Page 63 of The Hot Shot
Not something I want to think about.
I follow her into the living room and watch her as she strolls around, taking in the space. When Chess had done the same, I’d been filled with a strange need for her to be pleased, to like my place. With Britt, I just want her to spit out why the hell she is here.
Britt stares down at the coffee table with the appetizers Chess set up so prettily, and I am hit with a sense of wrongness that she’s here and that Chess is out there somewhere.
I have never had anyone welcome me home before. Never knew I needed it until I walked in the door and saw Chess standing there, so fucking pretty in her casual jeans and black V-neck top. So adorably nervous and prickly about doing something nice for me.
Maybe it’s true that she always has a little personal happy hour, but she clearly had included me in her plans tonight. That makes all the difference.
“You’re living with the calendar photographer?” Britt asks.
Seems like a petty distinction, calling her a calendar photographer when she’s more than that, but I let it slide. “Chess is staying with me, yes.” It’s none of Britt’s business, but I’m not trying to hide anything.
Britt nibbles on her bottom lip.
“How do you know who she is, anyway?” I ask.
“They are showing pictures of you two. At an aquarium. Food shopping together.” Her smooth brow barely wrinkles. “They’ve been taking pictures of her coming in and out of your building all week.”
Great. Chess will love that.
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
Britt shakes her head as if I’m naive. “I envy your ability to tune out the press. They’re everywhere, Finn.” Her lashes sweep low. “They photographed us once, too.”
Annoyance skitters up my spine and claws my neck. “They took photos of everyone at that party. It was fashion week.”
Fact: football players troll fashion shows and parties for models, not because they like clothes. When you’re a rookie and you get invitations to hang out with the most beautiful women in the world, you go. Hell, you’re ecstatic.
Models, actresses, pop stars, they love us. We’re fit, rich, and most of us aren’t looking for complicated. Is it a shallow setup? Sure. But as long as no one gets hurt, why should it matter?
Only, sometimes, people do get hurt. “Why are you here, Britt?”
She lowers herself onto the edge of the couch, picks up a piece of cheese, frowns at it and drops it back down. I almost snap at her not to touch anything; that’s Chess’s meal. But then Britt gives a little sigh. “I don’t know. I saw the pictures and thought of you. You’re getting on with your life.”
Is that what this is? Some guilt trip? Worse thing is I don’t know if I should feel guilty or not. “Was I not supposed to?”
“No. Yes.” She shakes her head, the simple movement stunning on her.
I’d been so blindsided by this woman’s looks when we met that I’d turned stupid.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”
And just like that, I do feel guilty. “It’s all right, Britt.”
She utters a half sob, half laugh. When she looks up, her eyes are wide and a little hesitant. “Your mother has been calling me.”
She couldn’t have shocked me more if she’d slapped my face. “What?”
Seriously. The fuck?
Britt’s chin lifts a touch. “She invited me to your house for Thanksgiving...” Her nose wrinkles. “No, that wasn’t what she called it.”
“Thanksmas,” I get out through clenched teeth. Blood rushes in my ears. I am going to kill my mother. I don’t care if it’s a crime. I don’t care if my dad kills me in retaliation. The woman has gone too far.
“Right, that’s it.”
“Britt.” My voice is hard. I can’t control it. “No. I’m sorry, but no.”
