by Lexi Ryan
After shoving my phone into my purse, I sling it over my shoulder and head into the bank. I’m half grateful for my irritation with Mason, if only because it helps me forget the nerves slithering in my belly like a pit of snakes.
When I push from the hot sidewalk in through the glass doors, the cool air washes over me and cools my face. God bless modern conveniences. The guy at the reception desk smiles brightly when I step inside. “Can I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Jim Brewer?” It comes out like a question, and I feel like an idiot. I don’t know why I’m even here. I already know the odds of me getting this loan are slightly worse than Satan needing a fleece coat in hell.
“He’s expecting you,” the man says. He has a vaguely familiar round baby face, an eager-to-please smile, and eyes that study me just a little too long. I wonder if he knows just by looking at me that I don’t belong here.
“Thank you.” I squeeze my purse strap in my hand and follow him into a dark-paneled hallway.
When we reach the last door at the end of the hall, he takes the knob in his hand but stops before opening the door. He turns toward me. “I don’t know if you remember me.” He clears his throat and looks over my shoulder to make sure no one has followed us. Seemingly satisfied that we’re alone, he says, “It’s been a couple of years now, but I used to see you . . .” His cheeks turn red. “A lot.”
It clicks—why he looks familiar. Awesome. I’m at the bank for the most intimidating meeting of my life, and the man leading the way is an old regular. At least this guy was respectful and kind, which I can’t say for all the patrons at the Pretty Kitty. However, if memory serves, he was a shitty tipper, and I wasn’t a dancer because I found it personally gratifying.
I force a smile. “Right, I thought I recognized you. Was it . . .” He’s not wearing a nametag. Damn. “Steve?”
“Ron,” he says.
“Oh, right. Sorry!” I couldn’t have told you this dude’s name if you’d offered me a million in cash. If this makes me the worst, so be it. “Good to see you again.” Not really.
“Yes. Really turned my day around.” His gaze drops to my tits as if he expects them to be bare instead of modestly covered by my purple shirt. I can practically see the movie reel in his mind replaying every lap dance he ever got from me, and hear his mental soundtrack cataloguing every song I ever shook my ass to. “So good to be reunited.” His hand is still on the doorknob but not turning, so I guess he wants to play catchup. Shoot me now.
I could brush him off, but since he’s standing between me and an important meeting, I don’t really want to be a bitch. Small talk it is. “How have you been?”
He lifts his gaze back to mine and gives a helpless shrug. “Okay. Finally cleaned up my act for the old lady, but I still have the same old problems.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” I have no idea what problems he’s talking about. None.
“She just shuts me out, you know?” His eyes flick down the hall again, but unfortunately, we’re still alone. He lowers his voice. “She puts out, like, maybe twice a year if I’m lucky. And then she has the nerve to get pissed about the money I spend at the Kitty.”
“Oh, that’s rough.” Turn the knob, Ron. Turn. It.
So, okay, maybe I’m the worst ever. That’s fine by me. Lonely dudes told me their problems all the time when I danced. I pretended to care because it was part of my job, but I got through those hours by turning off all emotion. That included empathy.
“Do you ever think about going back?” Ron asks. “The Kitty isn’t the same without you.” Oh, great. His gaze has returned to my tits, and the memory reel has started turning again.
“I’ve moved on. It’s just not the scene for me anymore.” I clear my throat and wave toward the door. “I don’t want to keep Mr. Brewer waiting, but it was so great to catch up.”
I’m the worst and a liar, but he’s opening the door, so all’s well that ends well.
“Stop by the front on your way out if you would,” Ron says to me before turning to the man sitting behind the polished walnut desk. “Bailey Green here for you, sir.” He flashes me a grin. “She’s an old friend, so treat her well.”
“Thanks, Ron,” Mr. Brewer says.
Three steps and the click of a door later, I’m free of my adoring fan. I approach the desk and offer my hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Mr. Brewer stands and gives my hand a firm shake before retaking his seat. “Please, make yourself at home. How do you know my assistant?”
“Oh, you know, around town.” Awkward. “Have you had the chance to look at my application?” I sink into the upholstered chair in front of his desk, and he taps his pen on the file in front of him. Before he speaks, I know his answer.
“Ms. Green,” he begins, his tone saccharine. “The good news is that the bar looks like it’s a sound business, and I believe it would be a great investment. You should be proud for seeing that for yourself and exploring the opportunity before the local investors get wind of the owners wanting to sell.”
I swallow. “The bad news?”
He grimaces, but it looks more practiced than sincere. “The bad news is that I can’t give you a loan without someone cosigning for you. The business isn’t the problem; it’s your credit score and already profound debt-to-income ratio. Either would make our underwriters take pause, but together . . .” He shakes his head.
“I’m working on that.” I force a smile I don’t feel. “I’ve developed a side business in photography, so as that picks up, I’ll have more income to start paying down my debt. I don’t plan on giving myself a raise once the bar’s mine, and I’ll continue to work there, so the bar’s cash flow will be better than it is now.” I swallow to stop myself from rambling. This was all included in my business proposal. “I just know my friends want to sell it so they can move on, and I don’t want to end up working for”—I cut myself off before saying some asshole—“just anyone.”
“I fully understand that. Have you thought about turning your photography business into a full-time job? As opposed to the bar, something like photography doesn’t take much capital to get started. You already have the equipment, and you wouldn’t need to have a studio right away. If all businesses were so cheap to start up, I’d be out of work.” He chuckles, as if the prospect is hilarious.
“I don’t think there’s enough interest for my niche, honestly.” My shoulders sag. It’s not that I don’t love the idea of making my side gig my primary source of income. The opposite, really. I found a passion for taking boudoir shots by accident, but it’s so fulfilling. Unlike stripping, this little risky business venture is something I do find personally gratifying. Women deserve to know they’re beautiful and desirable, and how rad that I can use a camera and some simple props to make them believe it. I just don’t think it’s possible to turn that into something that pays the bills.
I don’t know why I bothered coming here. Keegan’s been offering to sell me the bar since he was picked up by the Gators, and I always told him no because I knew exactly how this meeting would go. Now that he and Arrow are serious about offloading the responsibility of ownership, I had to try.
“Our background check shows that you’re married,” Mr. Brewer says, and that gets my attention.
Shit. I didn’t even think of that. Just because Mason and I haven’t acted like husband and wife doesn’t mean it’s not legally so. “Sorry. I didn’t think to include that.”
“You should have. It could benefit you, actually,” the banker says. “I didn’t run your husband’s credit because you didn’t include him on the application, but I couldn’t help but notice his name, and if that’s the Mason Dahl I think it is, we should get him on here.” He looks to me expectantly.
“No, thank you. If I buy the business, it will be under my name only. I don’t want my . . . husband involved.” My husband. Wow. That’s the first time I’ve used those words together, and it feels ridiculous, as if I’m a littl
e girl who’s pretending to be married to her celebrity crush.
“You understand that having his name on the application could get you the loan, right?”
“I’m doing this without him.” He probably thinks I’m insane. Who marries an NFL player and then takes her shitty-ass credit score to try to buy an established business along with all of its equipment and inventory?
“Okay. I just wanted to bring it up. You don’t have anyone who can cosign for you? A parent or sibling? Maybe a good friend who wants to be a silent partner?”
I shake my head. Mom might be the only one in town with credit worse than mine, and all my good friends have settled elsewhere. Whether they say it out loud or not, they’re all ready to cut ties with Blackhawk Valley and move on with their lives. Thus, the need for this miserably embarrassing meeting. “No one.”
“I wish I had better news for you.” He takes the thick manila folder off the table and offers it to me. It holds more details about my finances than anyone in my life knows. “Good luck, Ms. Green.”
I stand and take the folder. “Thank you. Sorry I wasted your time.”
He stands, and we do an awkward repeat of our introduction as he shakes my hand. “You didn’t waste my time at all. I hope you’re able to work something out.” He comes around to my side of the desk, then looks to the door and hesitates a beat before turning back to me. “I don’t mean to pry, but if your husband is in Florida, why are you hoping to buy a business in Blackhawk Valley?”
As if it’s not bad enough that this man knows the dirty details of my financial situation, now I have to tell him my other embarrassing secret. I could choose not to say anything, but he might talk to people about my marriage, and that would be a disaster. I swallow what’s left of my pride. “We aren’t going to stay married. We’re old friends. When we were in Vegas together, apparently we thought saying vows would be a blast.” I clutch the folder to my chest. “We’re getting an annulment. It just hasn’t processed yet.” Hasn’t processed is stretching the truth, but it’ll do. “If you could keep this between us, I’d appreciate it. We’ve managed to keep our elopement from the press, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Right. Yes. Of course. I won’t tell anyone.” He smirks. “Too bad you can’t really be married to an NFL player, am I right? Then you’d be able to kiss all that debt goodbye and have your bar.” He chuckles and lowers his voice to add, “Though you probably wouldn’t need to run a business if you were his wife, huh? You wouldn’t need to make investments in anything more stressful than beach houses and designer purses.”
I flinch, but Mr. Brewer misses it. Is that the best I can hope for? Some rich husband who can make my debt disappear?
He opens the door for me and smiles. “Good luck with everything. I hope you’ll come back to see me someday when I can give you better news.”
I thank him again, put my head down, and head straight for the exit.
When I open the door, the heat smacks me in the face, and I’m suddenly so jealous of all my friends and their glamourous lives. If they were faced with a day this hot, they’d go swim in their private pools or take a day at the beach. They definitely wouldn’t spend it getting rejected for a loan for a business they’re not really sure they want or talking to a desperate married guy who’s too well acquainted with their personal anatomy.
“Why don’t you just marry his hot, totally fuckable daughter? Sounds like if you did, he’d trip over himself to give you a new contract the second you’re eligible.” On that note, Hayden Owen drains the rest of his whiskey and gives me a proud smile that says, I just solved all your problems. You’re welcome. “Seriously, it’s almost unfair. Cardinal rule of football is to never fuck with the daughters—not the owner’s, not the coaches’, not the GM’s. Hands off the daughters, no matter how hot. But in your case, you get to. Fuck her, marry her, hell, give that old man some grandkids and he’ll probably hand you one hell of a signing bonus.”
I narrow my eyes at Owen. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Oh. Right.” He tips his head back and laughs. “Because you’re already married to the chick who’s hounding you for a divorce. I forgot. Damn, and I thought my love life was a mess.”
“I wish I’d never told you,” I say, and he smirks. Asshole. Aside from my current marital status, I can’t marry Lindy McCombs because I’d rather have my balls ripped off than spend my life with her. But those aren’t words a guy says out loud when said guy needs to be in the good graces of Bill McCombs. “Lindy doesn’t interest me.”
Owen cocks a brow. “I’ve met her, and I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers.”
I scratch my jaw and study him. “You are one shallow son of a bitch, know that?”
He shrugs, unoffended. “You’re the one who slept with her when you don’t even like her.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me. Not one of my finer moments.”
“Okay then, think of your career.”
“I am thinking about my career. That’s why I’m worried.” I rub the back of my neck, where tension has been gathering every day since my conversation with Bill. I signed a two-year contract, so it’s not as if I’m in danger of losing my spot this year, but if the Gators’ hands-on owner is pissed at me and won’t let the coach take me off the bench, I can kiss a new contract goodbye.
I take a deep breath. I’m being paranoid. I shouldn’t assume the worst. “I don’t want to talk about Lindy.”
“Bill does, though,” Owen says. “I overheard you two tonight, and he seemed very interested in talking about his daughter. And you. And how much she admires you. Tell me, are you looking forward to reuniting with your high school sweetheart? Because you told him you were, but my lie detector said that answer was bullshit.”
“Didn’t your mama ever teach you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?”
Owen smacks the table and laughs, but I know, beneath his ribbing, he’s starting to worry about my fate on the team. He knows as well as I do that with another capable receiver on the field, he won’t be buried in double coverage, and he might actually get the chance to score. We’re better off if we’re both playing.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “Lindy is reasonable, and when I tell her—again—that what happened in April was a mistake, she’ll understand. She’s matured too much to run to her dad and demand I be punished for leading her on.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
I don’t need to answer that question. “I wish she didn’t have this damn internship here. Our parents will spend the entire season pushing us together, and though I regularly remind them that arranged marriages aren’t a thing in twenty-first-century America, I don’t want it to mess with my career.”
My phone buzzes with a call and rattles against the tabletop. Bailey’s face appears on the screen. Her blond hair is piled into a messy knot on the top of her head, and she’s sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes. I snapped the picture while we were at the pool in Vegas, and every time I see it I smile. As always, my happiness at seeing her face is immediately followed by that sick pull in my gut that reminds me I can’t postpone the inevitable much longer. She doesn’t want me, and it’s time to let her go.
Owen grabs the phone from my hand and grunts. “This the one who’s got you all tied up in knots?”
I take it back and swipe left to decline the call. It’s been more than two months since our drunken wedding vows. I promised her we’d get our marriage annulled after Arrow and Mia’s wedding, but their wedding came and went, and I’m afraid that if I let Bailey go now, she’ll be out of my life forever.
She wants to end our marriage. It needs to be done, but it can wait. A divorce just feels so damn . . . final.
“Why don’t you just tell Bill and Lindy the truth about Bailey?”
A handful of truths about Bailey come to mind, but I know he’s referring to our marriage. “Why would I want him to know?” I’m not sure what’s more embarras
sing—that we did it to begin with or that I woke up thinking she would finally give us a chance just because we’d exchanged rings and signed some papers.
Owen taps my phone. “If Bill knew about your wife, he wouldn’t pressure you into making babies with his daughter. I mean, he might not like it at first, but it could go a long way to keep the peace. Bill can’t blame you for shirking his daughter’s affections when you’re already married.”
“I guess. In theory.” I shrug. “It’s a moot point. The only part of this marriage that interests Bailey is how we end it.”
“Didn’t you say she wants to be friends? Maybe she’d let it drag out a couple more months—just to get you through the princess daughter’s visit.”
I take a sip of my whiskey and process his words. It makes a lot of sense and it might work, but not without serious complications. For one, Bailey would have to agree to tell people about our marriage—something she’s been totally against to date—and move in with me. Two, I’d have to live with Bailey for a whole season knowing she’s not really mine, and at the end of it I’d have to let her go. That sounds like a special kind of hell I’m not keen on inviting into my life.
“It’ll work out.” Owen stands and tosses a couple of bills on the table before smacking me between the shoulder blades. “One way or another, it always does. You coming to my place for the cookout?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I promised my parents I’d drive home for the meeting with their event coordinator. They’re planning their thirtieth anniversary party.”
Owen’s lips curl into the charming smile that landed him on the cover of GQ last year. “Thirty years, no shit?”
“No shit.”
“Which puts your mom in her fifties?”
I sigh, knowing where this is going. When she was younger, Mom was a model for a high-end lingerie company, and she’s remained an icon for the brand. “Yeah.”
