Page 22 of Playing Rucking Hard

“Be charming and don’t miss our shift at the auction table. Talk up the auction items and get the buzz going.”

“Got it. Here’s to a night of fake smiles and faker conversation,” I clink my glass to hers.

“Here’s to the overtime buying this girl a pair of new shoes.”

We step into the grand ballroom, and I’ve never seen such an opulent sign of wealth and privilege—marble floors gleam under massive crystal chandeliers, tables draped in silk, and centerpieces made of fresh orchids that probably cost morethan my monthly grocery bill. It’s filled with the kind of people who treat philanthropy as a fashion statement. They smile for the cameras, clink glasses of champagne, and congratulate themselves for beingcharitable. Have they ever met a person with a brain injury? Would they even associate with someone who didn’t meet their version of instagram or socially perfect?

Not that I’m any better, parading around in an emerald-green dress that cost more than my rent—thank goodness I didn’t have to pay for it. Tonight, Skye and I are dressed by stylists provided by McMillan Enterprises. Luckily, the gown is mine to keep, so I don’t have to panic whenever someone with food or drink comes near me.

Smile wide and think of the overtime. I keep my back straight, my lips painted into a polite smile, and my posture perfect even though my body screams for rest.

But the act of not doing anything but stand and smile seems to be all my body needs to allow my exhaustion to seep through the cracks. It’s as if my body takes ten minutes of doing nothing to remind me that it’s been weeks of endless pressure—being Sage’s sister and parent, keeping up with university while trying to fit into the cheer squad. I feel like I’m running on fumes—a week after the fumes ran out.

No.This isn’t the time or place to cry. I have a job to do.

Hell, I don’t have time to cry. I don’t have time to indulge in self-pity.

Without the energy to keep them up, my emotional dam walls crumble.Crap, crap, crap.I don’t have time for this. I will my feet to move towards a group of people and socialize, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed in self-wallow. I’m so tired I could cry, but crying is a luxury I can’t afford.

Deciding that alcohol and I aren’t a good mix tonight, I swap my empty champagne glass for a water tumbler. Clutching the glass as if it’s my life preserver, I take a long sip of water,scanning the room for people I should mingle with. I need to stay focused.

Dylan.Of course, when I’m seconds away from crying or collapsing from exhaustion, the first person I see is Dylan. When he sees me, his smile fills me with a sudden burst of energy, and it no longer takes a super human effort for my smile to reach my eyes.

I quickly go through my risk and consequences list. His last note asked if we were worth the risk, and I made a list—because when it comes to Dylan I need logic and reason.

Risk number one of dating Dylan, is losing my job. The consequence of losing my job is no therapy for Sage, no food or utilities for either Sage or I, and no chance for Sage to get better. Oh, and I’ll walk away without a job reference because of breaking theno-fraternizationclause in my contract. So, I’d be unemployed, unemployable and have to drag Sage back to our hometown where everyone would look at her with pity if we’re lucky, and probably declare me an unfit guardian.

But, it’s Dylan.Looking hot as all fuck in a dark blue suit, open neck white shirt that shows a hint of the tattoo I should have taken photos of when I had a chance.

I’ve spent weeks ignoring him in person, but that doesn’t stop my stupid, traitorous brain from dragging him into my thoughts. Even if my makeup bag wasn’t being slowly filled with paper swans with his distinctive handwriting, Dylan is impossible to ignore. In a room full of people dressed to impress, he stands out like the sun in a cloudless sky, a cold drink on a hot day, or a shark in the ocean. Yes, that’s the one. I need to keep reminding myself he is a womanizing shark, taking what he wants from the ocean of willing women.

But he didn’t do that with me. He has gone out of his way to build a connection with me. I was the one who left. I’m the one who takes days to respond to his swans.

It’s no use. My logical brain—the one that listed the risks and consequences—tells me to look away when he’s dragged into a conversation with three men while a group of women stand off to the side, waiting for a chance to separate him from the herd.

Sage. Sage needs to be my priority. My job needs to be my priority. But the me who stood at the bar that night … the me who slept with a man only hours after meeting him … the me who has dreamt of one man most nights since spending the night with him … that me wants to drink in the eye candy that is Dylan Fleski.

His hair is perfectly styled, pulled back except for a naughty fringe that keeps flicking across his eyes. I’d bet a year of therapy bills that I’m not the only woman wanting to smooth it back into place. When he extends his right arm out to shake hands, his arm porn is like a magnet in the way that his jacket sleeve flexes and tightens.

And those eyes. What’s the line,they had me at hello. No. I can’t keep doing this to myself. Risks. Consequences. Sage. Job. I can’t do this. Dylan Fleski has to exist only in my dreams—a one-night stand that shouldn’t have even been that. He’s the kind of man who belongs on a magazine cover, not in the mess of my life.

Except heison a magazine cover. I saw it earlier today while buying more origami paper.

“Australia’s Favorite Bachelor.” Of course he is. Playboy. Naturally talented on the field and off it—with women. The kind of guy who doesn’t have to try because everything just falls into his lap. Including women like me, apparently.

Even if he isn’t forbidden, he’s still out of my league.

So why does he keep leaving me the origami swans? Why does he still go out of his way to keep in contact?

I press my nails into my palm, grounding myself. I wish my life was simpler, my parents were still alive and … No. I need tobe strong. Sage made it three nights without nightmares. Last night they returned, but I have to believe we can make it to five in one week and they don’t even have to be consecutive nights. I don’t have time to cry. I don’t have time for self-pity. And I don’t have time for Dylan Fleski, no matter how gorgeous he looks in everything from naked to sweaty rugby league gear, to a designer suit.

“Emma,” Skye says in warning an hour later. After doing our shift at the auction table, it seems everyone wants to come up and talk to us. “Incoming at one o’clock, guy in a blue tie. You wanna take this one?”

I glance at the man in question—late forties, wedding ring glinting under the chandelier, but still looking at me like I’m dessert. I plaster on a smile. “Nope. I had pharmaceutical dude with garlic breath explain all the different homes he could hang the indigenous artwork that’s up for action. Your turn.”

Skye laughs, but we are both feeling the strain of being polite while talking up the auction pieces and closing down sleezy advances. The room is full of men with too much money and too little decency, offering usopportunities. Apparently, they didn’t get the memo thatdancedoesn’t equalprostitution.Cheerdoesn’t equalOnlyFans.

We’re here to smile, pose for photos, and avoid causing a scene. Oh, and in my case, to steer clear of Dylan.

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