Page 4 of Scout
Scout tilts his head. “Why the jealousy route?”
“Because I’m in love with him,” I admit, the words catching slightly in my throat. “And he won’t let me in. I’ve tried everything—being patient, being available, being what he needed. But it’s always surface-level. I want more. Ideservemore.”
He nods slowly, the expression on his face unreadable but focused. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll throw in a few longing looks, brush your arm when I talk, hit you with a ‘he just gets me’ line or two.”
I glance at him sideways. “You’re really good at this.”
He smirks. “It’s what I do.”
I pull up to the hotel entrance, and before the car's even in park, a valet steps in like we’re royalty. Scout gets out first, and I shift into park, hand the keys to the valet as I exit, barely sparing him a glance as I head toward Scout.
Photographers are already stationed along the red carpet. I slip my hand into his and step up beside him. Flashbulbs go off in rapid fire, and Scout lifts our joined hands like we’ve done this a hundred times. We smile. Pose. And then glide into the hotel.
The ballroom is stunning. Soft golden lights spill from crystal chandeliers. Tables are wrapped in ivory linens and topped with towering white orchids and gold-rimmed champagne flutes. Everything glows. There’s a live string quartet in the corner,and a gentle murmur of designer shoes, whispers, and expensive cologne fills the air.
“I’m getting a Rosé, do you want one?” I ask him.
“I’ll take a dirty martini, shaken, not stirred. Two olives.”
Of course he’s a martini guy.
I hand it over and we find our table. Guests are still trickling in. I shake hands with hospital board members, a few high-dollar donors. Scout holds his own: laughing at jokes, charming spouses, brushing my arm just often enough to keep the illusion alive. He’s a professional in every sense of the word.
As the host makes the call for dinner, I see him.
Xavier.
Storming across the room, jaw tight, nostrils flared. He drops into a chair at the tablerightnext to ours and angles his chair so he’s facing us directly. His scowl could cut granite. One hand is gripping his glass so hard I can see the whites of his knuckles.
Oh fate, you pretentious bitch. I could kiss you.
I lean in to Scout and whisper in his ear. “That’s Xavier. Table to the right. Super scowl, smooth dark skin. Black glasses. Looks like he’s strangling his drink.”
Scout’s eyes flick in that direction. He nods, slow and easy. “I got him.”
Then he turns his head, our mouths close—tooclose—and whispers so only I can hear:
“Let the games begin.”
Xavier
Who the fuck isthat?
I saw them the second I walked in, but it didn’t register until I sat down.
Kendrix. Smiling. With some guy I’ve never seen before.
Some kid, basically. Blond. Hot. Suited up in some silky navy thing with a flashy-ass tie and a jawline that could punch through drywall.
They’re laughing. Close. Whispering something private and looking way too damn comfortable.
Togethertogether.
What the hell is this?
I stab my fork into the beef Wellington. Doesn’t matter. I’m not even tasting it. The risotto’s going cold. I’d usually love this crap, but not tonight. I’m too busy watchingthem.
Kendrix leans in. The blond giggles… actually giggles.I haven’t seen Kendrix smile like that in… months? Maybe ever. My stomach twists. I push my food around and try to act like I’m not seconds from flipping this entire damn table.
