Page 17 of The Clinch
“No way,” she snaps. “This is insane.”
Women don’t turn me down.
Ever.
They line up. They chase. They make it uncomplicated.
But not Liz.
Not the woman who got under my skin before I even touched her.
Most men would take the hint. I don’t know how.
She wanted me tonight. I read those signs better than anyone, and her sudden pivot sends a jolt through me I’m not prepared for.
Jessica is undeterred. “This is the only narrative that protects both of you.”
Liz laughs under her breath, sharp and incredulous. “We went from girlfriend to living together in less than thirty seconds. Absolutely not.”
Eden steps in, palms lifted. “Liz, be reasonable—Jessica’s right.”
“How long?” I keep my voice even.
The rest is none of anyone’s business. Because underneath the ego scrape and the career calculations, something else is already awake. Something primitive. Protective. Already rooted in my bones.
If Drake shows up again, I’ll put him on the ground without hesitation. I’ll do the same to anyone who comes near Liz with that intent.
It’s not who I am. It’s not what I do.
Yet here it is—hardwired, uninvited, alive.
Liz drops onto the sofa, palms to her face. “I’m not doing this.”
“How long?” I repeat, keeping my focus on Jessica.
“Six weeks. Long enough for the story to cool and for people to believe you’re a real couple.” She runs down the list briskly. “Public dates. Some handholding. A few coordinated photos. We frame this as a relationship that’s been building quietly for months. Drake forced it into the spotlight.”
“Six weeks,” I echo.
Six weeks with her in my home.
Which means six weeks of distance. Of restraint. Of not touching her.
I could call it insane. Or I could admit I’m already too far in.
“Give or take,” Jessica says. “By then the clip is stale. You become boring. Sponsors settle. The commission backs off. After that, you both walk away clean.”
She looks between us. “Can you do that?”
The room waits us out.
Liz stares at the floor, arms wrapped around herself, her spine sharp with tension. I catch myself cataloging her posture out of habit, the way I assess an opponent’s injuries in the ring. Except she’s not an opponent. She’s someone who needed help long before she asked for it.
Lillian Richardson.
The name echoes hard in my mind.
No one erases themselves without a reason.
