hands.

“He said he knows who yapped to the magazine and he’s banned them from the bar. Some new girl in town but not the one you fucked that night.”

I look at him with a seriousness I rarely do. “I didn’t fuck anyone that night.”

“Sure you didn’t,” he laughs. “Anyway, he said to tell you he’s sorry and he hopes you’ll come back in sometime. Now I’m gonna grab a shower and figure out what the hell to do tonight.”

He walks out and I stand in the center of the kitchen, broken glass in my hand, but with a newfound clarity. Dumping the pieces in the trash, I bust ass to the screened in porch to see a vacant spot next to my car.

I’m tempted to figure out her phone number, even if it means stealing Finn’s phone, and call her to tell her I didn’t fuck anyone . . . then logic sets in.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t fucking matter.