Page 19 of Bleacher Report
I was hoping I wasn’t going to have to ask for this next thing, but by the looks of it, Bethany is making good on her threats to attempt to get me traded.
“Actually, I need one more thing.”
Peyton’s eyes snap back to mine. “Oh God…what now?” she says, rolling her eyes.
“I need to live with you for two months,” I say, “and I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”
Peyton freezes, dropping the skewer with the last blueberry into her drink. It lands with a quiet plop, sending a few droplets splashing onto the napkin.
She blinks at me in disbelief.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Now I know you’ve lost your mind, and I’m going to do us both a favor and walk away.”
She turns, clearly ready to bolt—but I gently reach out and catch her arm, just above the elbow. Not hard. Just enough to stop her without pushing my luck.
“Peyton, I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice.”
“You do have another choice. Pick someone else. I’m the wrong girl for this.”
“Name your price,” I say. “How many interviews is it going to take?”
That gets her attention. The word “interviews” is like a switch—her eyes narrow on me—and she’s considering the offer in a whole new light.
“Five,” she says, lifting her glass. “And I want the full story on you and Bethany.”
“Two,” I counter, “and nothing about my mom or my past relationship with Bethany.”
“Well, well, turns out you’re not as desperate as you said you were. Goodbye, and good luck,” she says, turning like the conversation’s over.
But I grip her elbow gently again, stopping her in her tracks.
“Hold on. Three interviews,” I say quickly. “Nothing about my mom. And I’ll cover all your townhouse expenses for the two months I live there.”
She pauses, chewing on the inside of her cheek. I can tell she’s close. She wants the interviews, and she already told me she’s flat-broke after soundproofing her studio. I’m almost there—I can feel it.
“Fine,” she says, her tone sharp and deliberate. “Three interviews. Two months of expenses.”
“Deal,” I say.
“…And you wash my car every Sunday,” she adds quickly like she’s scrambling to tack on more demands while she can.
Whatever. I don’t care. I’ll wash her car plus the neighbor’s if it gets her to agree.
“Okay…sure.”
“…In a Speedo. And Crocs.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
She arches a brow, deadpan. “Am I? I’m giving up two interviews. You’ve got to give me something back.”
“It’s the middle of winter, and you want me to wash your car in a Speedo?”
“You’re a professional hockey player. Cold is practically your natural habitat.”
“I play hockey, Collins. I’m not a damn polar bear.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
