Page 20 of The Girlfriend Goal

Lance's father was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like I'd imagined.

The surface was all Hollywood charm—the kind of man who probably had a personal trainer and a nutritionist. But underneath, there was something sharp, calculating.

The way he'd looked at me wasn't fatherly concern. It was assessment and judgment.

I didn't like him.

The house was worse. It felt like a museum, not a home. Everything pristine, untouchable, cold despite the California warmth. Lance walked through it like he was navigating a minefield, his shoulders tense.

"Babe!"

The voice came before the person—high, breathy, trying too hard for sexy. Shiloh appeared at the top of the dramatic staircase wearing what could generously be called a dress but was more accurately strategic fabric placement.

"Lance." She floated down the stairs, extensions swinging. "I've heard so much about you."

She air-kissed his cheek, then turned to us with the kind of smile that had definitely been practiced in a mirror. "And you brought friends? How fun. I'm Shiloh, Richard's wife."

"We know," Jared said, his theater training the only thing keeping the horror off his face.

The introductions were painful. Shiloh tried to girl-bond with me, asking about my "skincare routine" and if I'd ever considered "just a little work" on my nose. Matt nearly choked on his water. Jared developed a sudden fascination with the modern art that probably cost more than my parents' house.

"Let me show you to your rooms," Richard said, leading us upstairs. "Lance, I assumed you and Rachel would want to share a room."

"Separate rooms," I said quickly.

"Of course." His smile said he didn't believe that either. "Shiloh, darling, show the boys to the guest wing. I'll handle Lance and his friend."

The way he said 'friend' made me want to shower. Lance's jaw was so tight I worried he might crack a tooth.

My room was bigger than my entire apartment, with a view of the ocean that should’ve been breathtaking but just felt like showing off. Richard lingered in the doorway.

"So, Rachel. What are your intentions with my son?"

"Excuse me?"

"Lance is going places. NHL scouts are watching. He doesn't need..." He gestured vaguely at me. "Distractions."

"I'm not a distraction."

"Aren't you?" He stepped into the room, and every instinct screamed danger. "Pretty girl, smart enough to know hockey players make good money. I've seen it before."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know your type." His smile was all teeth. "Small town girl with big dreams. Latch onto someone successful, ride their coattails. Lance doesn't need that."

The fury that rose in me was volcanic. "Get out."

"Hey, I'm just looking out for him." He left, but his smirk said he'd accomplished what he wanted.

I sank onto the bed, hands shaking. This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed at Greenfield, eaten dining hall turkey, done anything but come here.

A knock interrupted my spiral. "Rachel, you okay?"

I opened the door to find Lance looking as exhausted as I felt.

"Your father just accused me of being a gold digger."

"Of course he did." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I should’ve warned you. He tries to drive away anyone who might actually give a shit about me." The bitterness in his voice was sharp. "Can't have anyone interfering with his meal ticket."

"You're not a meal ticket."

"Tell him that." He leaned against the doorframe. "We can leave right now. Get a hotel, fly back early, whatever you want."

The offer was tempting. But looking at him, I saw the kid who'd grown up with this manipulation, this casual cruelty. Who'd been treated as an investment rather than a son.

"No," I said. "We're staying. He doesn't get to win, and you don't have to face him alone."

Something shifted in his expression. "Why do you care?"

"Because nobody should have to deal with that alone."

We stood there, too close, the ocean breeze carrying salt and possibility through the open window. Lance's hand came up, fingertips barely grazing my cheek.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Don't thank me yet. I might murder him before dessert."

"I'll help hide the body." He smiled, and for a moment, the house didn't feel quite so cold. "Dinner's in an hour. Prepare for peak dysfunction."

He left, and I turned back to the ocean view. I could survive four days, for Lance. The realization of why that mattered so much was something I'd deal with later.