18. Riggs

EIGHTEEN

RIGGS

"Good game, baby!" Jackson says, slapping me on the back.

I laugh, looking up from where I'm grabbing my bag from the locker. "I didn't play, but thanks." I pitch tomorrow, so I spent tonight in the dugout, hyping the guys up as they beat the Philadelphia Kings four to three. His one-run homer in the ninth inning sealed the deal for us, so the happy fucker is even more chipper than normal.

"There's no I in team , Val," he says with a boyish grin. "We're all going down to the hotel bar when we get back. I know I don't even have to ask, but I assume we can count you in?"

He's right. Normally, I'd be leading the pack. I'm usually the one pushing the guys out the door in an attempt to get first pick of all the women in the place. My routine is to stay until the bartenders tell us it's time to go, then take whoever I have on my arm up to my room for some one-on-one time. I've gone out a couple of times since Monroe moved in to help me, and I've engaged in some surface level conversations with women while sitting and nursing my one or two drinks, but I haven't invited any of them back to my room.

At first, I told myself I was just doing it to keep up appearances. I couldn't very well be telling the team that I'm a whole new man, then turn around and pull the same old stunts. They think I'm in a relationship, so I'm just playing the part.

But after the other day on the beach, I'm starting to wonder if that outlook is evolving into something different. Because tonight, I don't even have the desire to go.

I stand, raising my arms above my head in a stretch. "I don't know, man. I'm kind of tired. I think I might pass tonight. Gonna hit the sack early."

He laughs, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, right," he says sarcastically. "You haven't missed a post-game celebration since I've known you. Just one drink, then you can get back to texting your girl like the whipped little puppy dog you are."

I take a deep breath in, exhaling slowly. "One drink. Then I'm out."

"Nice," he says with a toothy grin, giving me a fist bump before he takes off toward the shower.

I'm not even going to entertain his comment about Monroe. So what if they all think I'm whipped? I know I'm not. I probably won't even text her when I get back tonight.

I'm a fucking liar. I'm definitely texting her. I want to hear about her day.

I didn't get nearly enough time with her after we had sex in the outdoor shower. We went back inside like it was just a regular day, chilled on the sofa, and I brought her to my bed when she fell asleep in the middle of the movie she chose. Next thing I knew, I was out the door again. This job makes it impossible to nurture any type of a new relationship, which is just another reason I don't bother with them. How can I learn enough about a person to know whether they like me for me, when I can't even spend more than a day at a time with them? It's hard to know who's genuine and trustworthy, and who's just playing you because they want money or notoriety. So, I've leaned into that. Embracing that reality has been the easiest way to avoid getting hurt or hurting anyone else.

But with her? Things are different. I can't deny that anymore.

I don't know what Monroe is thinking about what happened between us, but I can't stop wondering if she'd be open to seeing where this thing could go. I'm not saying I'm ready to wife her up, but I also know that my feelings toward her have shifted since she's been here, and I feel like hers have done the same.

An hour later, the boys and I walk through the doors that lead to the hotel bar. As usual, we're swarmed by women that are dressed to the nines for a night out. I'm thankful that we aren't in Daytona, because at least here, we aren't as much of a hot commodity. But nonetheless, it only takes about three minutes before an attractive blonde sits on the empty barstool next to me.

"You looked kind of lonely over here," she says, prompting me to smile politely. I immediately notice all the ways she isn't Monroe. Her golden hair is cut into a long bob with blunt edges. Her hazel eyes have flecks of green, but I couldn't see myself falling into them like the deep blue pools that have captivated me on more than one occasion. Her lips are pink and full, but the thought of kissing them makes me sick to my stomach. Not because she isn't gorgeous—because she is.

But she's not Monroe.

Ace was right. I'm down bad.

"Is that right?" I answer. "I figured I'd stop in a for a few minutes before I hit my room."

She turns in her seat, crossing one leg over the other before tilting her head. "Well, I'm glad you did. I spotted you when you walked in and just had to come introduce myself. I'm Chloe." She extends a manicured hand my way, and I quickly shake it before busying myself by pulling the label from my bottle of beer.

"Riggs," I offer. She already knows who I am. I can tell. This happens all the time. Girls pretend like our meeting is just some random run-in, then act surprised when I tell them what I do for work. I've gotten pretty good at knowing when I'm being bamboozled. It doesn't exactly feel great, but I've continued to benefit from it by fucking around with them, so I can't blame the women for doing it.

"What brings you to Philly, Riggs?" she asks, brushing my calf with the toe of her stiletto. The gesture would normally be the green light I need to know that we're on for a night of fun, but instead, I jolt out of my seat in an attempt to get away from it.

"I uhhhh," I fumble, trying to think of an excuse, because I need to get out of here without hurting her feelings. In an act of quick thinking, I stuff my hand into my pocket, fishing out my phone and waving it in the air. "I have to take this call!" I yell triumphantly .

"It's not even ringing," she says, raising a dubious brow.

Fuck.

"It's on vibrate," I say, shrugging my shoulders. I pretend to press a button before bringing it to my ear. "Hello?" I say to absolutely nobody before turning back to Chloe. "It was nice meeting you. Have a great night." I don't even give her a chance to reply before I'm hauling ass out to the lobby of the hotel.

As soon as I'm inside the elevator, I breathe a sigh of relief, letting my tense shoulders sag as I ride up to my floor. I try not to think about the physical reaction I had to being touched by a woman who isn't Monroe, because I don't want to sort through the reality that maybe I'm further gone for her than I thought. I'd like to say it's just the way our kinks line up, resulting in mind-blowing sex, but since that kiss at the charity event, the thought of any other woman has affected me the same way. I don't want them anymore.

I want her. In any way that she'll have me.

If she'll have me.

I understand that there's a lot about Monroe Decker that I don't know. And to be honest, I get that, because my behavior hasn't earned me the privilege of being trusted with her backstory. But I want it. I want to know why she hasn't dated anyone since I've known her. Why she ran from me after refusing to give me any personal information in Boston. Why she got upset with me the night of the charity event when I didn't compliment her…and why, minutes later, she morphed into the picture of positivity in front of my colleagues.

I've never been more frustrated by another person in my life. And I've definitely never been more intrigued by one, either.

I want to know her. Like, really know her.

I wave my key card over the lock, pushing my way into my room. The only thing I want to do right now is take a shower and text Monroe. I hope it's not too late. I bet she's snuggled up on the sofa, surrounded by snacks, with her website pulled up on her laptop and a movie playing in the background. I love how she's made herself so comfortable in my space. Sometimes I forget that our relationship is fake, and she isn't really a permanent fixture. Although, I don't think either of us can deny that it's feeling more real by the second, whether we expected it to or not.

I shower quickly, dry off, and throw on a pair of black boxer briefs before sliding into bed with my phone in hand.

RIGGS:

How was your day, Mayhem?

I send the message, toss my phone onto the mattress next to me, and stare at it for a few seconds before picking it right back up. I don't know how this girl managed to turn me into a giddy teenager, but she did. When she doesn't reply right away, my mind starts wandering until I can feel the panic and doubt slowly creeping in. While things didn't seem awkward between us before I left, maybe she's not responding because she's had more time to think about it and doesn't like what we did.

Fuck. What if she regrets it and it sends us right back to square one, where we can't even be in the same room together without arguing?

Maybe I took it too far on the beach. Monroe is a strong, independent woman and I threw her over my shoulder and fucked her like a caveman because I couldn't stop my possessive side from taking over. But when I saw her lying there topless where anyone could see, I lost control. I just wanted to mark her so that everyone knew she was mine…even though I'm not sure she wants to be.

My stomach clenches and flips with anxiety as my mind goes through every bad outcome. And while I know I won't be able to sleep feeling this way, I turn off the lights and pull the covers over my waist in an attempt to get some rest. But the only thing I see are those deep blue eyes that pull me in every time I look at them.

Just as I'm about to obliterate every ounce of self-respect I have left by double-texting her, my phone vibrates, lighting up the space beside me. I unlock it quickly and find a text from Monroe.

Thank fuck.

MONROE:

Not bad. Just got back from a walk on the beach.

RIGGS:

It's a little late, isn't it?

MONROE:

Yeah. Needed to clear my head.

I sit up, turn the light back on, and settle with my back to the headboard before pulling up her contact info and pressing the button to FaceTime her. If she's struggling with something, I want to help.

She answers after two rings, her makeup-free face filling the screen. She's so fucking beautiful like this, and it's a challenge not to say it out loud. Her long, brown hair is gathered into a bun on top of her head, with little wisps hanging down, framing her heart-shaped face. Her plump lips shine, probably with that berry flavored lip mask she keeps on the bathroom counter, and I wonder what it would taste like if I kissed her right now.

"Hi," she says softly, and I immediately notice how red and tired her eyes look. When I saw her last, she was well-rested and content, but whatever happened has her looking like she's been through the wringer in the short time since I've been gone.

"Hey there, sweet thing," I reply. "Wanna talk about it?"

She sighs, and I watch as she makes her way through the house, following her with my eyes as she pulls back the covers on her bed. Part of me is disappointed that she didn't go into my room, but why would she? Technically, we're nothing more than a fake boyfriend and girlfriend who've fucked a couple of times. I can't expect her to sleep in my bed while I'm away, no matter how much I'd love it if she did.

"I'm just struggling with my business plan," she says. "The bones of the website are done, but it looks exactly like every other marketing firm out there. No matter how much I try to come up with ways to set myself apart, I'm still going to end up lost in a sea of competition. I need to stand out as someone who truly wants to help small businesses succeed, but how can I do that when there are thousands of other companies trying to suck their budgets dry? Short of literally giving them free marketing plans to prove what I do has the potential to work for them, how can I get their attention? "

She looks defeated and I wish I could take it all away. I hate that she's doubting herself like this when I know how amazing she really is. I think carefully before replying. "What if you did give them free marketing plans?" I ask.

Her brows pull in. "Then we'd never make any profit. You may as well just flush money down the toilet at that point. I'll make sure to tell you what bridge I'll be living under when I lose everything I own, so you can come visit me."

I bark out a laugh. "Glad to see your bratty fucking attitude is still alive and well," I quip. "I'm serious, though. When I was a kid, my mom used to bring us to the grocery store every week. Grace, Tanner, and I would practically be vibrating with excitement by the time we got to the aisle where the workers were handing out free samples. It didn't matter what they were—we wanted them. And nine times out of ten, we talked her into buying whatever we tried. Couldn't you give out small samples of what you could do for them, so they could see it before they decide between you and someone else?"

She pauses for a second, considering my story. "It could work, but that would take up a lot of time. Every business is at a different level of marketing. Some of them have a good grasp on it, but others have been barely surviving on word of mouth. In a perfect world, they'd all be set up with social media and have a basic idea of what to do before they hire a—" She pauses, and her eyes go wide. "Oh my God, that's it," she says, a smile blooming across her face.

"What?" I ask, smiling back because she's so fucking pretty, I can't help it.

She straightens, adjusting herself so she's sitting on the bed with her legs crossed. As she moves, the phone briefly points down, and I have to stifle a groan when I see what she's wearing. A tight white camisole stretches across her braless tits, her piercings visible through the fabric. A thin strip of her creamy skin peeks from the bottom, leading to the waistband of her pink lace panties.

Fuck. Me.

Her face comes back into the frame, and I do my best to ignore the fact that my cock is reacting to that split-second glimpse of the body that I'm already missing so much. God, I wish I was holding her right now.

"So, the worst thing about starting with a new client is not knowing if they have a social media presence or if you'll have to spend time doing that before you can get into the good stuff. The main problem small business owners have with setting up those accounts is that they either don't know how to do it, or once they figure it out, they don't know how to get followers and keep them engaged. This seems simple to the younger generation that was raised with social media, but to some of the older clients, it's overwhelming. If I could cut that part of the process out and have it already in place when I step in, I wouldn't have to waste valuable time doing it when I could be focusing on bigger things."

"Okay, so how can you do that?" I ask.

Her smile gets bigger, her eyes sparkling even more with excitement. "How-to videos on my website," she says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I can do a weekly series on how to set up accounts on each platform, get followers, and drum up engagement. I can show them how to connect with influencers and post about their products or services, so that if they decide to work with me, the groundwork is done. It's like a free sample of my work that also makes my job easier in the end."

"Sounds like you just solved your own problem, Mayhem," I say, smirking at her. "I might be able to retire early once this thing takes off and you're making the big bucks."

She scoffs. "Don't even think about it, Val. If I'm being forced to pretend like I can tolerate your cocky ass, you're staying on that team until you physically can't pitch anymore."

"I don't know, sweet thing," I chide. "I think you kinda like me."

She rolls her eyes playfully but doesn't reply. My pulse speeds up and a blanket of calmness covers me as I scoot down in the bed and turn onto my side, propping my phone up on the pillow next to me. She dims the lamp before doing the same, and because we sleep on opposite sides, it's like we're together, lying face-to-face.

"Do you feel better?" I ask softly, hoping this conversation has eased some of the weight off her shoulders.

"Yeah, I do," she says with a sleepy smile, her eyes growing heavy as we just watch one another in silence. I should say goodbye so she can get some rest, but when her eyes close, I slide my hand over on the mattress, pretending I can feel the softness of her skin as I ghost my thumb over the sheet.

"Goodnight, Riggs," she says, making no move to hang up.

"Goodnight, Monroe," I reply, watching as her breathing slows and evens out. I fight to stay awake, not wanting to miss a single second of seeing her this peaceful, but finally fall under to the sounds of her soft snores.