Page 25 of Against The Rules

“Ugh. Social media.” Her head drops back, and she blows a raspberry as she stares at her ceiling. “I do a lot of social media stuff for work,” she continues, “and I keep trying not to think about the fact I’m going to have to brand all this and do it for work again.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, not really. It’s just so much easier to do it for an established brand, you know? This is… everything is starting from scratch.” Her voice has gotten smaller and smaller. She waves at her phone, now on the table between us, a painted sunset cityscape of Philadelphia glowing on her screen. “Plus, what if everyone hates it? What if it sucks, and you’re just being nice?”

“Can’t say anyone’s accused me of being nice before,” I say slowly, unsure of the right thing to say. Damn, before Savannah, I used to be completely sure of the right thing to say.

Then again, I don’t think any of the women before Savannah ever wanted my help with something real, like launching a business.

“Do you want my help?” I ask, because maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe she’s just venting.

“Yes,” she says. “Please.”

“Not just my money?” It’s a joke, but she glares at me like I’m an asshole, and I immediately regret it.

“No, I don’t just want your money. I want this to work.”

For half a second, hope stops my heart in its tracks. She wants this to work.

Then I glance down at the sun fading into a pastel sky on her phone, and realize she doesn’t mean our Vegas marriage.

Of course she doesn’t.

She means her business.

It shouldn’t sting, it really shouldn’t, because we’ve both been clear about what we’re getting out of this temporary arrangement. It’s a reason to distance myself from her.

Yeah, right.

I clear my throat. “Then let me help you.” I want to keep her here, across from me at this table. I want to wipe that frown from her lips with my own. I want her to smile and know that what she’s going to create is going to be great, because how could someone like her fail at anything?

“Let me help you,” I repeat, even though I know she’s infinitely better equipped to make this happen. She just needs me to fund her.

A smile grows on my face and I lean forward, because now I get it. I know exactly what she needs.

She just needs the seed money, which I don’t mind giving her, not at all… and confidence.

“Okay.” Her eyes narrow.

Which brings me to the second reason I’m here, according to our little pact. “Then we can work on your little sexiness problem,” I say, winking suggestively, even though it’s clear to me the problem must be entirely imagined by whoever said that to her.

She snorts, then rolls her eyes and chomps another sushi roll.

I laugh because I fucking love when she’s sassy.

“My parents want to have dinner this weekend…” I drift off, because she’s gone still, her eyes wide again.

“But it’s a game weekend,” she says, then goes pale, blue eyes locked on my face.

“That’s why they want to have dinner,” I say, shrugging. “They moved up here when we were both drafted to the same team—my brother and I, I mean…”

“Yeah, I know about you two,” she says, her long lashes fluttering as she finally looks back down to her salad. “I looked you up after… after breakfast.” She pauses awkwardly, glancing quickly between me and the tub of ginger dressing.

My stomach sinks at that. I don’t want her to have looked us up. Every single article ever written about the two of us is like some goddamned competition, the same one I’ve lived every second since I was born.

Jacob versus Tyler.

Which brother is the better receiver? Who is faster? Who is stronger? Smarter? And now that we’re on the same team, I’m fucking thankful every day we at least don’t play the same position.

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