Page 12 of Scout

He sees me instantly, pauses mid-step. His eyes narrow just slightly before that calm, surgeon-cool mask slides back over his face.

“Xavier,” he says, like we didn’t just fuck around for a year and share bedsheets.

“Kendrix.” I match his tone. Cool. Controlled. Barely. I keep pace with him.

We stare at each other for a second. Long enough for a nurse to pause awkwardly between us, then walk faster. I cross my arms, my heart pounding in my ears.

“So…” I start.

He raises a brow. “You got something to say?”

“Did you fuck him?”

His lips twitch, and not in a funny way. More like I just confirmed his suspicion that I’d blow up eventually.

“You really asking that?” he says.

I shrug, even though my fists are damn near shaking. “You paraded him into the gala like he was yours. Looked pretty cozy.”

He doesn’t answer.

Which means yes. He definitely did.

“Right,” I snap, stepping back. “That’s all I needed to know.”

“Xavier—”

“Save it,” I growl and walk off before he can say whatever version of it didn’t mean anything that he has locked and loaded.

Because I already know. I already fucking know.

He paid for it. It was a performance. Kendrix doesn’t just move on in a few weeks… especially not fromme.But watching him with that little blond bastard? Watching them flirt andtouchlike that? It was like someone shoved a knife in my chest sideways.

And twisted.

I slide into my car, slam the door shut, and peel out of the parking lot like hell’s on my tail.

Ishouldn’tcare. Idon’tcare. Except I do. Isofucking do.

By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m vibrating with rage. I toss my bag at the wall, yank off my scrub top, and kick over the dining chair like it insulted me personally. My cat bolts into the hallway. Smart girl.

“Fuck!” I yell at no one.

I pace the living room. Fists clenching. Heart racing. I want to break something, punch a wall, scream until my throat rips open.

Instead, I sit down at the table, pull out my laptop, and open the one site I swore I wouldn’t touch again.

Foxy’s.

The homepage loads with a seductive logo and a tagline about companionship for events. Whatever. I click through fast, skipping past the generic smiling faces and polished profiles until I find the one I know I’m looking for.

There he is.

Scout.

Golden hair. Smug mouth. Eyes that probably sparkle when he’s about to say something that’ll ruin your whole day in the best way.

A little flirt. A little tease. A boy who maybe knows what my ex’s cock feels like.