Page 8 of Fashionista's Playbook

She huffed a sigh before I could move on to my next question. “Let’s be real, I’ve not missed many meals, and the New York fashion scene doesn’t have much of a market for women shaped like me.”

That was bullshit. I’d pay extra to watch a woman like her strut down a runway in next to nothing, hell in any damn thing.

“They’re wrong.” I racked her papers against the counter.

“Not wrong, fuck-all stupid.” Jace pulled down his face mask, revealing that the tats stopped at his jawline. “Who the fuck is going to know what real women wear better than a real woman? Stupid shit.”

She blinked, darted her gaze between me and Jace, and laughed. “Well, if I ever get a tattoo, I know where my money is going.”

Jace winked, picked up the mask, and continued. The gun hummed away as he filled in the artwork on Vincent’s arm.

“But my family would welcome me home with loving arms, and try to fix it for me. At some point, I have to make it myself.”

I knew that feeling. When I glanced over at Vincent, he was studying the bloody ink on his arm, ignoring the conversation entirely. I’d had to make it without him once; we both had to make it without our parents. Now, if only I could convince him that there was something out there for him.

“Man, start your own stuff. People even do that shit from jail.” Jace piped up.

“Not a bad idea. If you’ve got an eye for that sort of thing, think you could help me do something with this place?” I jerked my chin toward the extra-large, empty living room.

A predatory gleam flashed in her eye that saidlet-me-at-it. I often saw the same thing in a linebacker’s eyes right before the ball was snapped. “What’s my budget?”

I laughed outright. I had a feeling she could empty my account for style, if I let her. “Within reason, what do you think?”

She worried her bottom lip, and a needle of panic poked at my chest.

“Since I know how much you almost spent on a watch. I’m going with low end twenty-thousand, high end fifty?” She phrased it so that it was mostly a question, giving me an out.

There was a time when that amount would shock the shit out of me. Not now. My lips curled into a grin. “Make it happen.”

“Bro, for fifty grand I’ll throw up some bag chairs and lick the floor clean.” Vincent laughed from his spot at the table. Paying attention after all.

Moriah snorted, but with a ready smile. She’d have no problem dealing with my motley crew of miscreants.

I didn’t need any more to convince me and reached behind me, grabbed a set of keys, and slid them across the counter. “That’s to the white Range, it’s yours so long as you work for me. We can discuss your pay when you come in, so these two knuckleheads aren’t around.”

Vin’s sideways gaze was hard to read.

“I can start in the morning.” She took the keys and beamed again. There was no other word for it, something bright and vibrant radiated from her each time she smiled like that.

I sucked air through my teeth with a whistle. “How about tomorrow evening? I’ll be at practice until like six or seven.”

“Seven thirty?”

“Sounds good. Welcome to the team, Moriah.”

Something flickered in her eyes. A shimmer of a delicate emotion that left me with a desire to fix whatever was broken there. Not a knight in shining armor like Vin made fun of me for—but for sure a fixer. I liked to make things right.

I reached for my tennis ball and followed her out the side door to show her to the SUV.

CHAPTER FOUR

Moriah

The radio in my car usually blared eighties pop music through the open windows on warm, fall nights like tonight. But this wasn’t my car, and I’d spent the better part of the day listening to the Jersey Chasers Podcast, a female led podcast about the Outlaws.

The gossip segment was the one I found myself I paying most attention to. I researched online enough about Travis Madera to know the basics. Scandalized college days. Delinquent family members. I didn’t need to know those things. But who was he dating? Those personal details mattered even when they shouldn’t.

I ignored the jealous thread of my thoughts. The host of Jersey Chasers had some funny names for the players. Travis’ was my personal favorite: Tightest of the Tight Ends. Because, well, his ass was the nicest I’d ever seen.

---