Page 37 of The Trouble with Players

I pulled him away from the room toward a door that led to the beach patio. He came willingly. Once we were outside, I stopped and turned to face him. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“O-kay,” he said, confused by the urgency in my tone.

“Does the team have a bet going about me?”

His features stilled. “Bet?”

“Is there a bet about who can tame me?” I asked with a small quiver to my voice now that I was actually saying it aloud.

“It’s not like that,” he said.

“What’s it like?” I asked.

“Peyton?”

I turned at the sound of my name.

Crew stood there with his hands in the pockets of his gray suit pants. “Are you okay?”

A harsh, humorless laugh burned in my throat. “Define okay.”

Sam scooted around me and escaped toward the door.

“Where are you going?” I called to Sam.

“Find me later,” he said before disappearing inside.

The waves crashed in the distance as the sound of muffled music trickled outside to the patio where Crew and I stood alone. In the near darkness, his light blue eyes were accentuated by his blue tie.

“What do you want?” I asked.

His head hitched back. “I saw you take off with Sam. I wanted to be sure you were okay.”

“Since when do you care?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Since when do you care about anything that happens to me?”

“What the hell’s going on with you? Did you have another panic attack?”

I scoffed. “You would throw that in my face.”

“Throw what in your face?” he asked incredulously.

“The fact that you know I have panic attacks,” I said. “Was it all a ploy?”

“I’m not following.”

“A ploy, Crew! A ploy to tame angry Peyton.”

Just like Sam’s face moments before, his face faltered.

“Yeah,” I said, “I know about the bet.”

“There’s no bet.”

“Bullshit,” I challenged.

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