Page 135 of Beautiful Collide

Because he has.

And if he knows, if he even suspects . . . I’m totally screwed.

“Fine.” A smug smirk graces Mason’s lips. The fucker just won’t let it go. “Then tell me what it’s like.”

“We barely tolerate each other.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

I ignore him, lifting my drink to my mouth and closing my eyes for a brief second.

“Hmm . . .” Mason says in that asshole tone of his. “Then you won’t mind that some guy is hitting on her.”

My eyelids fly open. “What?”

“Oh, and it’s not just some guy. It’s Hayes from the Colts.”

My stomach twists as I take in the sight in front of me.

It’s just as Mason said.

Hayes, the center for the Colts, is talking to Molly, and worse, she’s eating that shit up. Her head is thrown back as she laughs at whatever he says.

I place my drink down with a thud.

Mason pats my chest, pushing me back a little. “Easy there, killer.”

“I’m fine.”

“Breathe.”

I might need to breathe because my knuckles are now white.

Mason’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

I blink, tearing my gaze away from Molly. “What?”

Mason smirks. “You’re two seconds away from chucking that glass across the room. Let’s try this again . . . what’s going on with you and Molly?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t waste good beer.”

“It’s watered-down shit, and we both know it.”

He does have a point.

I turn my attention back to Molly. Hayes leans in, and his hand brushes Molly’s arm. Even from here, I can see her stiffen.

“Calm down, Wilde.” Mason keeps his hand planted on my torso like he’s afraid I’ll launch myself over there if he lets go. “Molly is a grown girl. She can handle herself.”

“Where the hell is Dane?” My voice is sharper than I intended, and my eyes lock on Hayes like I could set him on fire just by staring.

“Again. Molly can take care of herself,” Mason repeats, but there’s a hint of caution in his tone now. He knows me well enough to hear the edge in my voice.

I grit my teeth, watching Hayes get even closer, leaning in like he owns the air she’s breathing. I can see Molly’s shoulders go rigid, her lips pulling into a tight, polite smile she barely holds in place.

It’s the look she wears when she’s enduring something she hates.

My fists curl so tight that my knuckles scream in protest.

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