Page 44 of The Fine Line
“Cub, come on. It wasn’t like that.”
“It’s always like that,” I say flatly. “Save it for someone who still buys what you’re selling.”
“Okay, hold on,” Rhett retorts, but I’m already walking away.
I only make it a few steps before he’s in front of me again, blocking my path.
I cross my arms, glaring up at him. “Move.”
He holds his hands up. “Where’s the fire, Smokey?”
I glare harder.
Smokey Bear? Is he actually serious?
“Oh wait, I know,” Rhett continues, glancing down. “It’s in your pants.”
“Excuse me?”
“Or on your pants. Whatever.” He pauses. “You lied.”
I blink, completely thrown. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You didn’t get the TV analyst job,” he says.
I pull my head back, stunned. “No, Rhett. I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because they gave it to Dick Davis instead,” I snap, throwing my hands in the air, stepping to move past him.
“No,” he says firmly, stepping in front of me again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I glance past him, spot the waitress heading back to the bar. “Excuse me!” I call. “Could we get two more of those shots, please?”
If I’m being forced to have this conversation, I’m doing it with more alcohol.
She eyes us with mild suspicion. “Mr. Davis said they weren’t for you. So what tab is it going to be on?”
“The Sutton tab,” Rhett says without hesitation. “Whatever she wants.”
She gives us both a long look, then walks off.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I mutter.
“I know. I wanted to. Most people would just say thank you.”
“And most people would have taken a hint by now,” I shoot back. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“God, you never give me an inch,” he mutters, raking a hand through his curls.
“Because you’ll take a mile. I know your game.”
“There’s no game,” he says, voice steady. “Not with you.”
I hold his gaze, chest tight. I start to say something, but the waitress reappears, setting down two fresh shots. I stare at mine, regretting it already.
Then Rhett says quietly, “I’m sorry about the interview.”
