Page 14 of Scout

Oh, he’s playing games now.

I flop back on the mattress and stare at the ceiling like the universe might give me an answer, or a sign, or a damn therapist.

I mean… yeah, I’ve been booked by clients who knew each other before. Drama happens. Sometimes exes, sometimes rivals, sometimes jealous friends with too much money and a bad habit of treating rent-a-dates like emotional warfare tools.

But this?

This feelsloaded.

Xavier didn’t just see me. He watched me. Cornered me. Flirted with me like it was a sport. Pressed me against a goddamn wall and growled in my ear. And then Kendrix showed up and?—

Yeah. I rememberexactlywhat I said.

I remember the way Kendrix looked at me like I wasn’t just a hired body.

I exhale through my nose and scroll down to the bottom of the email. I could decline. I’ve done it before. Cited a conflict, said I was unavailable, moved on.

But something keeps my finger hovering over the accept button.

Because part of me wants to knowwhyXavier wants me there.

Part of me wants to know if Kendrix knows.

Part of me wants to shove every ounce of heat and charm and fake-dating magic in their faces and walk away with my head high.

I close my eyes.

This isn’t personal. This is business.

It’s just another booking. Just another suit. Another fancy party with old rich men and passed hors d'oeuvres and top-shelf booze.

Except…

It’sthem.

And I’m right in the middle.

I hit Accept.

And whisper to the ceiling:

"Okay, boys. If you want a war… you picked the right slut."

6

Scout

I’ve spentthe last two hours staring at my closet like it personally betrayed me.

Because what the hell do you wear when your client is also the ex of your last client? And not just any ex—the one you were literally hired to make jealous. The same one who flirted with you like it was a full-contact sport in the middle of a gala, and then later, books you like you’re some kind of strategic revenge dish served cold and slutty.

My entire life right now feels like a goddamn reality show.

I dig through every piece of semi-formal wear I own. The gala with Kendrix was black tie… easy. A tux, pressed shirt, polished shoes. But this? Semi-formal is trickier. Less rules, more room to mess it all up. I need to look hot. Unbothered. Dangerous, but in a soft lighting and perfect skin kind of way.

Eventually, I settle on a deep sapphire button-up that hugs my pecs and makes my eyes pop. Black slacks, no tie, just a silver chain and enough chest showing to make someone uncomfortable if they stare too long.

I stare at myself in the mirror.