Page 1 of Say Yes to the Nemesis
one
RYAN
The Tin ShedPub is busy when I step inside. I wave at Bennett, the owner who’s busy behind the bar, and head straight to the back. Stuffing myself into one of the cramped booths, I wince as I bang my kneecap on the bottom of the table.
I’m a pro hockey player. Most of my life is spent ducking, trying to fit in too-small spaces, and sitting with my knees touching the row in front of me. I have the option of a table at the front of the restaurant… but that comes with visibility. Right now, I’d rather be at an uncomfortable table at my favorite bar than be the center of attention.
That’s almost always the case.
A waiter swings by to take my order. I ask him for my usual, a pale ale and a basket of French fries. Hockey is over for the season. This is my version of cutting loose. He hurries off and I spread out as much as I can on my side of the booth.
This place gets me. No expectations, no cameras, no one asking me to smile pretty for the sponsors. Just beer, finger foods, and the loud burble of customers talking, mixed with plates clanking.
I’m savoring what might be my last moment of peace for the next two months when Jay Rustin slides into the seat acrossfrom me like he owns the place. On numerous occasions, Jay has tried to buy into the bar. Bennett always says no; he likes us enough to be good friends and neighbors but doesn’t ever want to give up even a little part of the oasis he’s built for himself.
Jay is an Instagram influencer with a huge following. So huge that he has a staff of twelve people, has his own extremely successful line of camping gear, and takes almost as many fan selfies as I do. I don’t know if that speaks more for how little the city of Atlanta cares about professional hockey players or for Jay’s insane charisma and charm.
“Well, well,” Jay says, flagging down the waiter with two fingers. “America’s most lovable man-whore is drowning his sorrows before letting a bunch of Instagram models fight over him on national television.”
I don’t even look up from my beer. “They’ll be lucky if I remember their names by the end of the first cocktail party. Hell, I don’t even remember yours half the time.”
“Good thing I come with a distinctive scent profile and a legally binding friendship pact. You’re my best friend for life.” Jay slides a fresh beer across the table toward me. “Plus, I’m way prettier than most of your usual conquests.”
“Debatable.” I clink my bottle against his. “To making terrible life decisions.”
“To getting paid obscene amounts of money for making terrible life decisions,” Jay says. He cocks a brow, making me laugh, and we both drink to his joke.
Well, sort of joke. Half a joke, half reality.
“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this show. I need my head examined. Too many concussions. That’s the only explanation. Well, that and the fact that the show shoots here so I don’t have to uproot my life too much in order to film it.”
The familiar burn of alcohol hits my throat. I let myself sink deeper into the booth. Tomorrow filming starts. Tomorrow Istart pretending that finding love on a reality show is anything more than an elaborate business transaction wrapped in rose petals and hot tub steam.
“About the show…” He says it like he’s about to ask for something, but I can’t guess what it could be. “You know that Calla and I are doing a cooking show on the same network?”
I bob my head. “Yeah. You two were discussing show titles the last time we were here.”
“Right. Well, as part of my contract, I hooked Wren up with an executive producing gig with the network.”
Wren is Jay’s little sister. She’s eight years younger than us, a complete nerd, and a sweetheart. Well, she’s shy and sweet to everyone else. With me, she’s a mouthy little nightmare.
I furrow my brow. The thought of potentially working in the same building as Wren is irritating, but that’s not really Jay’s problem. I shrug. “Okay. That’s good, I guess.”
Jay tilts his head. “Wren just texted me this morning and let me know that she got assigned to work onThe Last Kiss.”
I feel like he just punched me in the solar plexus. My breath whooshes out.
Wren working on my show? Watching everything I do? Judging? Making that fucking face she has when she finds something too dumb for her superior intellect? Mumbling a constant string of sarcastic comments I can’t quite make out?
It sounds hellish.
“There are a ton of shows the network produces. Why does she have to work on mine?” It sounds whiny even to me, but I can’t help it.
“I knew you would say that.” Jay rubs the back of his neck and fidgets. “Here’s the thing. This is Wren’s first job with a boss that isn’t her big brother. She’s really nervous about it. You should see the research she’s compiled on it. So many sticky notes. Such a huge binder.”
I picture Wren as she often looked in college. Sitting at Jay’s kitchen table with books spread before her. Copper hair piled in a messy bun on her head. A wrinkle between her brows as she scribbled something on a sticky note. I once looked at one of her classics textbooks and was hard-pressed to find a section that wasn’t highlighted, underlined, or covered by a sticky note.
Yeah, that does sound like exactly how she would approach anything new and scary. Research is her strong suit.
