Page 43 of Puck Love

“Okay, you can shut up now,” he huffed under his breath.

I held my hands up in surrender, chuckling lightly. “Hey, I’m just surprised Mr. Perfect doesn’t want to talk about himself. That’s all.”

Jake flashed an irritated glance my way. “Yeah, well, I—you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Doing what?”

“Pushing my buttons and bugging the hell out of me.”

“Who, me?” I fluttered my eyelashes, smirking at his growl of frustration. “Nice suit, by the way.”

Jake plucked at his sleeves and licked his lips. “Stop talking.”

“You’re supposed to say thank you. That was a compliment, asshole.”

“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure you’re messing with me.” He scowled at my eye roll, adding, “And since when are you involved in a children’s charity? I read up on it and I was impressed at how much money you’ve made for underprivileged youth. I had no idea.”

Don’t ask me why that bothered me. Jake’s low opinion of me wasn’t news, but I objected to the inference that I was a self-centered prick.

I bristled in my too-snug sport coat and leaned in to whisper into his ear. “I touched your balls and squeezed your dick till you came, Milligan, but that doesn’t mean you know shit about me.”

He clenched his jaw, his eyes blazing.Whoa. He wanted to punch me. Or shove me against the nearest wall and fuck my mouth with his tongue and?—

“All right, gentlemen. Let’s get you on set. Cameras are rolling.”

We snapped to attention and walked side by side onto the sound stage, the air crackling with awareness and recognition.

Fuck me.I wanted to provoke him, aggravate him, make him want me.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The interview was short and uninspiring. TheHey, LAhosts were Shelby, an eighties runway model with golden locks, a tiny waistline, and red lips, and Stan, a soap opera actor whose year-round tan went well with his silver-streaked hair. Shelby and Stan were pretty and bubbly, and both were decent at feigning interest for two to three minutes at a stretch.

“I don’t know if I could handle close quarters with the enemy. How’d you do it?” Shelby asked, fanning her lashes like hummingbird wings.

“Whydid you do it?” Stan added with a sardonic, cheesy grin.

“Enemies is a strong word,” Jake replied. “We’re competitors, and we’re passionate about our jobs.”

“And winning,” I interjected, waggling my brows. The audience laughed and thankfully, it got easy from there.

We talked about coaching juniors in Elmwood, youth programs in general, and the importance of giving back. It could have been all polite and boring, but I made sure to give the network what they were looking for. We weren’t going to brawl on network television. Zingers would have to do.

“What was the hardest thing about camping with an adversary?”

I hummed as if carefully considering the question. “Milligan sings in his sleep.”

“I do not sing in my sleep,” Jake huffed.

“Off-key.”

Shelby snickered. “Would you do it again?”

“Only if I had earplugs,” I countered.

“How about you, Jake?”

Jake nodded. “Setting aside differences for a good cause is always worthwhile.”