10. Renee

I didn’t know this morning, when I wore my least comfortable heels, that my interview would turn into a full day of work. Not that I’m complaining—well, not about the work anyway. I have plenty of other things to complain about.

Starting with the shoes and ending with the neighbor from hell.

I kick off the Burberry stilettos I stole from Sutton’s closet and picture said neighbor in my head. Weston Scott might be good-looking—alright, fine: good-looking isn’t even close to accurate; he’s fucking gorgeous—but he’s a dick with a capital D-I-C-K. And maybe some exclamation points for good measure.

He thinks the world is his oyster—and who knows? Maybe it is. When you’re that easy on the eyes, people let you act as you please and do as you please and be however the hell you please.

But not me. No, sir. If he is harboring the thought in his tiny reptilian brain that I didn’t see his look of determination to make my life at work so miserable that I quit, then he has another thing coming.

‘Cause I ain’t quitting shit.

I’m going to do so well at this job that they make me queen of all things Firebird. I’m going to be his boss one day. I’m sure as hell not going to let some jock with more hair product than brain cells run me off.

Weston.

Scott.

Will.

Not.

Win.

That being said, it’s going to take more than fiery intentions and high-quality photos for me to succeed. I got some great shots of their practice today, but I need more.

Dominating on social media is about making it fun, playing on words, giving people a reason to want to come back. And it’s gonna be hard to do that when I don’t know a fart from a forecheck.

So first things first: I need to learn about hockey.

To that end, I have my laptop cued up to old game film, a rulebook open on my desk that Michelle let me borrow, and some of last year’s social media posts that Danni printed out for me. I’ve got my finest athleisure on and my hair tied up in a severe bun. I even busted out my glasses. I don’t technically need them—I’m nearsighted, so reading isn’t usually an issue—but hey, sometimes a girl needs all the advantages she can get.

And then I dive in.

It’s a montage straight out of Rocky. Watch film. Scribble notes. Flick through pages of the book. Repeat until I nearly vomit from how intensely I’m staring at the screen, then do it all over again.

I’m on my fourth or fifth hour of watching game footage and my third or thirtieth trip to the book’s glossary for the definition of “offside” because it still makes no freaking sense to me—when someone knocks on the door.

Who could that be? Jackson Yates is the Instagram model with the easy smile, but I saw him heading out on my way in, and besides, we haven’t done more than exchange passing pleasantries. Sir Grump-A-Lot at the far end of the hall wouldn’t dare come knocking. No one else except the doorman, the Thai delivery guy, and Sutton know that I’m here.

But I haven’t ordered anything that the doorman would need to deliver, I’m feasting on popcorn and pretzels tonight rather than Thai food, and Sutton is probably eyeballs-deep in baguettes and brie right now. That leaves only two options: Jackson and Weston.

I know which one I hope it is.

As I walk to the door, I pass a magazine on Sutton’s entryway table that has Jackson’s face on it. He is textbook gorgeous. Chiseled jaw, square chin, hair the color of warm honey that looks like it positively needs a woman’s fingers to rake through it. But his eyes—golden-brown and beautiful—are his moneymaker. On the cover, he’s bare-chested with low-slung jeans that tease almost as much as they deliver.

I check the peephole and breathe a sigh of relief.

Golden-brown eyes.

Definitely not the Weston Scott shade of green.

I open the door and stare for a second, taking in all the features that the magazine photo didn’t do justice. He really is yummy. A little on the pretty side for me, though.

“I know we met briefly, but I didn’t do it justice.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Jackson. Or Jax. Or your future ex-husband.”

It’s a horrible line, but I smile and shake his hand anyway. “Hi.”

“And you must be Sutton’s friend.”

I nod as he clasps my hand then lays his other over top. “Yeah. I’m Renee. Nice to meet you. Sutton told me you’re?—”

Suddenly, the only other door on the floor opens. Weston steps out, looks at us, and freezes. For a moment, I feel like I can see what he’s seeing, and it’s like a scene out of a Viking movie. Blood and spears and smoke and unbearable violence waged against his enemies.

Then he and I blink in unison and the images disappear.

Scowling, he stomps past, gets into the elevator, and disappears. I don’t wave, but I do take a second look, because what that man does for jeans should be illegal.

I shake my head and turn back to Jackson, who’s rolling his eyes. “Don’t mind him,” he reassures me. “He doesn’t smile.”

He leans against the doorway and flashes me the whitest of pearly whites, then tilts his head and pulls his lower lip between his teeth. It’s a whole move. Probably trademarked. Definitely rehearsed.

I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. This man is catnip to women, but the problem is, he knows it. It isn’t like he’s all dressed up—just dark jeans and a rust-colored t-shirt with a band logo from the 70s on front—but I feel dowdy standing next to him. The guy has a better messy bun than I do. He’s broken a few hearts in his time; I would bet money on that.

He glances over my shoulder at the interior of the apartment. “You studying for something?” he asks.

“Sort of. Do you know anything about hockey?”

“No, sorry.” He jerks his chin toward the apartment Weston stepped out of. “You would have to ask the mother pucker about that. I got nothing.” He does that grin and lip bite thing again. “Ijust wanted to come by and introduce myself and let you know that if you need anything, I just live right over there.”

“Got it. Well, thanks.”

He starts to turn away, but then he pauses and looks back. Again, I can’t shake the feeling that it just seems so rehearsed. Way too casual to be real. “Oh, by the way—have you been up to the roof yet?”

“Roof? No. I didn’t actually know you could get up there.”

He grins. “Well, I’m going out on location for a photo shoot tomorrow. Hawaii, actually. But maybe when I get back, we can go for a swim.”

“There’s a pool up there? Sutton didn’t mention it.”

He nods. “Oh, hell yeah. A sick infinity pool that drops clean off the side of the building. But don’t worry.” He lowers his voice and leans in. “I would never let you fall.”

I nod and smile back uncertainly. “Good to know.”

He laughs like I said something funny. “Alright then. It’s a date.”

Before he turns to leave, I blurt, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Jackson arches one perfect eyebrow. “Shoot.”

“How come you and the hockey player don’t get along?”

I know I’m being nosy and also going against my whole “keep your head down and don’t ruffle anyone’s feathers while you’re living in Sutton’s apartment” rule, but I can’t help it—I want to know. I saw the scowl on Weston’s face. And for a change, it wasn’t me he was scowling at.

“You saw that?” He grimaces. “It’s a long story. Probably best shared over tequila shooters at Maxi’s.”

I laugh politely. “Tequila and I don”t get along. But I’d love to hear about Hawaii when you’re back.”

He smiles again. It’s as objectively dreamy as the first time, but—and I hate to admit it—it doesn’t warm my body the way Weston’s does.

Which is a crazy thought, because of the two, Jackson is about a gazillion times nicer. He came over to say hi and invited me up to the rooftop and asked me out for tequila shooters and gossip. Weston, on the other hand, treats me like I have crazy disease and it’s catching. So why is he not the one who gives me the ick?

“I’m counting on it,” he croons. “See you around, Renee.”