Worth the Scandal (Maroon Management #1)

Chapter One - Scarlett

Besides there’s bigger things to be sad about anyway, my mum for instance. A topic she won’t tolerate me dwelling on for more than a few minutes, my guess is because it makes her remember she’s gone too.

The chilly Sydney air bites at my face. For a place where summers can melt your false eyelashes off, the winters know how to hit back too.

Behind me, the balcony door slams shut—cutting off the heavy thump of bass from inside the townhouse, now it’s just me and the cold, finally.

I needed a second to contain myself after Jen’s pep talk and that last tequila shot—what number was that?

No idea. I wasn’t counting anyway. After the first few my alter ego takes her place amongst the burn of the liquor and zest of the lime.

That’s when I become little Miss carefree and little Miss sad and cautious leaves the building—usually anyway.

mum,

me and mum,

dad and mum,

and I get caught up in a memory of the way mum and I would hold hands and walk these streets too, not with the same destination as the crowd below but on the way to dance practice.

Just around the corner when we first moved here, when I was 12, or to our favourite coffee spot more recently when she’d come to visit with dad after they moved back to our little hometown.

She always ordered a cappuccino no sugars because she was “sweet enough” she’d say with that dry laugh of hers.

A wry smile tugs at my lips; it always does when I think of her that way.

Great, someone’s presence interrupts before I can delve deeper into my mum memory file, I’ve been keeping that file neatly tucked away for the few quiet moments Jen’s let me have alone recently.

I push the tears back that are welling up on the rims of my lower eyelids, blinking through the stings, before my unknown guest slides over the plastic milk crate to use as a chair behind me.

Oh god how long have they been standing there.

A husky voice cuts through the cold and my seemingly harmless city-gazing.

“You’re very close to that edge, darling.”

Darling? Ew. The only people who call me that are my grandpa and the old man behind the bar at the local pub.

My mysterious guest has a thick country accent, like real deep in the sticks, I’d know an accent like that anywhere, it’s all small town, red dirt, cowboy.

Okay that’s kind of hot. A thought that tells me she’s really here today, little Miss carefree and she’s ready to get rowdy.

I turn sharply—too sharply—and my balance wavers. A large muscular hand shoots out, but I hold up a finger, stopping him before he makes contact. Settle down Prince Charming. This princess doesn’t need saving, just another tequila shot.

“No, thank you. Hands off.” I’m never one for pleasantries with the opposite sex, and especially not given my current female rage status. I smirk and my eyes raise to meet the owner of that hand, Mr Mysterious.

He mirrors my facial expression, unimpressed no doubt, but compliant. Like a gentleman. Country boys.

“Suit yourself. But you look like you could use a hand… and about a litre of water.”

“Well if you must know, I’ve sworn off water and men—decided my taste in tequila far outweighs my taste in men so you know naturally I’m indulging more in tequila and less in men” I shoot back gesturing to Mr Mysterious when I lump him in my “men” category.

He seems pleased with my answer and my little spark of sass.

I do a—what I’m sure is very subtle—once over of the man in front of me now, taking in the authentic player polo stretching across his broad frame.

Ah. The opposing team from tonight’s game.

That explains what kind of party Jen dragged us into after our ‘quiet’ drinks at the pub.

I barely remember anything after we said goodbye to our favourite bartender, Riley—leaving behind the Jolly Frog into the cold winter night, like two women off on a secret stealth mission with a common goal, lose the ability to walk.

She said and I quote “Riley don’t ask questions, just keep the tequila shots and the French martini’s coming, you’re the only man we are being polite to tonight for the purpose you serve us the forget about our problems potion.

” Riley laughed, I know we’ve been the highlight of his bartending shifts for the past 4 years Jen, and I have been living inner City chasing our dreams.

I almost forget I am not alone as I reminisce on where the night started and my favourite pub.

Mr Mysterious—he looks important, but I don’t remember seeing him on the field.

I’d remember a body like that. He’s broad, demands space, brunette hair that drops over his forehead in messy waves, white strong smile, and a solid as fuck jawline, with just the right amount of stubble.

He looks clean and well maintained but also gives off the allure of tall, dark, and handsome, like he’s got secrets behind those lips that he darts his tongue over ever so slightly when his eyes drink me up and down too.

I’m glad I wore the mini dress and boots combo tonight and not the jeans I had originally laid out.

Jen said we were going out to look hot and make a statement even if it was only to the Jolly to watch the game—yeah, I know she lied.

Slow down tequila, we are getting ahead of ourselves with this “man” my worst personality trait honestly—if they look good and smell good, I forget they’re the reason I’m drinking in the first place, where were we? Right water!

“Well, how nice of you to offer,” I say, snatching the bottle from his hand and taking a swig—only to immediately spit it out. Vodka. Okay Mr mysterious I see you.

He chuckles, those eyes roaming over my mouth and back up to meet my gaze as he hands me the actual water bottle at his side.

I watch as he bends down to grab it, my eyes lingering a little too long.

It’s been a while since I let myself be the life of the party.

Don’t get me wrong—I love a party, love a drink as much as the next single 26-year-old.

But in today’s news I’m teetering on the edge of a breakdown.

It’s been one thing after another lately with work, and boys and men.

Surely the universe is testing me with this irritatingly handsome country boy.

And besides my mum just died. Heavy I know.

So, whatever I’m doing tonight, it’s just to drown out the gaping, aching emptiness inside me. Drown it out, indeed.

Once again, I almost forget I’m not alone—he probably thinks by now I’m either really slow or really drunk—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome puts out his hand in a formation to introduce himself, it’s rough calloused it’s the hand of a working man, and a player.

It takes me back to the callouses my dad would have after bailing hay in the off season and mum and I would sit up on the wrap around porch drinking a cold crisp coke with an esky of beers waiting for him when he was done.

No. Not tonight. Tonight is about fun. A distraction.

I vowed no boys…or men, even delicious loner men on cold balconies.

Fuck it’s got to be the tequila amping up this sexual tension, I’m usually not a sexy eyes at first sight kind of girl.

I try to think back to the last time Jason and I had sex – one of the “many things” going on at the moment in my life, my loser ex (the baby cucumber guy) who happened to be on the home team tonight—I just left him for sleeping with half the cheerleaders behind my back—3 months?

Surely not that long. I was checked out about 6 months ago though so makes sense.

Tall, dark, and handsome is about to tell me who he is as his hand waits between us lingering for a handshake—I decide to cut him off before he can introduce himself.

“I’m working on a new motto. A ‘live in the moment’ kind of thing. So, for the love of God, don’t give me your name. Don’t tell me you’re a star footy player ready to take on the NRL. Tell me one interesting thing about you, and maybe—maybe—I’ll decide if you deserve an introduction.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Confident. I loathe it.

Or do I?

“First of all, love the motto. Second, I was actually about to pull you over here to sit down, because you’re scaring the shit out of me that close to the edge. And third, fun fact, I don’t even like footy really. But you’re right—I’m very good at it.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, and damn it, it’s a good one.

His gaze flashes over me again, up, and down.

I like the way he looks at me. He doesn’t feel sorry for me or pity me, he doesn’t see the girl with the dead mum and the fuckwit ex.

He just sees the drunk, hot mess in front of him.

“Well, Mr. Hates Footy but Is Good at It, I don’t hate footy. But I guess you could say I’d be good at it though.”

I chuckle to myself because that’s not a joke he’ll get. He frowns, confused, his perfectly shaped brows drawing together.

“So, I don’t get a secret in return?” he asks.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a secret. Just something interesting.”

“Alright. Give me something interesting, then.”

The tequila makes my decision for me. I probably won’t remember this tomorrow, and he’s just some stranger at a party, right? Time to test if those come fuck me eyes can handle me. I am the architect of my own chaos—another infuriating personality trait I possess, so here I go.

“My mum died two weeks ago,” I say, voice too steady for what I’m about to confess. “And the last time we spoke, I told her she was the worst person in the world.” Ah I should’ve went with I’m out tonight because my ex is the hooker for the Sydney Sharks—and I wanted to watch you guys beat his ass.

His expression goes blank, and the fun of the moment evaporates.

I think I start crying. But I’m also laughing, because—is it really that serious?

Yes, Scarlett. It is.

I. Am. A. Mess.