Page 9 of Unmanageable

“Well… no, I didn’t know you’d agree. Obviously. You’re completely unpredictable, Scottie. A wild card. I was sweating through my shirt over here.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” I mutter, but my mouth twitches despite my best efforts to look annoyed. “Get out of my way. I have a call with the front office, and if I’m late because I was bartering with a giant child, I’m charging you double my hourly rate.”

“I’ll pay it,” he says. “Every last cent, Sharky.”

He steps aside with an exaggerated little bow, one hand sweeping toward the door.

I debate shoulder-checking him on principle before stalking out onto the sidewalk instead. Naturally, he follows.

“Pack light,” I throw back over my shoulder, walking toward my car. “If your ego takes up all the trunk space, I’m throwing your gear out somewhere in Ohio.”

“Ohio is beautiful!” he follows me down the sidewalk at a lazy distance, unbothered by my glare. “Lots of corn. Great aesthetics.”

I pull my car door open and slide into the seat, tossing my briefcase onto the passenger side. Cash stops right by the open window, leaning his forearms against the frame, peering in with that unshakeable grin.

“I’m texting you the itinerary tonight,” he says.

“Don’t. I won’t read it.” I start the engine. “And if that van doesn’t have functioning air conditioning, Finnian, I am going to actually strangle you.”

“It’s got dual-zone climate control, sweetheart. Only the best for my Shark.” He taps his knuckles twice against the top of the door, stepping back onto the curb as I shift into reverse. “See you at the rehearsal dinner. Wear something that matches safety-cone orange.”

I smile. “Go to hell, Cash.”

I back out of the space and pull into the midday traffic, my hands tight on the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, I can see him standing on the corner, hands shoved into his pockets, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

I lean my head back against the headrest for a quick second at the red light, letting out a heavy, long-suffering sigh.

I’m a professional. I’m the best agent in the Eastern Conference. And apparently, I’m about to spend my off-season navigating the highways of America with a six-foot-three headache.

God help us both. Or more specifically, God help the United States of America.

***

9:12 PM

Jenna: Whoever stole the emergency mini champagne bottles from my purse, I will have my revenge.

Dean: “Stole” is a strong word.

Cash: “rehomed” feels kinder

Me: I’m adding “champagne theft” to the list of reasons I dislike all of you.

3

Finnian O’Connell

2:32 PM

Me: bro

Dean: No.

Me: you don’t even know what I was gonna ask

Dean: Experience.

***