Page 61 of The Americana Playbook

“Besides.” Fitz dips closer to me. “We’re always being watched. I’m sure they report everything to your mother.”

I don’t have to turn and look over my shoulder to know Agent Samuels is there.

“Touché,” I say, wrapping my arm around his waist.

* * *

Fitz’s idea of letting loose is kind of exactly what I expected and a happy surprise all in one.

The time between Honey’s death and when I was taken to Horizons is a bit blurry. There are a few reasons for that—I didn’t exactly prioritize quality sleep over things like stealing booze and weed. But there are a few memories I hang onto that stand out in that montage of my rebellious stage. One of them is the first—and only—time I convinced Fitz to cut a full day of school with me.

We drove—in my mother’s car I was forbidden from using—out of Manhasset, ending up at a rundown bowling alley halfway to Boston. We ate greasy French fries and drank cherry Cokes. Fitz was such a terrible bowler they brought out kiddie bumpers for the gutters. The innocence of the memory is terribly bittersweet. That was one of the last days Fitz and I spent together before he drifted toward football and away from our friendship.

“You improved,” I tell him after he loses the second game. “You went from god awful to moderately bad.”

Fitz holds up a hand, showing its impressive span, and wiggles his fingers. “I’m bordering on excellent. Could use a custom ball though.”

I try not to give Fitz the pleasure of eyeing his thick fingers for more than a second or two. He’s got enough going for him as it is. No need to add to his ego.

“I think you’re mistakingexcellentforcompetitive,” I tease before tipping my head toward the bathrooms.

Fitz points over his shoulder. “Meet you at the bar.”

Minutes later, I enter the partition of the bar area and immediately stop between the high top tables.

Behind me, Agent Samuels also halts. “Ma’am?”

I’ve been about one ma’am away from a total meltdown since the security detail started, but that agitation is long forgotten, or at least, temporarily displaced. Instead, I’m homing in on the table in the corner, where I make out the top of Fitz’s head covered in his backward baseball cap. The rest of him is obscured by a topknot of blonde hair.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m fine,” I announce.

I might be fine by definition. What I’m not sure of is exactly what to do as I make my way in the direction of Fitz’s table. The only option is to politely slide into my seat. That is, until I come to the table and stop behind the woman, and she makes no effort to turn even as Fitz’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder.

“Oh, I can imagine you’ve been busy,” she says with a hearty laugh. “I hear winning Super Bowls keeps you on your toes.”

I go with the more aggressive approach because I imagine—in a real relationship—I wouldn’t politely sit in my seat and wait for this girl to finish her conversation with my fiancé as I looked over the menu deciding between chicken wing spice levels. And because this entire thing doesn’t exactly sit right with me.

I step around table, and slide onto his lap, expecting Fitz to at least lean back in his chair to make it easier for me, but he’s no help. I’m sandwiched between his front and the shiny wood that now pokes into the bottom of my ribs.

“Oh, you already ordered.” I notice the two beers. I grab the one he’s clearly taken a sip of. The glass is chilly in my hand, but the rim is warm, and I wonder if my mouth found the exact place his lips left.

I sort of expect Fitz to freeze, to stumble, but his hard, warm body below mine remains relaxed and unfazed. “Yeah. Super Bowl was a busy time.“ Fitz takes my left hand. “But this pretty thing is who really keeps me on my toes.

I look up at the blonde, who, going by her name tag, is Nellie.

Her eyes only meet mine for a second before they return to my ring, seemingly magnetized. I can’t blame the poor girl for that.

“Right, the girls mentioned they saw something on the news. Um, congratulations.”

It would’ve been better for Nellie-with-the-name-tag to at least act shocked over engagement considering she was putting the move on my fiancé. “I know it’s easy to fawn over the man who’s about to bemy husband, but I’d love a menu if you’re done.” I put down the glass and extend my hand. “Oh, how rude of me. I’m Parker Montgomery.”

Fitz’s chin lands on my shoulder. “Soon to beRhodes.”

He’s better at this than me, I think to myself,I’ll give him that.

“Poor thing,” I say when Nellie-with-the-name-tag moves away. “It’s tough having your heartbroken mid-shift.”

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