Page 43 of Bleacher Report
He’s flicking me crap. There is nothing about that picture that’s angel-like in any capacity, and we both know it.
I type back quickly.
Peyton: Delete or die.
Hunter: Never. You’ll have to catch me first.
Peyton: That’s not fair. I don’t have any embarrassing photos of you.
The typing dots appear immediately. Then another photo pops up.
Only…this one is very different.
Hunter, sweaty and shirtless, standing in front of a full-length mirror grinning like the devil himself from inside the Hawkeyes locker room. His skates are still on, his hockey pants hanging low on his hips, and his abs are on full display, like he’s the cover model for a fitness magazine. There’s a tattoo above his left peck. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.
I nearly throw my phone across the room, but I don’t. Because, God…I can’t stop staring.
Hunter: Here. Something for your screensaver. Now we’re even.
Not even close. That’s straight spank bank material, and he knows it. That’s why he’s grinning in the photo. He knows exactly what a half-naked photo of him does to the female libido.
Peyton: Oh my God, Hunter. That’s not what I wanted.
Hunter: I’m headed for the showers. Would you rather I take it from there?
He’s screwing with me.
He has to be. But this?
This is just plain cruel. Teasing a sex-deprived woman with locker room thirst traps?
That should be classified as psychological warfare. And now—mark my words—I’ll be dreaming about him in the shower one of these nights.
Fantastic. That’ll do wonders for keeping this arrangement complication-free.
I toss my phone onto the bed, groaning. This man is dangerous.
And I’ve officially lost control of this entire situation.
I push out of bed and head for the kitchen to make a cup of tea to start my day. I need to get back to work. At least there is a small piece of that interview that can be salvaged. Then I need to get to work on new questions to ask him that won’t lead to him storming out of the house, but that also gives me something to bring in new listeners.
On autopilot, I swipe open Instagram as I walk down the hall, scrolling straight to my podcast account, trying to move mentally past the picture of Hunter. As I enter the kitchen, I notice that the notifications are still going nuts. The kiss photo. The bid. Hunter’s smirk. My shocked face. Bethany’s icy glare in the background.
Everyone’s still eating it up. I figured after a few days it all would have died down by now. I guess I was wrong.
Subscriber Count: 78,450
That’s up by almost nine thousand since yesterday.
My stomach flips again, but this time for a different reason.
It’s working.
Whether it was the kiss, the drama, or the fact that Hunter Reed’s name is now attached to my podcast—it’s working. And if I can lock in a better interview and keep the momentum going, I might actually pull this off.
Fake boyfriend.
Real headlines.
