Chapter 17
17
Molly
“You’re firing me again?” I cross my arms and glare at Dane from across his kitchen table.
He shrugs, leaning back in his chair with that same infuriating calm he always uses to deliver bad news. “You need to find something for yourself, Moll. You can’t keep running your life around me.”
I roll my eyes, clenching my coffee mug tighter. “And you think firing me is the solution? I have a secret for you; it’s not. You’ve tried this before, and it didn’t stick.”
“Yeah, because you refused to stay fired.” He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my resistance. “This time, I mean it. You’re out.”
“Oh, please.” I scoff, setting my mug down with a loud clank. “What are you going to do without me? Forget your schedule? Wear mismatched socks to practice? You wouldn’t survive a week.”
“That’s what Mason’s for,” Dane counters, smirking.
“Mason can’t even remember what day it is, let alone manage your life,” I fire back. For a second, he’s silent. He knows I’m right.
He might want me gone, not for any other reason but his desire to have me live my own life, but without me, he’s a mess. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
Running his life is easier than having to deal with my own.
Dane sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“No, I’m indispensable,” I correct, narrowing my eyes. “And you know it.”
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.