Page 30 of Playboy Pitcher

Dumbass.

Just as I look up, I catch a flash of red, and my heart stops. “Shit!” Slamming on the brake, I grunt as I slingshot myself into the steering wheel, somehow managing to stop the car from barreling through a red light and into oncoming traffic

“You okay there, Dale Earnhardt?”

I sit there like a statue, choking on adrenaline or bile or I don’t know, maybe my fucking spleen. All I know is I’m about to throw up something that could be sold for a hefty profit on the black market.

“Willow?” Emma’s voice shoots up a few panic-laced octaves.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just…” As the light changes, I hit the gas, grasping at the scattered straws of my control. Blowing out a breath, I roll my neck and make the turn off A1A toward my hotel. “Forget it. I don’t have the energy for all this telepsychology, Em. I need to focus on the road, or I’m going to end up in a ditch.”

“Fine,” she says, drawing out the word. “If you’re not going dish about LaCroix, then tell me what happened at the sit-down. Did you meet the buyer?”

That’s putting it mildly. “Yeah.”

“Who is it?”

Something tightens in my gut. “Drake Prescott.” God, just saying his name makes me want to drive straight into a brick wall.

And pretend it’s his face.

There’s an awkward silence, and then, “Wait. Isn’t that the guy who—?”

“Yes, it is, and no, I don’t want to rehash all the details with you.”

“Fine. Jesus, pull the thong out of your crack, Karen,” she mumbles around what sounds like a mouth full of chips. “Just sell to someone else, then.”

If only.

“I can’t,” I bite out between clenched teeth. “My father won’t let me.”

“Will?” I roll my eyes at the condescending way she says my name. “Have you been drinking? Your father’s dead.”

“Don’t patronize me, you little shit.” I scrub the back of my hand across my forehead, letting a few seconds and five palm trees pass before answering. “Unfortunately, I’m very sober and very serious.”

Swallowing whatever ego I have left, I explain about the addendum to the will and the buyer’s clause. The story becomes diluted with four-letter words and insults as I get to the part where Drake crashed the party and threw out ultimatums as shitty as his pitches.

Emma listens quietly until I finish my rant. “Okay, now what?”

“I have no freaking clue,” I yell, throwing both hands in the air, quickly gripping the wheel when Buford veers into oncoming traffic. “I reacted on instinct, and now…”Now I’m screwed. “The only way out of this mess is to find a way around the clause and sell the team. But my hands are tied.”

“Too bad your life isn’t a Netflix movie.”

“What?”

“It’s this show I’m watching,” she explains. “There are these two old-fashioned rich, tycoon, Wall Street-like families. One was the head of some banking empire and the other was in investments, I think? I can’t remember. Anyway, the two fathers wanted their children to get married. Like merging-of-empires, arranged-marriage type shit.”

“Language,” I warn, but I might as well roll down the window and talk to the damn palm trees.

“They refused because they didn’t even know each other and,hello, this is the twenty-first century. But the girl’s dad was a real assho…” Stopping, she clears her throat. “He was a real butthole.” I sneer as she continues her story. “He had cancer and knew he was dying, so he thought he’d force their hands. He put a stipulation in his will that his daughter could only get her hands on her trust fund if she married that other dude’s son.”

“Does this have a point?”

“Calm your tits, I’m getting to it,” she huffs. “Anyway, the daughter got the last laugh. After her father died, she married the other guy’s son, got her money, then got a big, fat divorce. Those fuckers—I mean friends—split the inheritance and then married the people they were really in love with. Smart, huh?”

Yeah. In a perfect world.“Unfortunately, I don’t have anyone beating down my door with a ring.”

“What about Big Ben LaCroix?” she says, and I cringe at the smirk in her voice. “Seems you two hit it off.”