Page 19 of Playboy Pitcher

I feel my lips pull into a smile. Not because anything he said is remotely amusing, but because for all his pomp and circumstance, he’s pathetically transparent. Putting a fancy dress on a whore doesn’t make her a lady any more than soaking an insult in fake concern makes it a compliment.

I pull my hand away. “You retired years ago.”

He shrugs. “We ran into each other in Atlanta. Not a good night for your boys, by the way. We reconnected over a few beers, and one thing led to another.”

“I’ll bet it did.” I let out a sardonic laugh. “That seems to happen to you a lot. You should save yourself some time and tattoo it on your forehead.”

As if we don’t have a conference room full of people watching us, he leans closer and traces the vine tattoo on the back of my hand. “When we play the Yankees, I’ll be sure to look you up.”

I smack his finger away. “Eat shit.”

Although he does have an abnormally large forehead. A perfect canvas for ink.Lying ass-faced pig fuckerhas a nice ring to it.

Jack Sheep clears his throat while pushing his falling glasses back on his nose. “Can we please get back to the matter at hand?”

I need to pull my shit together. I’ve kept in complete control for ten years, and in the last twenty-four hours, two cocky pitchers have me twisted into so many knots, I’m staring up at my own ass.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can you hurry it up? I have a—”

“A headache?” he finishes in that condescending voice. “You still get those, huh?”

I refuse to dignify that with a response. “Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter. Then I’ll go back to the hotel and wash this whole fucktastrophe of a trip away.

“Luckily, Roger made the process quite simple.” Pulling a piece of paper from his folder, Jack slides it toward me. “He already had a transfer of ownership drawn up. You’ll see at the top, Mr. Prescott has offered more than a generous buyout.”

Huffing out a breath, I glance down only to have my eyes almost fall out of my head.Generous?Fifty bucks tucked inside a birthday card isgenerous. The number on this page is insane. “Eight hundred million dollars?”

Drake taps the paper. “Eight hundred andtwomillion, to be exact.”

I’m speechless. My mouth is open, but no words are coming out. This isnothow this was supposed to go. This can’t be happening. But more than that, I have no ideahowthis is happening.

Something doesn’t make sense.

“You have a room full of witnesses and notaries at your disposal, Willow.” Ned’s nasally voice slices through all the static, and I turn toward it, blinking his face into focus. “All you have to do is sign and date at the bottom, and you get what you want.”

“Huh?”

“Back to New York and the job you already have,” he clarifies, throwing my words back in my face.

Jack pushes his pen toward me, and I pick it up. Holding it in a death grip, I stare at it. It’s just a pen. A piece of plastic filled with ink. So why does it feel like the moment I put it to that paper, my blood will flow out of it?

Swallowing the brick lodged in my throat, I glance up, not sure what I’m searching for. A sign? Divine intervention? What I get is Drake smiling at me like the cat who ate the canary. My hand tightens around the pen so hard it cracks.

Humility was never one of Drake’s strengths, so instead of wiping that smug smirk off his face, he tries to hide it by crooking his index finger and pressing it against his lips.

All while ensuring his wrist is on full display.

Ugh.For a guy who grew up on a farm in Iowa, he’s going out of his way to make sure everyone notices the shiny buttons on his jacket sleeve. Like anyone gives a shit that…

My eyes dart back at the contract. Eight hundred and two million. The knots in my stomach tighten as I sneak a look back at Drake out of the corner of my eye. More specifically, at the gold and diamond-encrusted buttons on his jacket sleeve.

“Your suit,” I say, my eyes still on his wrist.

Drake glances down the length of his black suit jacket with pride. “You like it?”

“It’s an Alexander Amosu Vanquis.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Well, what do you know. I suppose even thrift store style can’t hide Fifth Avenue taste.”