Page 15 of Scout

Okay, yeah. We’re doing this.

I work mousse into my hair, give it that tousled, finger-combed chaos that screams, I’m reckless in the sheets, but I file my taxes early. It’s a vibe. It’s my vibe.

And the thing is—I don’t feel nervous. Not really. Just this low, simmering hum under my skin. I’m walking into a game I didn’t totally agree to play.

I pack lightly—lip balm, breath mints, backup cologne, cash. My ID card, though I doubt anyone will ask for it. At this rate, the whole hospital is going to know what I do.

Tonight, I’m not just a date.

I’m a power move. I’m the opening shot in a war neither of them wants to admit they’re still fighting.

And maybe I’m just the hired help. A paycheck. A name on a booking form.

But pawns can become queens.

I’ve played this role before—smiled, flirted, touched with intention, lied with my eyes, and made it look like the truth.

But this time? This time feels different. Because I know who’s watching.

Tonight, I’m unforgettable.

Especially to Xavier.

Xavier

I pour a whiskey I don’t need and sit down on the edge of the bed.

The glass sweats against my palm. My shirt’s unbuttoned, tie still hanging around my neck like a noose I haven’t decided to tighten yet.

I don’t know how long I sit there—long enough for the ice to start melting—just me, alone in the middle of my room, thinking about a blond boy with piercing eyes and a smart mouth.

This was supposed to be my move. My checkmate. But all I can think about is how it’s probably going to blow up in my face.

Scout.

I remember the way he looked at the gala—cocky little smirk, eyes bright as if he already knew he was winning. The way he spoke, every word laced with hidden meaning. The way he let Kendrix touch him, possessive and sure, as though he belonged to him.

That did something to me. Broke something loose. So I booked him. Out of spite. Out of curiosity. Maybe a little out of desperation.

The Foxy’s reminder buzzes on my phone—a warning shot.

Your date is tonight. Scout will meet you at 918 West Bend Dr.

I toss the phone on the bed like it’s radioactive.

This isn’t about Kendrix.

Okay… yeah. Maybe it is. A little. Maybe I hated the way he looked at Scout—likehe was something wild and new. Because once, he looked at me that way.

I stand up and finish dressing. Button the shirt. Roll the sleeves. Watching the fabric hug the tension in my arms. The mirror shows a man pretending he has it together. A doctor. A leader. A guy with sharp edges and controlled chaos.

Tonight, I’m going to pretend none of this touches me. That I don’t care. That Scout’s just another contract and Kendrix is just another ex.

But we all know that’s bullshit.

I adjust my navy tie. Grab my wallet and my keys, and walk out the door, already burning from the inside out.

I pullup in my Mustang, engine purring—ready to pick a fight. Fitting, considering the storm brewing in my chest. Scout walks out of the building with the strut of someone who knows exactly how good he looks. That smug little smirk on his lips? Yeah, I already hate it.