Page 46 of Unexpected Shot
So why is my body tensing like I’m about to be given a prostate exam?
That’s not how I react to Courtney—especially when she’s wearing a dress like this. Tight in all the right places. Highlighting the curves I’m biblically familiar with. I shouldn’t be rejecting her touch. My brain shouldn’t be telling me to finish my drink and get the hell out of the hotel bar. But it is. And I have no fucking clue why.
“Are you okay?” Courtney asks as she pulls up the barstool next to me.
“Yeah. Everything’s good,” I lie. It’s easier than saying, “I’m pissed off about things I shouldn’t care about.”
A.k.a, Shelby LeBlanc.
When she stormed away earlier today, my first instinct was to go after her. But then I stopped and thought about it. This is Shelby. The woman who—rightfully so, on many occasions—has been angry her whole life. Me going after her, trying to help, trying to ‘play the hero’ as she calls it, likely wouldn’t have gone over well.
So I didn’t go after her right away. Gave her space to cool off. I figured I’d find her after a few hours went by and then figure out what the hell happened today.
The only problem with that plan? I couldn’t find her.
She wasn’t at the driving range or anywhere on the course. She wasn’t at our hotel—I checked her room, the gym, and now, the bar. I tried to text her, but I’m blocked. Again.
So you know what? Fuck it. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, or anyone, that’s on her. I’m tired of trying to help. She’ll never have to worry about me trying to be the hero again. I just won’t care. I shouldn’t care.
And if I keep telling myself that, eventually I’ll believe it.
But I can’t stop going back to the presser.
When I saw her react to Mike today, I had this sudden and overwhelming urge to both hold her back from committing a crime and wanting to be her accomplice. Or option three, kick his ass myself. If there’s one thing I know about Shelby, though, she’d rather die than let me defend her honor. But seeing the fire in her eyes today? It made me want to be her partner in crime.
Even though I know that would never—or couldn’t ever—happen.
No matter what’s transpired between us the last few weeks, she still hates me. At the end of the day, in her eyes, I’m still the cheater. It doesn’t matter that we grew up together, or that I’m a peer of hers, or that she’s my sister’s best friend, or that I’ve seen her at the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Or that we almost kissed. Or that I wanted to throw Michael fucking Stevens through a wall simply because I know he did somethingto her. When it comes down to it, the hard-headed woman won’t let me in to help her in the slightest.
And you know what? I’m done fucking trying. If she wants to be a stubborn mule about these things, then let her.
Oh! That gives me an idea for her new contact name. It’s been a minute since she’s gotten a new one.
Bring up Alien…
Change to Stubborn Mule.
There. Perfect.
“Something important on that phone?”
Shit. I forgot Courtney was here.
“Sorry. Just had to send a message before I forgot.” Another lie. I wave down the bartender. “Whatever she’s drinking. On my tab.”
Courtney orders an Old Fashioned before turning slightly to face me. She looks good. Really good. Her long brown hair is sporting loose curls, giving her a softer look than the slicked buns she wears when she’s in reporter mode. She’s traded in the smart white blouse and black slacks she had on earlier for a tight red dress that might not show a ton of skin, but it leaves nothing to the imagination. Especially when my imagination doesn’t need to make up anything to remember what’s under there. Knowing Courtney as I do, her bra and thong are going to be red lace to match the dress.
And I couldn’t be more uninterested in sleeping with her tonight.
Great. Another thing to be pissed off about.
“I was surprised when I saw you added to the tournament lineup,” she says, because I guess I’m incapable of starting a conversation tonight.
“Yeah, it was a last minute thing.”
Typically, I’m the guy who doesn’t shut up. Or will at least elaborate on an answer. Courtney’s looking at me because she’s had enough conversations with me, professionally and personally, to know I’m going to keep talking.
But I don’t. Because that’s how fucked in the head I am tonight.
