Page 21 of Bleacher Report
Trey moves to the edge of the curtain and peeks out. “Isn’t that Kevin Richards’s wife?”
“Not for long, apparently.”
“Jesus, Reed.” He shoots a glance back at me. “If she’s got Richards on the hook, then what the hell does she want with your ugly mug?”
“Shut up,” I snicker.
But I know exactly why. It’s not about me. It’s about control. About seeing if she can still pull the strings and make me dance. Tonight, it’s me. Tomorrow, it’ll be someone else. That’s who she is. Always has been.
And Richards? He deserves whatever mess he’s in. He’s the one who shipped me off like damaged goods to keep his wife in check. How’s that working out for him now?
I glance back toward the crowd, my gaze locking on Peyton.
She’s standing off to the side, her blue dress catching the light like a damn spotlight. Calm. Cool. Uninterested in the chaos swirling around her.
She’s the only thing between me and a complete PR disaster.
I still don’t know why she said yes. Maybe it’s the interviews. Maybe it’s for her nephew. Or maybe she just wants to watch me sweat after I embarrassed her at Oakley’s a few nights back.
But I meant what I said. She can spend whatever it takes. I’ll take the hit, so long as Bethany walks away empty-handed.
I hear my name announced after Luka’s bid finishes.
Luka goes to a socialite who looks like she just stepped out of a country club catalog. He seems thrilled, already chatting about his Olympic medals.
Then it’s my turn. The stage lights are hot, but Bethany's stare is hotter.
The bidding starts like a firecracker—fast, loud, and out of control. Ten different women, their paddles rising like birds taking flight. But I only watch two: Bethany, smugly confident in the front row, and Peyton, who hasn't moved her paddle once.
Come on, come on...
The numbers climb higher. Women drop out one by one as Bethany counters every bid. Still nothing from Peyton. Sweat trickles down my back under my suit jacket.
Then—finally—Peyton lifts her paddle, and the air in the room changes. Bethany locks in on her like a predator who just spotted a challenger.
The bids fly back and forth. Each time Bethany goes higher, Peyton doubles it. The crowd gasps and cheers, caught up in thedrama. Even the other players have stopped their conversations to watch.
"Sold!" I shout, jumping off the stage before I can second-guess myself.
Gasps ripple through the crowd, but I don’t stop. In three long strides, I’m in front of Peyton. She stares up at me, wide-eyed, stunned.
My heart is pounding like I just took a puck to the chest.
"Warning," I murmur, lowering my voice so only she can hear. "I’m about to kiss you."
Then I do.
I sweep her into my arms and crush my mouth to hers.
For a moment, she’s frozen—surprised. But then she melts into me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her lips parting against mine.
She tastes like vodka, blueberries…and possibility. Like everything I didn’t know I needed until now.
And just like that, something dangerous—and completely unstoppable—releases in my chest.
Turning to the crowd, I announce, "Sorry everyone, but I couldn't let anyone but my gorgeous girlfriend win a date with me."
"You didn’t say anything about kissing," she mutters, breathless but not exactly pulling away.
