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11. Riggs

ELEVEN

RIGGS

It's early morning, and I'm sitting at the kitchen table getting ready for the day. The team has to be at the stadium several hours before game time for media, so I'm trying to multitask—drinking my coffee, answering emails, and clipping my toenails. Gross, but I'm not a heathen. It has to be done.

I'd love to say I'm flying through all my morning tasks, but I keep getting distracted by everything that went down at the charity event last night. The more I try to wrap my head around all of it, the more confused I am.

The first thing that has me messed up is how quickly Monroe slipped into the role of my girlfriend, commanding an entire room full of people and making them fall in love with her. That's not something you do if you don't have years worth of experience. So where did she learn that?

The other thing that has my mind going a million miles an hour is that kiss. One minute, she was talking to that group of women, and the next, her mouth was pressed to mine, sucking every breath from my body. Once I got over the initial shock, I practically had to hold myself back with the need to take her in front of everybody at the table. And the small whimper when I tightened my grip on her luscious hip? I was instantly hard for her. I had to pull her down into my lap to hide the steel rod under my dress pants. It was like I was fourteen again, unable to control my body as her tongue slid against mine.

She hates me. I'm supposed to hate her right back. But last night made it impossible for me not to think about how explosive things would be if we didn't have such animosity between us. We both know how fucking good we are together physically.

"Please tell me you're not doing what I think you're doing at the table where we eat," a groggy Monroe says from behind me. I immediately shove the nail clippers under my thigh, hoping I can convince her that I'm not.

"Checking my email and enjoying a cup of coffee before I have to leave for the day? Because if that's what you think I'm doing, you'd be right." I swallow nervously as she approaches before stopping right next to me and reaching out for my leg. I squeeze my thigh against the hard wood of the chair, the metal of the clippers biting into my skin through my thin sleep pants.

Her eyes go wide as she grabs my arm and attempts to pull me up, but I resist. "You're clipping your toenails in the kitchen!" she shrieks. "That's disgusting, Riggs!"

My jaw drops in faux indignation, hoping I can convince her that I would never do such a thing. "I am not!" I turn my body, doing my best to drag the clippers under my leg, but she doesn't let up. She just continues wiggling her hand between me and the chair, squeezing her fingertips in only inches from where the evidence of my crime is hidden.

"Lift your leg, then!" she grits through her teeth as she continues her assault. Every muscle in my body is rigid, because there's no way in hell I'm letting her under me.

"You're acting crazy!" I say as her nails dig into my skin. I hold my ground, refusing to let her move any part of me until she's finally so gassed out that she gives up. As if she didn't just use every bit of her energy, she stands to her full height, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of her face before pulling her phone from the pocket of her shorts. She's got a hip jutted out, her sassiness on full display as she begins typing on the device with one eyebrow lifted in defiance.

"What are you doing?" I ask, not loving the smug expression on her face.

"I'm texting your mother," she replies. "Imagine how disappointed sweet Libby Valentine will be to know that her pride and joy is out here acting like he was raised in a barn. You're going to break her heart, you know that, right?"

I narrow my eyes at her. "You wouldn't dare."

I hear the whoosh of the message being sent and I bare my teeth at her in frustration. And to think I was almost softening for her a little bit. She's the same snarky bitch she's been since I've known her. Clearly, that'll never change.

I only get a few seconds to begin plotting my revenge when my phone rings on the table beside me. Monroe chuckles quietly as we both look over to see my mom's name and photo flashing on the screen. I stare at it for a few rings, hoping she'll hang up, but I already know she won't. She's on the other end of that line in Hope Harbor, waiting to scold me for my actions.

"Are you going to answer it? It's your mom," she says with a saccharine smile across her face.

"I know who it is," I grumble, swiping the phone up and pressing the green button to answer. "Hello?"

"Riggs Sebastian Valentine, please tell me you aren't clipping your nails at the table in the presence of a lady!" my mom yells, practically blowing out my eardrum. The woman is a saint, but if she knows we're doing something we shouldn't be, she's the first to call us out.

"I'm not," I deadpan. "I'm doing it in the presence of Monroe."

The wretched creature beside me chokes on a gasp and I look up to see her jaw practically hitting the floor. Even though I'm getting yelled at by my mother, who can still manage to make me feel like a child from a thousand miles away, the shock on my fake girlfriend's face at my response is worth all of it.

She growls quietly, spinning on her heel and walking toward the coffee maker as my mom continues laying into me. She gives me a proper scolding on my actions and reminds me to be a perfect gentleman now that there's another person living in my house. I verbally affirm all of her points, knowing damn well that I'll continue doing whatever I can to piss Monroe off because it brings me joy.

When we're in public, I'll make goo-goo eyes at her and tell everyone how smitten I am. But inside these walls? Not a chance.

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