Page 111 of Good Girl's Guide to Love
“No,” Maddox says, though the way he waves his hand at the statement has be thinking that the answer is actually yes. “I just enjoy a sweet treat.”
“Who the fuck says sweet treat?” Wyatt asks.
“Me. I do. Got a problem with it?”
“Not at all,” Wyatt says as it’s announced that we’re making our descent into Nashville. “You keep playing the way you are, and I’ll buy you sweet treats for life.”
We all laugh and sit back for the final minutes of our flight. I grab my phone, order Ainsley a ride, then begin to aimlessly scroll. I’m not big into social media, but I’m not offline either. Usually just something to kill the time.
I scroll and see some headlines from games around the league today. Apparently Brad caught his first touchdown of the season, though the headline does say it looks like he lost a step.
Not going to lie, that made me smile.
The Philadelphia Kings picked up a win. A talking head made an ass of himself, predicting a team to win by a huge margin, only for them to lose on a field goal at the end of the game. I check out a few more headlines before stopping when I see my name flash in front of me. And it’s not in a football-related headline.
Honeymoon over? Linc Kincaid’s woman spotted with another man
My blood spikes in temperature as I frantically click on the link. In my heart of hearts I know that Ainsley would nevercheat. The woman once ate two grapes at the grocery store and then told the cashier about it to adjust the weight. But that little devil on my shoulder that’s convinced myself for years that I can’t have good things happen to me needs to know what the fuck this is about.
“Hey, you okay?” Wyatt asks.
I don’t answer as I frantically bypass whatever bullshit words are on the article, scrolling until I see a picture. If the headline is going to say spotted, I’m assuming that there’s “proof.”
It only takes a few more scrolls to see it. There’s Ainsley, who’s leaned back against her car. A man is standing in front her, hands on both sides of her, caging her in. He’s leaning in like he wants to kiss her.
“Holy shit,” I hear Wyatt say. “What the fuck is that?”
“I don’t know,” I say as I enlarge the picture. I can tell that’s Ainsley’s car. The photo is a little grainy, clearly taken from far away and zoomed in, but I can tell that it’s her silver Civic. It looks like they’re in a garage of some sort, and I’m going to guess the hospital, because she’s in her scrubs and carrying one of her three emotional support water bottles.
But it’s not her car I’m focusing on. Or even her. I need to know who the fuck is around Ainsley, which will then tell me who I need to kill.
I move the picture to get a better view when I see it. Him.
Fucking Dipshit.
“Who’s he?” Wyatt asks. “Wait! Is that the guy from the bar? Her ex?”
“It fucking is,” I grit out. “This was taken last night.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he fucking cornered her when she was leaving work. I FaceTimed her as it was happening.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. She was shaken up for a second, but more because she told him to take a fucking hike.”
I scroll back up to see what this “writer” is spewing. According to the article—AKA the lies—Banks, Linc Kincaid’s normally shy and reserved girlfriend, is using Kincaid’s time away from Nashville to canoodle with a mystery man.
Who the fuck says canoodle?
I speed-read the rest, because it’s a lot just about us and our timeline of dating. Or at least, the one we’ve let the public know about.
“This makes no fucking sense,” I say as I turn my phone off. “Who is doing this? Why is someone in her hospital’s parking garage waiting to take a photo? This isn’t random. This feels fucking staged.”
“It does,” Wyatt agrees. “But who? Do you think her ex set it up?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” I admit. “It’s all too much of a coincidence.”
