Page 120 of Falling Offsides

I’m sad. So fucking sad that it makes me angry. Fuming.

“How dare he?” I spit at the tarmac as I cross the road back to our building. “How fucking dare he play me like this?”

Why the flowers and the cameras and the notes… all the fucking words that really, I should have known were too good to be true.

Stomping up the steps where he’s waited for me so many times, I curse each one out. A sailor would cover their ears if they could hear me.

Well, good.

The elevator doors ping open when I slap the call button. My heart is beating so fast, I’m as breathless when they open up on our floor as I would have been if I had raced up the stairs.

“Breathe. Goddamit, you pathetic idiot.Breathe.”

It should not take me as long as it does to get the key in my lock and open the door. I wish I hadn’t because the smell of the daisies hits me and instead of falling apart, I grab the bouquet and stomp to his door.

Assassination is the only thing on my mind when I smash the flowers all over it. I’m still going when the door opens and pulls back in time to miss the bald stems.

“Courtney?” He stands there staring at me.

Beautiful.

Definitely scared.

A whole lot dressed.

His hair is covered in a silky wrap, leaving his wide, green eyes on full display beneath his thick, bunched eyebrows.

Barbie appears behind him in her bombshell athleisure… and I die.

I die when I see the gun in her hand.

A massage gun. Although, after my psychotic break, a real gun might be called for.

“Oh my God.”

“I should go…” She murmurs. “Ansel and Micah are waiting for me.”

“Ansel and Micah…”

“Court, this is Lizzie. Micah’s mom and Ansel’s baby momma.”

“Ex-wife. I wish people would stop calling me his baby momma. Makes it sound like we’re a thing and we are so not.” Lizzie disappears inside at the same time as Auguste steps outside followed by Samson.

“I thought… I… I… I’m so sorry. Oh my God, Auguste…”

A lopsided grin cut his face with a deep chuckle.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” he says, taking a step forward while Samson continues running around in circles around me, “you’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Fuck.”

This is mortifying. Humiliating. What kind of?—

I don’t finish the thought before I spin around and run.

TWENTY-THREE

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