Page 24 of Crazy In Love
My parents’ obsession with Jelly Roll was no joke. They took that shit seriously.
“How is this my fault?” I hissed. “The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“It’s your fault because all you had to do was apologize,” Lulu said, arms crossed over her chest. “I love you, B-man, but you accused her of something she didn’t do, and she went to great lengths to prove her innocence. All she wants is an apology.”
“Exactly,” Henley said, looking at me as if this was a simple fix.
“I know it’s hard to apologize sometimes, Bridger,” Eloise said, patting my shoulder, “but she needs to know that you feel bad about what happened.”
“Consider it done,” I said, not hiding my irritation. “Trust me. This will all be put to rest tomorrow.”
“Thank God,” Rafe said. “I’m not up for these long matches anymore.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Easton said, snapping his fingers in front of Rafe’s face. “We’re the Chad-fucking-Six. We don’t talk like that. It’s time to get your head on straight and go kick some ass.”
“And it’s time to watch the way you speak.” Mom swatted his shoulder.
“Okay, we can’t be here to cheer you on because we’re taking a stance in support of our friend,” Henley said. “We’ll be having martinis inside with Emilia as soon as she finishes her free play time.”
I glanced across the court to see a very uncoordinated Emilia Taylor swinging at ball after ball—only making contact with one out of every four balls.
She bent over to grab the ball, and I couldn’t help but track her tan, lean legs, up to the apex of her thighs, where the hem of her pink tennis skirt stopped.
And then, as if she could feel my eyes on her, she turned, and her gaze locked with mine before she glared at me and turned away.
I watched her for a few more beats.
Maybe I found it entertaining that she absolutely sucked at pickleball.
Or maybe it was the pink tennis skirt.
Either way, I was irritated that she was making such a big fucking deal about this apology.
I’d upped my apology game, and hopefully tomorrow we could move on.
“Let’s do this!” Easton shouted as my mother and the girls disappeared into the clubhouse.
I got partnered up with my father, which was an absolute shitshow.
He didn’t have any problem making contact with the ball, but he just couldn’t get it to go in the direction it needed to.
I tried having him play in the back, and I moved up front, but he was determined to redeem himself and he kept coming back up to the net.
Needless to say, we got demolished.
In every single game.
I was desperate for this last round to be over, since we were getting smoked by a bunch of elderly women. I spiked the ball several times, as I was done holding back.
Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Emilia Taylor jog by, and my gaze turned the slightest bit to follow.
I was a curious guy. No shame in that.
She was causing a family rift, so it was only fair to keep my eye on her.
My father took that opportunity to charge the net, moving in front of me with no warning, and just as I realized what was happening—his racket clocked me in the face.
For fuck’s sake.
