Page 20 of How to Play the Player

“My personal life has nothing to do with Jonathan’s wedding.” His dismissive tone pushes me further.

“It has everything to do with it.” I swipe to another headline from last week. “This is the third woman you’ve been seen with this month. My phone just buzzed with another alert linking you to aSports Illustratedmodel.” I lock eyes with him. “Your reputation is becoming a liability to this event.”

“That’s not my problem. It’s yours. Isn’t managing media narratives what I’m paying you for?”

The frustration that’s been building inside me reaches a breaking point. “You want me to fix your PR nightmare? Then stop creating new ones every weekend. And for the record, your brother is the one paying me, not you.”

“I don’t need lifestyle advice from you.” His eyes narrow dangerously.

“No, what you need is self-control. I bet you can’t even go two weeks without seeing your name linked to another woman, much less fuck her brains out.”

The challenge hangs in the air between us. Nathan’s expression shifts subtly, that competitive spark I remember so well igniting in his eyes.

“Is that a challenge?” The corner of his mouth curls upward.

I hadn’t meant for my words to come off that way, but of course he’d see it as such. If this wasn’t Nathan I was talking to, I’d back down. But I can’t, and I can’t show him weakness either. “It’s a statement of fact. Your impulse control is nonexistent.”

“Two weeks?” He leans forward slightly. “That’s nothing.”

The sudden shift in his demeanor catches me off guard. This is the side of Nathan I remember—the one who never could resist a challenge.

“Then prove it,” I say, matching his intensity. “No hookups, no dates, no paparazzi shots of either. No sex.”

Nathan and I stare at each other, the tension between us prevalent. Am I seriously negotiating the terms of a potentially ridiculous bet? Yes. But knowing Nathan, he’ll take the bait without a second thought.

“Hold on; let’s specify what type of sex you mean. Are we talking in general? There are different types,” he points out.

I square my shoulders, fighting the heat that threatens to rise in my cheeks. Determined not to let him see my discomfort. No woman in their right mind would be doing this, much less be talking about sex with their ex. But of course, he’d want clarification. Nathan Knight, ever the meticulous businessman, even when discussing his sex life.

“You know exactly what I mean,” I counter, keeping my tone businesslike despite this conversation being the exact opposite. What an oxymoron this meeting is turning out to be. “Two weeks without ending up in anyone’s vagina. Simple enough for you to understand? You think you can go without screwing anything that moves and has one of those while staying out of the way of the cameras?” Now I’m just taunting.

He lifts an eyebrow, studying me with that calculating gaze. “Just making sure we’re on the same page. Wouldn’t want any…loopholes later.”

“No loopholes,” I affirm, meeting his stare head-on. “The point is proving your self-control, which we both know isn’t your strong suit.”

“Fine. I accept your terms,” Nathan says, his voice dropping lower as he leans in a bit more. “But what’s in it for me when I win?”

I clear my throat. “Ifyou win,” I correct. “Which I doubt you even could.”

“You seem pretty confident for someone who’s blushing up a storm.”

Heat creeps up my neck, betraying me. “You’re so?—”

“Charming? Attractive?” he finishes, his voice dropping lower. “I recognize what this is, Quinn. Your body remembers what your mind wants to forget.”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “Careful there. Your ego is showing.”

He chuckles. “Then let’s make this interesting.” He leans back, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “I bet you can’t resist me for all that time.”

I scoff. “Easy. You’re insufferable.”

“Is it? Then I’m sure you’ll have nothing to worry about.” His sarcastic tone isn’t lost on me. His confidence, meanwhile, infuriates me. “Unless you’re afraid you’ll lose.”

The rational part of my brain is screaming to shut this down, but something else—pride, maybe, or the need to prove him wrong—pushes me forward.

“What are the stakes?”

He considers for a moment. “If I break, I’ll publicly acknowledge I had no concrete evidence you leaked anything, and I’ll stay celibate until after the wedding.”

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