Page 14 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Flipping my hand out, I brush off her concern.
“I’m paying the mortgage upstairs. I’ll pay yours, too. For the next five months, I’m paying for everything and a fat fucking stipend on top of that.”
She presses her lips together. “I don’t own my apartment. Jessa and I pay rent. But… thanks. It’ll help me get the rent taken care of for the next five months.”
I don’t want her to know that I have monitored her whereabouts since college. I checked on her every six months when she was living in Houston with that arrogant asshole Patrick Delacroix. And when she moved back to Seattle… I follow her Instagram through a Finsta, so I knew as soon as she moved back.
Why do I follow her? That much is unclear. Something about hating her fuckhole boyfriend, I guess.
Juliet takes a long sip of her drink, squeezing one lime into her glass and then nibbling on the leftover bits of lime clinging to the rind. Then she draws a deep breath and reaches for a stack of cocktail napkins.
“We’re going to need house rules.”
I’m not stupid. I know exactly what this is. Juliet doesn’t trust me to behave like a normal human being. She’s setting rules like I’m a rabid dog that needs a muzzle, and she’s the handler making sure I don’t bite anyone.
I feel like I’m being managed instead of respected. The worst part is I probably deserve it after last night. But that doesn’t mean I have to like her rules or the way she looks at me like I’m a loaded gun someone forgot to lock up.
I’m not sure what to say, so I shrug a shoulder. “Yeah, maybe rules could be good.”
She clears her throat. “First rule. Five-month engagement. Ends after the playoffs.”
I grunt. “Agreed.”
She purses her lips, tapping the end of the pen on the napkin. “I keep the ring until the end. You’ll need to buy me one. Something big.”
She says it with a straight face, but I catch the way she fiddles with the edge of her napkin. Like she’s pretending this is all a joke. Like she’s not a little curious about what a ring from me would look like on her hand.
My brain short-circuits at the image. Juliet in my jersey, bare legs tucked under her, that diamond flashing while she flips through papers and bosses me around like she owns me.
Ungh.
I shoot her a look. “Do you want diamonds or cubic zirconia?”
Juliet doesn’t want just a ring. She wants proof. A trophy. Something that screams he’s mine and you don’t get to question it. And hell, maybe she deserves that.
Not with me, of course. But I have absolutely no doubt that some guy will buy her the biggest rock possible and love making her wear it. Some extremely lucky guy.
Her lips twitch. “Depends. Are you trying to look like you make the league minimum?”
I flip her off. She scribbles down the rule.
“Tons of content,” she says. “We need Instagram posts. Couple-y, cute, believable stuff. I’ll run the account. You’ll act like you care.”
“It already sounds fake as hell.”
“Good. It is.”
I lean in. “No touching my gear, my blender, my gym bag, my sticks, whatever.”
“Gladly. I want nothing to do with your… stuff.”
Thinking for a moment, I add:
“No hookups. Not with me, not with anyone. Don’t make headlines. Don’t embarrass me.”
She stares at me. “Same to you.”
“Never said I wouldn’t be classy.” I say it with a hint of a tease.
