Chapter 3
Juliet
Six Years Ago
The Delta Tau Delta house is alive tonight.
Music blasts from the open windows, Cardi B rattling the glass, the bass thumping so hard I feel it in my chest before I even step through the door.
The lawn is a mess of students and lights strung across the trees.
Someone has set up a shot luge on the cracked flagstones.
Vodka and Jager stream down the slick ice chute into open mouths.
Everyone’s screaming, already drunk, already reckless.
Patrick told me to meet him here for our fifth date. He’s a brother here, preferring to live in the house as opposed to living with a bunch of hockey players. I’ve been to the hockey house and found it so gross that I’m actually glad Patrick lives here, in this haven for douchebags.
I tug my cardigan tighter and make my way up the steps, trying to look like I belong, like I’ve done this a thousand times before. My dress feels too short under the floodlights, my heels wobble on the stone, and my heart is already racing.
Inside, it’s suffocating. The air is scorching, heavy with sweat, beer, and perfume. People crammed the hallway wall to wall, pressing together and shouting over the music. Someone shoves a red cup at me, beer sloshing onto my hand. I smile politely and keep moving, scanning the crowd for Patrick.
Bodies jam into the kitchen, making me work to get past them. Bottles line the counter, cups pile in the sink, and a girl in glitter kisses a guy right in front of me. I duck out quickly, cheeks burning, pretending I wasn’t watching.
The living room is worse. A beer pong game has the packed room screaming. A couch sags under six bodies, everyone halfway in someone else’s lap. I stand on my toes, looking for Patrick, but he isn’t here.
I push through the crush of people to the back door. The music dulls a little when I step outside. Cool night air washes over me, smoke from the fire pit stinging my nose. I suck in a breath and shiver. Maybe I shouldn’t be here.
I’m turning away to head back the way I came, to leave this stupid college party, when I see him.
Hunter Huxley.
He’s impossible to miss. He stands near the fence, a red cup dangling from his hand, broad shoulders blocking the light behind him. Even when he’s doing nothing, he takes up all the space. He has a sharp, dangerous energy that makes people turn to look at him without knowing why.
My pulse stutters. He’s too much. Too tall, too intense, too sharp. A walking red flag. Everyone knows it. He sneers at professors, fights on the ice, and makes every girl with sense steer clear. But my eyes still find him. They always do.
He isn’t alone. Jared Garrison, the overeager reporter from the school paper, is beside him. Jared doesn’t belong here, not really. He clings to athletes like his life depends on it, begging for quotes, desperate to be seen.
I smooth my hair. Maybe I’ll say hi. Maybe tonight I’ll finally act normal instead of turning red whenever Hunter looks at me.
Then Jared laughs. Hunter’s voice carries through the yard.
“Juliet Monroe? She’s not all that great. She’s not even hot. Just a control freak with no sex appeal. She probably has a spreadsheet to track her own virginity.”
The words slam into me.
For a second I can’t breathe. Maybe I misheard. Maybe the music twisted the sound. But Jared laughs again. Hunter’s mouth twists into a serious expression that makes it clear he meant it.
“I don’t know. She’s definitely charming, if you know what I mean.” Jared holds his hands in front of his chest, miming big breasts. “I’d like to see some more of her qualifications.”
Hunter shoots him an icy look. “She’s too much of a goody two shoes for that. I’d focus on somebody who’s worth defrosting.”
Jared laughs, slapping Hunter’s shoulder. Hunter gives him an irritated glance. “Good one. Maybe you can give me a list, huh?”
Hunter grunts, sipping his drink. He opens his mouth to say something else, but at that moment, a group of drunk girls bursts out of the frat’s back door, laughing and singing along to a Halsey song that’s piped through the house’s speakers. Hunter turns to look at them and misses me entirely.
Not that I really needed him to see me. I’m about three seconds away from sobbing.
My face burns. My throat tightens. Tears sting my eyes, hot and humiliating. I knew Hunter was mean. Everyone knew that. But I didn’t know he’d ever waste that meanness on me. I thought… stupidly… I thought maybe he’d noticed me.
I step back, my shoes scraping the stone.
More people pour out of the back door, the party swells, devouring the quiet in the backyard.
Neither of them look my way. They don’t even notice I’m there.
My chest aches as I turn, pushing through the crowd at the edge of the yard.
I shove past a couple making out against the wall, stumble against the gate, and spill out onto the side street.
That’s when I run straight into Patrick.
He looks polished as always, his shirt crisp, hair styled, smile practiced. He steadies me with one hand on my arm, grinning. “There you are. I thought you stood me up.”
Hunter’s words echo in my head, cruel and sharp. Control freak. No sex appeal. Spreadsheet virgin. My stomach twists. I blink fast and force a smile. “I was looking for you.”
Patrick slides his hand down my arm until our fingers link. “Want to get out of here? Somewhere quieter?”
I hesitate only a second before nodding. Anything to get away. Anything to silence Hunter’s voice replaying in my skull. I squeeze Patrick’s hand and tug him down the sidewalk. The October air is chilly, but my skin burns hotter with every step.
Patrick laughs, smug and careless. “Guess you’re finally ready to fuck me, huh?”
The last fragile thread inside me snaps. I glare at him, my voice sharp. “Shut up, Patrick.”
He laughs again, but I don’t let go. I hold tighter because right now, I’d rather deal with Patrick’s arrogance than spend another second in that backyard, listening to Hunter Huxley tear me apart.
And under all the shame and anger, something settles deep in my chest. A promise. If Hunter thinks I’m nothing more than a stuck-up prude with a spreadsheet, then I’ll prove him wrong.
* * *
Present Day
I walk into my apartment ready to scream into a pillow for twenty minutes. It’s been that kind of day at Foxies, the hellhole that keeps on giving.
Foxies birthdays mean me dancing on the bar. Today? Six rounds. Add the usual: finger snaps, guys tugging my shorts asking if they come in a smaller size…
Yeah, I’m absolutely done with bullshit today. I’ve had my fill. But I come home to find Jessa practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on her toes like she’s about to burst.
“Oh my God, Juliet, you won’t believe this,” she says before I even get my Foxies sweatshirt off. “I talked to Ivy, the team’s crisis communications director, and she wants to meet with you about the fake fiancée plan.”
I freeze with one arm still in my sleeve. “Wait. What plan?”
Jessa’s excitement falters slightly, and she suddenly looks sheepish. “The one you came up with last night? About Hunter needing a fake fiancée to fix his image? I told Ivy that you would do it. I thought you were serious.”
The blazer hits the floor. “I hate Hunter Huxley. I told you that. When did I volunteer to fake an engagement to him?”
“Well, you didn’t exactly, but you had the plan worked out, and you seemed so passionate about it. I thought...” Jessa’s voice gets smaller with each word. “Oh God. I already pitched the idea. The team loved it. If you back out now, I’m going to look like a complete idiot.”
“The fuck?” I stare at her as if she’s speaking Mandarin all of a sudden. “Jessa!! You didn’t just throw me under the bus. You backed the damn thing over my corpse!”
Of course they want me for this.
Not because I’m qualified. Not because I’m brilliant. But because I look good next to a six-foot-six tantrum.
“I know! I’m sorry! But think about it as doing the team a favor.
A favor that might help you land your next actual job.
You want to work in PR, right? Maybe someone on the team will owe you one.
Maybe they’ll throw you a client referral.
Who knows what could come of this? Besides, they would pay you very well. ”
My brain is spinning. On the one hand, I want to strangle my roommate for volunteering me for this insanity without asking.
She’s not wrong about the opportunity. I desperately want to show the team that I’m competent and PR-savvy.
This could be my chance to prove myself in the industry I’ve been trying to break into.
And if it paid well enough? Maybe I could finally ditch the crop top and launch my damn PR company for real.
But fake dating Hunter Huxley? The man who ruined my college internship with one thoughtless quote? The walking anger management case who punched a fan last night?
“Please,” Jessa begs. “Just go to the meeting. You can explain the misunderstanding and fix this whole thing. You’re amazing at talking your way out of situations.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “When’s the meeting?”
Jessa cringes. “Right now.”
“Right now?” My voice comes out as a shriek. “Jessa!”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! But you have to go. Please? I talked about your plan like it was going to happen… and now, it might be.”
“Girrrrrrl.” I glare at her. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, you know that?”
Jessa gives me a guilty grin. “Thank you, Juliet. You’re saving my ass.”
I have exactly twenty minutes to get dressed and drive to the arena.
I race to my closet and pull out my usual conservative armor.
Black blazer, black slacks, white blouse buttoned to my throat.
I make sure that there’s not even a hint of sexuality; this is the outfit that I want the team managers to meet me in.
I want my qualifications to speak for themselves and have absolutely nothing to do with my tits or my ass.