Page 54 of Beautiful Collide

“Molly—”

“Don’t.” Her tone vibrates with anger. “Just stay out of my way.”

And with that, she storms out of the bar, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

The table is silent for a moment before Mason lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Wilde. What the hell did you do this time?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because for all the anger simmering in my chest, all I can think about is the way she looked at me before she left. Like I wasn’t worth her time.

And in an instant, the post-win high comes crashing down.

SEASON FOUR

16

Hudson

The elevator doors slide open,and I step into the lobby of the local TV studio I’ve been summoned to.

I rake a hand through my still damp hair.Great first impression, Hudson.

You are totally nailing it. Nothing screams professionalism like looking like you just took a dive in a pool.

It would have been smarter to have showered earlier, but apparently, I’m destined to never be on time.

Case in point: this morning.

I was halfway through my breakfast, mid-bite of my bagel, to be exact, when it hit me. My interview wasn’t at ten a.m., it was at nine.

Who schedules an interview at nine in the morning? Psychopaths, that’s who.

First of all, whoever scheduled the interview at such an ungodly hour should be arrested.

Second, again . . . Actually, there is no second. Who schedules an interview this early? The sheer cruelty of this crime speaks for itself.

I barely had time to drink coffee.

So, yeah, my hair is wet, but at least I’m here. Maybe thirty minutes late, but better late than never. Time is subjective, anyway, right? Einstein said so.

It’s just a small slipup. No big deal.

Except for the fact that Molly Sinclair is going to be here. Fabulous.

Now, I’ll never live it down. It makes sense, though, since her being here is probably why I’m late.

Her being my hex and all.

When she’s around, bad things happen. Like my alarm not going off or my sense of time deciding to take a vacation.All her fault.

I round the corner and head toward the waiting area.

Sure enough, there she is.

She stands at the far wall, back leaning against it. Phone clenched in her hand.

It’s really a shame she hates me because that night in the run-down gas station will forever go down as the best sex I’ve ever had. Not that I’d ever tell her that. She’d probably laugh, tell me to keep dreaming, and then bring it up in every argument for the rest of eternity.

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