Page 15 of Fake Shot

“Because when I called her to see if she had any photos, she sent me the original listing with the sales price. I work with real estate agents all the time; I know what their commission is.”

Jules was a champ when we arrived. As soon as she saw the condition of the place, she called my real estate agent herself, asking for the original listing with all the written details about the condo, including all the pictures. She had it in her inbox before the insurance adjuster even got here.

“Hmm. Seems like you’re more interested in this property than you’re letting on. Yousureyou don’t want this project?” I ask, even though I know she’s going to turn me down.

“Working for friends is never a good idea.”

“You remodeled Lauren’s entire house, and she’s one of your best friends.”

She crosses her arms under her chest, which she does alot—almost like she’s giving herself a little supportive hug. But standing over her shoulder, I can’t help but notice the way it pushes her cleavage up into the scoop neckline of the clean T-shirt she changed into when she got home from work. She turns her head back toward the windows and stares out at the view. “Lauren’s renovation was different.”

“How so?”

“Because first, we weren’t friends when I started that project—it’s how I met her. And second, Jameson called in the only favor that would convince me to take on that job.”

“What favor could you have owed him that equated to remodeling an entire house?”

Her shoulders stiffen, and her neck elongates, making her seem even taller than she is. “He said the one word that would get me to do anything for him ...” She stops speaking, and I wait her out, wondering if she’s going to admit whatever it is to me. “... Vegas.”

“Shit, Jules,” I mutter, dropping my head so low it almost touches her shoulder. I want to wrap her in my arms as I repeat what I told her that morning in Vegas. But I don’t touch her. I can’t. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voice is tight. “Then whose was it?”

I’m about to say “Mine” to admit to the guilt I’ve been carrying around for years, but my damn phone rings, the sound piercing the silence. Jules jumps, and I step back, cursing as I glance down at the screen in my hand and wishing I’d turned off the ringer after the inspector called to tell me he was here.

Or maybe I just need to block this number?

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I have to answer this.” I don’t want to talk to my brother, but I usually end up answering the phonein case he’s calling to tell me something’s wrong with my parents. After not answering last night, I can’t let the call go again.

“No problem. I’ll just ... check out the view from out there.”

“Hey.” My voice is clipped while watching her walk through the open glass doors and across the large balcony. I turn and walk farther into my condo, hoping the noise of the fans still circulating air inside will drown out my conversation.

“So are you coming, or not?”

My nostrils flare and my chest expands as I take a deep breath, standing there leaning against the door frame, wondering why my brother just can’t let this damn trip go.

“I told you,” I say, my voice flat, “I don’t know.”

“It’s two weeks away. If you want to come, I need to reserve one of the rooms at the bed-and-breakfast for you.

“I don’t know. The league makes the schedule; I have no control over it.”

“Well, it looks like even if you win your first series, you’d have that weekend off before advancing to the next round.”

I watch Jules as she stares out at the horizon, and I think about what Jameson said about her being an incredibly private person. I wonder if I’m making her uncomfortable right now—having this conversation with my brother while she’s trying not to listen. I guess I could have shut the doors behind her, but that felt even more rude. “Even if we’re not playing that weekend, it doesn’t mean I can come up.”

“Just decide, Mathieu. You don’t have to be so wishy-washy all the time.”

“Listen, you’re asking me to make a decision aboutsomething that I can’t make a decision about yet. I don’t know what our practice or travel schedule will be. It will depend on whether we win the series early, or go all seven games. So when I know, I’ll let you know.”

This conversation is already taking longer than I’d planned on allowing.

“It’s been fifteen years?—”

“Yeah,” I cut him off, my voice heavy on the sarcasm, “you don’t need to keep reminding me. For the last time—if I can come up, I will. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hang up the phone, then close my eyes and take a deep, slow breath—the kind my Zenned-out teammate Zach is always encouraging me to use as a calming mechanism. When I open my eyes, Jules is leaning with her back against the railing, her cool blue eyes assessing me in a way that makes me wonder what she sees.

---