Page 22 of Love Puck

Again.

Jesus Christ.

How many times was I going to let her kick me around on National TV?

Okay, so maybe it had been me—and my fuckin’ words.

But still.

I didn’t think there were any cameras inside the tent.

No.

The show specifically told us there wouldn’t be any cameras inside the tent.

Technically, the camera that broadcast my admission of love for Jillian—was outside the tent.

Still.

It had been late.

And I was mostly asleep.

And I really wasn’t thinking about the likelihood of the outside camera even being on or recording.

“My car’s fine. I just want to talk about the show,” she said almost sheepishly.

I glared at her and shook my head. “I don’t,” I said grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. After I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, I slid inside.

I almost closed my door.

Almost.

“You said you still loved me,” those six words burst out of her mouth so quickly that it sounded like one.

My head spun to the left and I spat out, “Don’t worry, Jillian. I’m workin’ real hard to stop doing that. Goodbye.”

With that, I slammed my door and put my truck in gear.

The entire drive, I blared music from one of my country music playlists. Part of me wanted to go straight to the country bar and ask if I could start their open mic early.

The other part of me wanted to go home and crack open a few beers.

The entire way home, I felt like I was in some kind of haze. How in the fuck was this my life?

I’d finally had another chance with Jillian—and I somehow fucked it up. We’d been so goddamn close. I knew how she felt when she was lying in my arms. I could feel it.

But somehow—that wasn’t enough for her.

Stuart, that douche canoe, meant more to her than I did.

How in the goddamn world did that make any kind of sense at all?

Yeah, he came from money.

Stuart wreaked of it.

But I had fucking money, too.

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