Page 60 of The Score We Never Settled

“Wow. They need to lock you up.”

“And I obviously have an obsession with bread.”

“You’ve always had an obsession with something food-related or another. Last year, it was pecans.”

Her head jerks in my direction, but I ignore it because I already know what’s about to come off her lips. “How do you know?”

“I stalk you on IG.” I hear her huff her annoyance, but she doesn’t bother to bicker anymore on the matter. She can’t stop it; it’s already happened, and I’m not going to stop doing it either. “What else?”

“I dunno, you tell me, stalker.”

“I’ve definitely been enjoyin’ the new dresses you’ve bought.” She steals another look at me, and I take a moment before glancing over at her. “You know how much they drove me crazy, Short Stop.”

Her nose wrinkles. “They weren’t foryou.”

“Well, I know they weren’t for those high school boys who won’t stop eye-fuckin’ you. If you needed the attention so bad, all you needed to do was tell me.”

Her hazel eyes roll. “I’ve never been in desperate need.”

“I have.” Layla purposely goes back to her hot dog, evading the whole subject matter. “Unblock my number, Layla Jean. Or I’ll do it for you.”

“There’s no need to unblock you, Briggs Holden, because we have nothin’ more to say.”

“There’s plenty to say. You’re just too much of a coward to listen to it all.”

“I highly doubt there would be anything productive or?—”

“There she is!” a male voice slurs loudly, causing both Layla and I to stop dead in our tracks. “The prettiest girlfriend a man could ever want or need.”

Cruz Weston.

His voice registers because I’ve been around this prick more than I have my girl, and the constant taunts and jabs he tosses my way overher.

I’d love nothing more than to shove my uneaten hot dog down his throat—aluminum foil and all—however, I know what that will do, and I’m not looking to spend my trip home in Magnolia Ridge on Layla’s shit list.

So, I shut my damn mouth because he was talking to her, not me.

She said she could handle him. That I didn’t need to. That there was no reason to bust his skull open because nothing was going on between them.

Fine.

Let the nothing commence then.

“Layla,” Cruz falters, stumbling forward a step and clearly drunk off his ass. He can barely keep his eyes open, his golden blond hair is astray and half in his face—perfect set-up to hit him—but Layla doesn’t move away, nor does she appear fazed. “I love you.”

“Do you?” Layla inquires as if the prospect of that is extraordinary, and honestly, she’s got ten seconds before I end him. “And when did you come up with this revelation?”

Cruz lifts his red Solo cup and looks under it like it holds the answer. “Four—fivebeers in. Yes, five.”

“How romantic,” she drawls, then shoos him away with her hot dog. “Move.”

“Are we finally going alone together?” he mutters conspiratorially, and I clutch my free fingers into fists over his blatant disrespect. “I don’t think Kerrigan would like that.”

“Neither would I,” she immediately claps back. “And get the smell of your alcohol out of myface, Weston.”

He withdraws a step, face skewed as if in utter shock she’d ever say something like that to him. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ve been nervous to see you.”

I’m amazed when Layla takes another damn bite of her hot dog like she’s having a normal conversation and not getting hit on by her fake ex-boyfriend.