Page 85 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“It’s about your mom.” She purses her lips. “I know she was your agent. Why didn’t your mom represent your brothers, too? Why just you?”
I sigh. “Jett straight up refused to have Mom as his agent. He said that he didn’t trust her. It was a major source of tension between them, believe me. Jett told both of us that we should get other representation. Silas did. I didn’t. I guess I just thought that she deserved to get her cut.” Screwing up my face, I admit, “I never thought that she would steal from her own son.”
Juliet moves closer and takes my hand, lacing her fingers through mine.
“She fucked up. You’re a good man.”
I snort. “I’m not a good man.”
“Yes, you are.” She tugs on my hand. “I know you, Hunter Huxley. Don’t forget that.”
“I remember everything.” I look down at her, my lips tipping up. “Want to race?”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, you’re on, hockey boy.”
Juliet takes off without another word, leaving me to catch up. I don’t put much effort into the race. It’s more fun to watch her competitive side come out.
She’s good at skating. I wonder what else she’s surprisingly good at. What other skills she’s hiding under that polished exterior. I’d bet my last dollar she’s the woman who approaches everything with the same focused intensity, including sex.
The thought hits me out of nowhere and I have to concentrate on not tripping over a stray puck.
Should I be thinking about this? I glance at my pretty fake fiancée and shrug internally. As long as it’s just me thinking about it and not acting on it, what harm does it do?
And yeah, just because the thought of her being baby crazy gives me all kinds of caveman-brain ideas about pretty little Juliet carrying my baby, doesn’t mean it’s ever going to happen.
We hate each other. Except when we don’t.
I catch Juliet watching me with this confused expression, like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
This version of me, quiet and gentle and unguarded with these kids, probably isn’t what she imagined when she agreed to this fake engagement. Hell, it’s not even how I see myself most of the time.
Later, as we’re packing up the equipment and the parents are herding their sugar-crashed kids toward the parking lot, Juliet approaches me.
“You’re good at coaching,” she says. Her tone is neutral, but her expression isn’t. There’s curiosity there, maybe even a little admiration.
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. “I’m just good with kids.”
It sounds gruffer than I mean it to. Juliet doesn’t push. She just nods, that quiet acknowledgment she’s so good at giving.
“They loved you out there.”
“Kids are easy. They don’t care about your reputation or your penalty minutes. They just want to have fun.”
“Is that why you like working with them?”
The question catches me off guard. “I guess. They’re honest. No bullshit.”
She studies my face for a moment. “You should do more of this.”
“More what?”
“Community stuff. It’s good for your image, but more than that, you’re actually good at it.”
Back in the locker room, Ryan tosses me a towel. “You looked less miserable than usual out there.”
I grunt something noncommittal while I unlace my skates.
Ryan pauses, then adds, “You like her. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
