Page 39 of Play the Game

A little black box sits on the counter, and it’s fucking with me. I keep staring at it, like it’s going to disappear.

I know the media is going to lose its shit when the first photo of Scottie and me surfaces—that is…if she ever comes home.

My neck cracks with a snap when I hear the rumbling of an exhaust in the distance. My nerves settle right away. I check the time on my phone, ignoring the texts from my agent and parents, demonstrating their confusion and worry over my recent marriage, and make my way over to the window. I stare out of it like an unhinged stalker, watching Scottie parallel park on the street.

“At least she can do that,” I mumble.

She stares at my house, and even from this distance, I see that she's gnawing on her bottom lip again. I’ve been married to her for less than twenty-four hours, and I already know her nervous tics.

When she exits the car, I walk over to the front door and beat her to it.

She jumps with her clenched fist mid-air for a knock.

“You know...you don’t have to knock, considering this is your home for the next year.”

A year.

I’ll be living with her for an entire year.

Sharing a bed.

Shit.

Rhodes’s warnings are beginning to ring true. I didn’t think this through.

“Oh, well, I didn’t feel right just…walking in.” Scottie’s blonde hair falls behind her shoulders as she tips her head to look up at the house. She blinks a few times in awe, and I wish I could hear what’s going through her mind. After seeing where she was living, this probably seems excessive.

Chicago homes aren’t what I’m used to. There’s practically no yard, and I could spit and hit my neighbor’s porch. Mine is one of the more expensive homes in the market and larger than the rest along the street. It reaches for the clouds and sits well above the dogwood tree out front that my realtor raved about—like I care about its bloom cycle.

“I’ll have a key made for you.” Which is another thing I didn’t think through. “Let’s get the rest of your stuff before someone sees you standing here looking all awkward.”

Scottie pops her hip. “I’m not standing here awkwardly.”

“You’re looking at my house like it’s a castle.” In an attempt to wound her, because I hate that my pulse grows faster when she’s near, I say something I know will insult her. “But to you, it probably is.”

Her pupils flare, and I bask in the sudden rush of adrenaline.

“You’re a dick.” Her attempt at a comeback makes me laugh.

Her hips sway with a fiery attitude as she heads for her car, but I catch up to her quickly, pulling her back at the last second before she dies at my feet. The horn of the Mercedes blares as it flies past, and Scottie’s fingers dig into my forearm as we are justbarely missed. Her breathing is ragged and uneven, so I keep my arms around her waist, tucking her to my chest. “Insulting your new husband isn’t very nice. Especially after he just saved your life.”

Her dainty chin tips, and she peers up at me. “Well…” She pauses. “You insulted me first.”

I can’t help but laugh again at her immaturity. I remove my hand from her waist, eager to put space between us. I start across the street for her car. Over my shoulder, I call out to her and say, “Make sure you look both ways this time.”

My mouth twitches when I hear her mumbling something under her breath. Her car door creaks loudly, causing a flock of birds to fly away. I shake my head at the audacity of her crappy car, sort of feeling sorry for her, and go to grab her boxes.

Before my hands even skim the cardboard, Scottie darts in front of me and pushes me out of the way. “I’ve got it.”

I grunt when her ass brushes against my dick. I step backward and look down at her perfect round peach in the tight jeans she’s been wearing all day. My groin tingles, and it's then that I realize I’m going to have to constantly remind myself that this woman tried to blackmail me and ruin my career.

“Fine.”

I step back and rest my forearm on the top of her passenger door. I watch with amusement as she stacks several boxes on top of one another, making it so she can’t even see. It’s almost painful to stand there and do nothing. After witnessing a few of her wobbly steps, I realize that I don’t care if she doesn’t want me to take her boxes. I’m taking them regardless, because so far, in the last few hours, she’s fallen onto her ankle and has almost gotten hit by a car.

I grab the three boxes out of her hands and ignore her angry little huff.

“Quit acting like a brat,” I say over my shoulder.

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