Page 98 of Catfish

It all starts to filter through my brain cells. Beautiful girl from the hovels of Daphne starts to date a son from one of the most wealthiest family in Connecticut.

Shit, the Hardisons were royalty in this state.

Mine were the cutthroats in the shadows with the money to back all the shady shit and the reputation that made folks run from us.

My door clicks open, and my jaw immediately tightens, feeling vulnerable and pissed off that I have to face her so soon after our conversation last night.

Not that she knows, obviously, but I fucking do.

The sound of heels bayonet into my calm demeanor as my hands turn into fists. Slowly, I let myself look at her, study her, want her.

Spiffed up in a teal dress that dips dangerously low between her breasts, Reagan Shelton walks her ass to my desk, a manilla folder in her hand. The hem of her outfit, because it’s not a fucking dress where I come from, rides and brushes against her tanned thighs.

“Afternoon, Governor,” she spouts simply, no underlying aggravation in her tone.

It only fuels mine.

It makes me want to flip my damn desk over. I have so much built-up aggression that I feel as though she’s the only thing that’d release it.

And as myself or Chase, she wants zero to do with me—us. Fucked up part is that I should be happy with that.

I’m not.

“Miss Shelton,” I greet solemnly , not motioning for her to take a seat.

I don’t want her here, not even the length of a football field in my proximity. It’s too fucking much. My body doesn’t listen to my brain, it hums and sings with her being so close.

"I wanted to give this back to you—“ She extends the folder to me. “—and respectfully decline your job offer."

I let it hover in the air.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I lie. “Emmy will be disappointed.” She perks a brow then shifts her weight slightly to her right leg.

“I understand you’ll pass along my decision,” Reagan spouts, motioning with the folder for me to take it.

I nod, sitting perfectly still because I’m perfectly fine with hiding behind my “asshole”. “I’ll take care of it.”

Reagan drops the folder onto my desk and extends her hand to me. Perfectly manicured fingertips with purple nail polish, I almost smile then get pissed that I almost did.

I quickly take her hand and give it a quick single shake. “Good luck with everything.”

You’re not what I think you are, are you?

I know some sort of wild creature lives inside her, bending the rules that structure my world. Not giving a shit about the norm and how people perceive her.

“Good luck on the election,” she offers. “Who knows, I could be shaking the hand of the future president.”

“We’ll see.”

Her weak smile stabs at my chest, it’s goodbye.

My short-lived freedom, my hope that there was a simple conversation I could have without being recorded and written about. My blue little secret that haunts my thoughts when they should be nothing at all.

I don’t have that.

I don’t have normal.

I don’t have the liberty to say exactly how I feel because it can be construed and manipulated.

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