Page 31 of Perfect Boy

Out of all the men who have sat across from me tonight, he’s the hottest by far. With his gray henley shirt stretched across his chest, hugging his biceps as he leans forward. His short, dark hair and sharp jawline. My mind can’t help but travel back to the time we had sex.

But a quick hookup happens one time. Not two, three, or even four times.

“Oh, I definitely leaped at the opportunity.” He drops his voice lower. “You were all wound up, frustrated and in need of a release. Who would I be to not give you that?”

I refrain from squirming in my seat. Just thinking back to how uptight I was while we were dancing, messing my moves up, all because every single time his hands touched me…my body would catch on fire.

“Watson,” I hiss. “Stop. It’s been weeks. And we’ve worked together without anything getting complicated or messy. And then you pull this shit.” I shake my head. “Just go. And we’ll pretend this little encounter didn’t happen next time we practice.”

“Or I could leave and you could come with me,” Watson says, jerking his head toward the table next to us. “The dude coming here next is wearing white sunglasses on his head.”

“And?” I shrug. “So?”

“White sunglasses equals total douchebag,” he deadpans. “Obviously.”

“My ex wears white sun—” I stop myself before saying it, hiding my grin with my palm.

“Exactly my point,” he mutters. “They should call them tool-glasses. Because I assure you, those are the only people who buy them.” When the timer goes off and the white-sunglasses man makes his way to my table, staring down at Watson, Watson keeps his eyes on me.

“I’m not leaving with you,” I tell him, keeping my tone low and relaxing in my seat. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

His gaze holds mine, calling my bluff. Of course I want this night to be over. And, yeah, I’d love to leave with him right now. But it’s taken me weeks to stop picturing him naked every time we see each other. If I leave with him right now, I know what will happen. We’ll end up hooking up. And that isn’t what I need.

He isn’t what I need.

Waving my hand, I smile at my next date and look down at his name tag. “Hi there…Ryan. I’m…Ryann too.” I look back at his face. “Watson was just leaving. Weren’t you, Watson?” I look at him, widening my eyes. “See you at practice, Gentry.”

Reluctantly, he stands. But not before pointing to Ryan’s sunglasses. “Sweet glasses, man.” He nods, giving him a cheesy thumbs-up. “Super badass.”

Sparing me one last look, he heads to the bar.

And he doesn’t leave there until the hour of speed dating is over. And then he gives me a knowing smirk when Lana and I head out. As if knowing I was bored to death and could have fallen asleep countless times.

And wishing like hell I had just left with him when I had the chance.

12

Ryann

“Idon’t understand,” I say, feeling my chest cave in as I stare across the table at my boss. The truth is, those words are a lie. Of course I understand.

I knew this day was coming. I mean, I hoped it never would, but the chances were high of being caught.

I just hoped it would be later. Much, much later.

In her hand is a group of papers, all stapled together. And apparently, after a lengthy audit was done at Peaches, they found something. Something bad. Something about me.

My fake visa.

I always assumed that Brooks would be the one to find out the truth before anywhere else ever did. I mean, I thought they were supposed to ensure that all paperwork was correct. But here I am, in the United States, attending college. Fake visa and all. Yet a strip club is the place I was caught.

So didn’t see that coming.

“Ryann, save it. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” my boss, Ginger, says, leveling me with a look that sends her eyebrows shooting upward. “Be straight. Be up front. And maybe I can try to help you.” Her face softens, and she leans forward, setting the papers down. “It’s just you and me. You can talk to me.”

Obviously, I’m ashamed. I’ve lied to this woman who has been nothing but good to me for months. I feel like a total loser, but I suppose that comes with being a criminal.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking down at my hands. “I lied to you. I’ve been lying to everyone.”

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