Page 48 of Bleacher Report
Hunter: I hate to tell you but no amount of pillows will make me less desirable. Your efforts are futile.
Peyton: I ordered barbed wire fencing to go over top but shipping says four to five business days. Hopefully I can resist you in my sleep until then.
I huff out a laugh, and then I get an idea.
I search for a furniture shop, and since it’s only just after dinner time, they’re open.
A man answers the phone, and I tell him what I need.
“Hi, I’m looking to order a king-size bed for my girlfriend, and I need it as soon as possible.”
I see Trey give me a questioning glance.
Yeah, it’s unusual, but nothing about this arrangement is normal and we’ve been making it work.
“A king-size bed sir? If you’d like to bring her down to the store we can—”
I cut him off quickly. “I’m on a time crunch and I’m not available to come by. Can you just give me your best seller that women usually pick out? It needs to be in stock. And can you deliver it the day after Thanksgiving?”
The salesman clears his throat. It’s an odd request to not even care what it looks like, but sure enough, the man wants a sale and agrees.
I list off my credit card number and Peyton’s address, and there it is. Problem solved.
Another hour later, I say my goodbyes and head out of Slade’s. As soon as I walk out his front door, the sun’s starting to set.
I round the front of my truck.
And that’s when I see it.
A sleek, black Mercedes idles in the spot next to mine, engine still purring like it’s waiting for something—or someone.
As I approach, the tinted window glides down just halfway, slow and deliberate.
The smile that greets me is sharp enough to cut glass.
Bethany.
Her perfume hits me instantly—sweet, cloying vanilla with a bitter undertone. It used to be my favorite scent in the world. Now it turns my stomach. It smells as artificial as the rest of her.
She’s wearing oversized designer sunglasses and a smug little expression, like she’s already won whatever game she’s playing.
“Are you really just going to ignore me, Hunter?” Her voice is sweet poison, smooth as ever. “It won’t work forever. You know that. We have too much history.”
“Are you stalking me? How long have you been waiting out here for me to come out? You know this is a gated community. How the hell did you get in?”
Has she lost her damn mind? Wait, I already know the answer to that.
“I have an old friend I was visiting a few blocks away, and she mentioned that Slade is close by. Then I saw your truck. I would call it a coincidence, but you and I both know that it’s fate.”
It’s not fate. It’s Bethany Richards realizing that I’m finally free from under her husband's thumb and now she wants to set my new life ablaze. But I’m not going down without a fight this time.
“What are you really doing here? And don’t keep using the friend excuse. We both know that you don’t have any,” I say flatly.
Her chin lifts, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the steering wheel like she’s bored already. “Just wanted to know when you’re going to kick this Bleacher Reporter girl to the curb. I’m not here for games, and we both know that I’m the last woman you dated seriously.”
“That’s really what you came here to ask? Peyton and I are serious, and I’m staying in Seattle. You can head home without me whenever you want, Beth. No one is going to miss you here.”
Her lips twitch. “Haven’t you considered that there is someone else to consider here? Like your mom?”
