Page 65 of Good Girl’s Guide to Love (Guide to Love #4)

linc

“Kincaid! We’re going out tonight when we get back. You in?”

My immediate thought to Maddox’s suggestion is “fuck no I don’t want to go out. My girlfriend told me last night that she wants to ride my dick because she’s never been on top, and I haven’t been able to get that out of my head all day.”

But today was a really good win. Chicago’s one of the best teams in the league, and this was a potential championship game matchup. I had a touchdown and eighty yards receiving. Plus, we’re about to be on our bye week break. So yeah, I want to go celebrate. And I want my girl with me.

“Do you mind if Ainsley comes?” I ask. “We had plans, so I don’t want to cancel.”

Plans. Ha. Sex plans, more like it.

“Hell, yeah, bring her,” Wyatt says. “And you know, see if she wants to bring Mia too. You know, for moral support.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Really? My girlfriend needs moral support?”

“We wouldn’t want her to be the only woman,” Wyatt says. “I’m just looking out for her.”

“Sure you are,” I say as I grab my phone.

Linc

Would you by any chance want to come out with me and the guys when we get back?

Ainsley Mae

As long as I don’t have to sing karaoke, I’m in.

Cross my heart. Oh, and Wyatt wants you to call Mia. For your moral support. Nothing about him wanting to see her.

Ha! I knew those two had something going on. Unfortunately, though, she’s working. I’ll text her to see if she can meet us when she gets off.

Sounds good. Meet me at the facility in about forty-five minutes? I’ll send a ride share for you so you don’t have to deal with your car all night.

You’re the best.

Nah. Just one less thing for us to worry about when I’m going to want to Irish goodbye from the bar because I have had certain thoughts on my mind since last night.

Same. Oh. And I have a few more ideas. I made a list.

You’re killing me, woman.

See you soon

“Damn, dude, you’re blinding me with that smile,” Maddox says from across the aisle of the team plane.

“Our boy is in love,” Wyatt says. “But it looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I know she’s too good for me. And I probably don’t deserve her, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“As you shouldn’t,” Maddox says. “Come to think about it, between the game today, Ainsley, and the news of the week, all things are looking up, Kincaid, if I do say so myself.”

He’s not wrong. It has been an overall good week. Highlighted by the news that the Fury traded Brad Rockwell.

Like we all knew was coming, he was finally cleared from injury.

I knew it was coming, but it still gave me anxiety knowing that Coach McAvoy would have to make a decision of who was starting and how reps were going to be divided.

I swear it was minutes after we got the news that he was cleared that he was also packing his bags and heading to Milwaukee.

A team that happens to be our next opponent after the bye week.

Kincaid versus Rockwell. Just like it was back in college. A battle of two standout tight ends.

One I’m not about to lose.

“Okay, between you and me,” Maddox says as he leans in from across the aisle. “How much did you celebrate when you got home that night? You threw a party, didn’t you? You and Ainsley popping bottles and shit?”

“I wouldn’t say a party,” I say with a smile. “Okay, fine. There was a party and Ainsley got us a cake because, according to her, when there’s an excuse to eat cake, you eat the cake.”

“I like her,” Maddox says. “Did she bake it? Scratch or box? What kind of frosting did she use?”

Wyatt and I look over to our friend with very, and I mean very, confused looks. “Why are you asking me baking details? For one, she bought it. Some bakery we found on the West End. And two, even if she would’ve, how the fuck would I know?”

“There’s a new bakery?”

This man is the best cornerback in the league, with the attention span of a gnat. “Do you want me to get the address from Ainsley? Also, do you have a secret baking hobby that we don’t know about?”

“No,” Maddox says, though the way he waves his hand at the statement has be thinking that the answer is actually yes. “I just enjoy a sweet treat.”

“Who the fuck says sweet treat?” Wyatt asks.

“Me. I do. Got a problem with it?”

“Not at all,” Wyatt says as it’s announced that we’re making our descent into Nashville. “You keep playing the way you are, and I’ll buy you sweet treats for life.”

We all laugh and sit back for the final minutes of our flight. I grab my phone, order Ainsley a ride, then begin to aimlessly scroll. I’m not big into social media, but I’m not offline either. Usually just something to kill the time.

I scroll and see some headlines from games around the league today. Apparently Brad caught his first touchdown of the season, though the headline does say it looks like he lost a step.

Not going to lie, that made me smile.

The Philadelphia Kings picked up a win. A talking head made an ass of himself, predicting a team to win by a huge margin, only for them to lose on a field goal at the end of the game.

I check out a few more headlines before stopping when I see my name flash in front of me.

And it’s not in a football-related headline.

Honeymoon over? Linc Kincaid’s woman spotted with another man

My blood spikes in temperature as I frantically click on the link.

In my heart of hearts I know that Ainsley would never cheat.

The woman once ate two grapes at the grocery store and then told the cashier about it to adjust the weight.

But that little devil on my shoulder that’s convinced myself for years that I can’t have good things happen to me needs to know what the fuck this is about.

“Hey, you okay?” Wyatt asks.

I don’t answer as I frantically bypass whatever bullshit words are on the article, scrolling until I see a picture. If the headline is going to say spotted, I’m assuming that there’s “proof.”

It only takes a few more scrolls to see it. There’s Ainsley, who’s leaned back against her car. A man is standing in front her, hands on both sides of her, caging her in. He’s leaning in like he wants to kiss her.

“Holy shit,” I hear Wyatt say. “What the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know,” I say as I enlarge the picture.

I can tell that’s Ainsley’s car. The photo is a little grainy, clearly taken from far away and zoomed in, but I can tell that it’s her silver Civic.

It looks like they’re in a garage of some sort, and I’m going to guess the hospital, because she’s in her scrubs and carrying one of her three emotional support water bottles.

But it’s not her car I’m focusing on. Or even her. I need to know who the fuck is around Ainsley, which will then tell me who I need to kill.

I move the picture to get a better view when I see it. Him.

Fucking Dipshit.

“Who’s he?” Wyatt asks. “Wait! Is that the guy from the bar? Her ex?”

“It fucking is,” I grit out. “This was taken last night.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he fucking cornered her when she was leaving work. I FaceTimed her as it was happening.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. She was shaken up for a second, but more because she told him to take a fucking hike.”

I scroll back up to see what this “writer” is spewing. According to the article—AKA the lies—Banks, Linc Kincaid’s normally shy and reserved girlfriend, is using Kincaid’s time away from Nashville to canoodle with a mystery man.

Who the fuck says canoodle?

I speed-read the rest, because it’s a lot just about us and our timeline of dating. Or at least, the one we’ve let the public know about.

“This makes no fucking sense,” I say as I turn my phone off. “Who is doing this? Why is someone in her hospital’s parking garage waiting to take a photo? This isn’t random. This feels fucking staged.”

“It does,” Wyatt agrees. “But who? Do you think her ex set it up?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” I admit. “It’s all too much of a coincidence.”

“Has Katie messaged you yet about it?”

“No, she hasn’t,” I say, double-checking my messages to make sure I didn’t miss anything. “Hopefully that means that she’s taking care of it.”

I send her a message, demanding to talk to her when I’m off the plane.

Thank God we’re about to land. I’m going fucking crazy in this seat.

I need to check on Ainsley. I’m not sure if she’s seen it yet.

If she hasn’t, I don’t want to send it via text when I’m on a plane.

She’ll panic, think she did something wrong, then worry herself to death.

She did nothing wrong. But I’m now sure more than anything someone is doing this to us.

At first I thought the photos were random. The ones back from camp, when it looked like I was throwing a punch at the arcade. The karaoke night. The random other headlines. They all were far enough apart for me to just think people were bored and needed clicks.

But this? This feels calculated. Now I’m wondering if nothing was accidental.

The plane comes to a stop and I’m off in a matter of minutes, though it feels like hours.

I bypass any need to go inside the facility and head straight to my car.

According to the ride share app, Ainsley’s a few minutes away.

But when I make it to the parking lot, I realize I have a visitor waiting for me.

“Katie. Thank God. Thanks for coming,” I say. “Are you taking care of it?”

She looks up at me, and that’s when I see the bags under her eyes. It looks like she’s been crying for a week. Also, why is she dressed in all black like she’s ready to go to a funeral? “Taking care of what?”

Of what? The woman is chronically online and has alerts set up on her phone for when my name is mentioned on any form of social media. There’s no way she doesn’t know about this. Also, why is she here, if not to talk about this?

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Katie. Please tell me you’re doing something about this.”

I hold out my phone, praying that this really isn’t the first time she’s seeing it. “Oh that. That’s nothing.”