Page 64 of Hot Shot

“I will say it seems like in all of the rumors, you’re a lying liar who didn’t tell me we were still married, so at least they got one thing right.”

“Anybody think we’re pretending?”

A singleha.“If they saw you just kiss me, they won’t anymore. You’re going to pretend impregnate me if we keep pretend kissing like that. Good thing I’ve been on birth control since I was fifteen. Also your fault.”

The way my cock responds is obscene.

“They were polite enough at least not to ask too many questions about Cricket who“—her tone shifts, hardening with anger and frustration—“by the way, is being bullied.”

Cold fury snakes down my spine. “By who? How the hell does anybody know anything about her anyway?”

“The whole town has been talking about us, and you know it’s mostly been lies. I’m sure someone overheard their parents gossiping. And it was a girl from school. She tripped Cricket and cracked a joke about how she couldn’t go cry to her mama because her mama was dead.”

I stop so fast, she jerks under my arm from the momentum. “Are you fucking serious?”

She nods.

I’m seething. “Who would say that? Why would anybody fucking say that?”

Cass shrugs, her face sad and frustrated. “She’s only six. They don’t understand what their words mean to someone else at that age, not really.”

“Did you talk to the kid? Did you talk to her mother?”

She shakes her head and lays her hand on my chest. “Cricket made me promise I wouldn’t, but I told her next time I would. I’ll keep an eye on it in school and talk to the girl’s teacher.”

My eyes are locked on Cricket as she runs laps around the jungle gym with a little boy, laughing. My jaw clicks when I clench it.

“She’s been through too much to have to deal with this bullshit.”

Cass sighs and follows my gaze, watching Cricket along with me. “We should probably put her in therapy.”

When she leans in, I pull her a little closer. “Good idea.”

I feel her notice, stiffening. With a pat on the chest, she steps away. “I’ll find her a therapist.”

I grab her hand before she’s out of reach. “Thank you,” I say quietly, swallowing hard.

“You’re welcome.” She squeezes my hand and tows me to the edge of the playground where a girl with curly blonde hair and glasses is reading.

No, she’s a woman, I realize, sitting on the bench with a book in her lap, her glasses constantly sliding down her nose as she reads. She doesn’t seem to notice us as we approach.

“Hey, Molly,” Cass says.

Molly jumps, her freckled cheeks flushing. “Oh, hey!” The words are thick with a lilting, Appalachian twang. She stands, pushing her glasses up again with a smile, smoothing her baggy, brown checkered knee-length dress with her free hand. Her yellow cardigan looks two sizes too big for her, but somehow she pulls it off.

“Thanks for watching her for a minute,” Cass says.

Molly waves a hand. “Oh, it’s no trouble. She’s such a cute little nugget. Hey, you must be Wilder,” she says, offering her hand for a shake.

“Good to meet you.” When I take her hand, I realize she’s tiny, her bones so delicate I ease back on my handshake for fear I’ll hurt her. She doesn’t extend the same courtesy—her grip is firm and solid and a little bit defiant, like she knew I’d underestimate her and wanted to make sure we were on the same page.

“You too. Glad I could come watch you play tonight. It’s my first game!” she says sweetly.

My brow quirks. “Ever?”

She nods, her finger on the bridge of her glasses again. Her face is bright. “My parents aren’t the athletic type. More the encyclopedic type. Never had a reason to go before Cass invited me.”

Cass puts her hands up. “Just doing my duty.”

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