Page 93 of Twisted Shot
Naomi sighs, holding out the tablet. “A hundred grand on box seats. Twenty for a signed jersey. And...fifty thousand on a round of golf with Jake and Theo.”
Mila swears under her breath. The round of golf had been Jake’s idea—something lighthearted, fun. She remembers Theo’s hesitation before agreeing. How he trusted them. How Jake assured him it would be fine; he would do all the heavy lifting.
And now this.
“This is cruel,” she says quietly. “He’s making a joke out of everything you shared with this room.”
Theo shrugs, but there’s no real apathy in it. Only pain. “It’s what he does. He’s not serious. He wanted to remind me that no matter what I do, I’m still the family embarrassment.”
Mila’s hand tightens around his. “He will not get away with this.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Theo mutters.
“No,” she says, voice like steel. “Let me.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t know what he’s like.”
“I don’t care.”
She cups his cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the stubble there. “I’ve been handling men like Conrad my entire career. Besides,” she adds, softer now, “this is my event. I will not let him ruin it.”
Theo looks at her for a long moment, something tender flickering in his hazel eyes.
“I’ll find you later,” she promises, leaning up to press a quiet kiss to his mouth. “Don’t disappear on me.”
“Not a chance,” he says, voice low.
Her chest tightens as she steps away. One last glance over her shoulder.
And then she walks off to make the acquaintance of Conrad Tilbury, already planning the sharpest smile she’s ever worn.
CHAPTER 34
MILA
She’ll give him this: Conrad Tilbury is handsome.
Not in the rugged, quietly devastating way that Theo is. Conrad’s beauty is sharper, cleaner. A testament to expensive grooming.
He’s Theo’s brother,she reminds herself.Of course he’s good looking.
The resemblance stops at the surface.
He’s a few years older, several inches shorter, and lacks the solid, grounded strength that Theo carries. Conrad has the same hazel eyes—but where Theo’s are soft, like sunlight through amber, Conrad’s are colder. Harder. More like polished glass than warm autumn leaves.
She spots him by the champagne table, naturally. Expensively dressed, surrounded by people who clearly think he’s someone, laughing too loudly at his own jokes.
Mila smooths her dress, pastes on her most gracious smile, and walks straight toward him.
“Conrad Tilbury?” she says sweetly, extending a manicured hand.
He turns, surprised, then smiles like she’s handed him an award.
“The one and only,” he says. “And you are…?”
“Mila Anderson,” she says, tone still syrupy sweet. “Event organizer.”
He raises a brow. “Ah. The one behind the curtain. Lovely work. Very…polished.”
