Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
He shakes his head, but I can see the small smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. If you won’t let me fire you, I’m loaning you out for the day.”
I blink, confused. What is he talking about? “Loaning me out? What the hell does that even mean?”
“You’re going to help Hudson,” Dane says casually like this is a perfectly normal suggestion.
“What?” I nearly choke on my own breath. “Hudson? Hudson Wilde? That’s a no. You will not be giving me to anyone. Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because he’s got an endorsement interview today, and if there’s one thing Hudson’s terrible at—besides being on time—it’s interviews.” Dane leans forward. “Plus his agent can’t be there and he needs someone to keep him on track. Which is where you come in.”
“Me?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yes.” Dane shrugs again. “You’re the best at what you do.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline because this can’t actually be real. No way would my brother do this to me, but when none comes, I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Unbelievable. You’re loaning me out like some used bowling shoe.”
“Bowling shoes don’t have your charm,” Dane says, smirking again.
I slump back in my chair before letting out an exasperated groan. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it,” Dane says, standing and grabbing his keys. “Hudson will pick you up at noon. Be nice.”
“Nice?” I scoff. “To Hudson? Have you met me?”
“Just try.” Dane gives me a pointed look. “And don’t kill each other. Please.”
By the time Hudson pulls up outside my apartment in his Mustang, I’m still pissed about Dane’s ridiculous plan.
Can I disown him?
No.
He’s all you have.
As I climb into the passenger seat, Hudson gives me one of his signature smirks.
Damn him.
Why does he have to be so good-looking? “Well, well, look who’s slumming it with the likes of me today.”
“Shut up and drive,” I mutter, slamming the door.
“Oh, this is going to be fun.” He grins wide as he shifts the car into gear.
“If by fun, you mean one torture session shy of the last circle of hell, then yeah.”
He slams on the brakes. “What is your fucking problem?”
“My fucking problem is that I hate cheaters.”
He arches a brow. “Okay?”
“Okay?” I repeat. “Okay!”
“Yeah. Okay.” He shrugs. “What does that have to do with me?”
I toss my hands up. “You’re exhibit fucking A, Hudson.”
“Excuse me?”
“That night. Of the tornado. We had sex, and the following morning, I heard you whisper to some chick that you love her.” I pivot in the cold leather seat. “You’re such an asshole.”
“What in the world are you talking abo—Oh.” He snorts. The snort turns into a laugh, which turns into a full-blown boisterous attack.
“It’s not funny.”
“It really is.”
“I don’t find cheating a laughing matter.”
“That’s great because I didn’t cheat. I was talking to my mom. She calls me every time I travel to a game to make sure I get there safely.”
I scoff. “That’s a convenient excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse,” he insists.
“Sure, it isn’t.”
I believe him slightly less than a puppy with crumbs all over his snout.
Sure, Buddy. You didn’t sneak into the cookie jar.
He shakes his head. “If I’m such a playboy, how could I have a girlfriend? Aren’t playboys notoriously commitment adverse?”
I shut up. He has a point.
I acknowledge it with a begrudging huff. “Fine.”
“That sounds suspiciously close to an apology.”
“Whatever.”
I cross my arms and glare out the window, determined to get through this day without strangling him.
It probably won’t happen, but here’s to hoping.
18
Hudson
Man, this is bad.
I shouldn’t have even come. I knew this wasn’t a good fit for me, pun intended, since I’m sitting across from the suits running Secure Condoms.
The room smells like cheap cologne and desperation. My agent is about to get a piece of my mind, but I need to get through today first.
I’ve been in plenty of awkward meetings, but this one takes the cake.
Someone says something, but I can’t focus on what they’re saying. Something about “target audiences” and “brand synergy,” but all I can think about is the woman sitting next to me.
Molly Sinclair.
She’s dressed in a tailored blazer and skirt, her hair pulled back into some sort of elegant twist. She looks like she walked straight out of a boardroom and into my personal hell. Professional, poised, and completely unimpressed by everything happening around her.
Of course, she’s annoyed to be here—loaned out like some favor to help me.
I get it.
But she’s here.
And despite the fact that she’s probably plotting my demise, I’m grateful. More than she will ever know.
Her presence makes the whole situation a little more bearable.
A little less humiliating.
Not much, but enough that I’m still sitting here.
Which is saying something, considering the fact that I’m at a condom company endorsement meeting.
It’s not that I’m not one for safe sex—of course I am—but to be the face . . . ? Yeah, no.