Page 141 of Offside Devil

I jerk back. “Taylor, what the—” I dismiss the pointless question with a wave. “You know what, never mind. I don’t know why I expected anything different from you.”

She screws up her face. “I’ll take that as the compliment I’m sure you intended it to be. Because I just gave you the surefire way to solve at least seventy-five percent of life’s problems.”

I’m afraid to even ask, but it’s Taylor. Her brain should be studied and then left to float in a jar for decades because the knowledge it contains would be dangerous in the wrong hands. Not asking what she could possibly be talking about would be a disservice to the wider scientific community.

I throw my gloves in my duffel. “Okay, explain yourself.”

“Boyfriend ignoring you?” she asks, a cheesy smile on her face. “Nothing slutty underwear can’t fix. Boyfriend cheating on you? Make him regret it by breaking up with him in the skimpiest nightgown imaginable.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

She rolls her eyes. “Denial is not a good look on you. But you know what would be?”

“Slutty underwear,” we say at the same time.

Taylor’s advice is bad.

Don’t get me wrong—I love her and her demented ways. She keeps things interesting. Plus, her brain is so full of skincare regimens and how to make every second of her life fun that she doesn’t have the energy to stop and ask questions about why her best friend is reclusive and cagey and violently resistant to snapping selfies.

Which is exactly why she has no idea that the problems I’m facing now can’t be solved with a shopping spree.

If the news about me and Zane doesn’t die down, I won’t just need to leave Zane—I’ll need to leave everything behind. Everyone.

That grim reality aches. It gnaws at the scared little girl in my chest who just wants to know someone loves her.

Maybe that’s why, when I leave the gym and climb into the driver’s seat of Zane’s Ferrari to head back to the condo, I turn in the opposite direction.

Taylor said denial was a bad look on me, but denial is the only reason I’m still here playing house. Denial is the only reason I haven’t packed my very shitty suitcase and left town. Denial is the only reason I pull to a stop in front of the most boujee lingerie store in the city and walk inside.

My little house of cards is going to blow over sooner rather than later. But for today—for as many days as I can eke by undiscovered—slutty underwear is going to solve all of my problems.

I hope.

56

ZANE

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Whitaker?” the woman behind the counter whispers.

I walked in five minutes ago, my finger held to my lips to keep her quiet, and she didn’t ask questions. It might have something to do with the Amex Black Card I slid across the counter. She works for a commission and I just became her biggest whale of the year.

“Just one hour,” I repeat. “That’s all I need.”

Her cheeks flush. “I’ll make myself scarce. The shop is yours.”

The employee disappears through the back door and I make my way past the racks of lace and silk to the dressing room.

Even if Evan hadn’t texted to tell me where Mira stopped on her way home from the gym, Zane Whitaker’s Ferrari can only sit outside of Luxure Miel for so long before people start to notice.

I take a tight corner and then the sprawling dressing room opens up in front of me. It’s an explosion of pink and purple and glitter. Velvet curtains hang from the ceilings and mirrored panels are set into the violently pink walls.

“I was just about to ring the bell,” Mira calls out when she hears motion.

I follow the sound of her voice to the dressing room in the back corner. It’s the only one with the curtain pulled shut. The rest of them are empty.

“I don’t think this is the right size, but I also don’t—” She chuckles. “Well, it’s hard to tell when so much of me is showing. How do you size a bra when the bra is just scraps of lace around your boobs?”

Fuck me. I don’t think I’ve ever been harder.

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