5. Riggs

FIVE

RIGGS

I pull my car into the driveway of the modest ranch house, putting it in park and blowing out a breath. After Monroe hung up on me the other night, I almost gave up. I racked my brain for hours trying to come up with another option for someone who can stand in as my fake girlfriend, but she really is the only one. As much as I'd like to say I can do this without her, I can't. Infuriating, but true.

Which is why I'm about to heave myself right into the lion's den.

After talking with Grace yesterday, I found out that the boutique where Monroe works is closing in less than a week. Apparently, it all came out of nowhere, so I'm going out on a limb here when I say she likely doesn't have anything else lined up yet. This is perfect. Hopefully I can convince her to come stay with me in Daytona while she looks for a new job. By the time she finds one, I'll have convinced Mr. Durst that I'm a stand-up guy, and she can fly off into the sunset on her broomstick. It's a foolproof plan. I just need to get her to hear me out .

I arrived in Boston with the team last night for the next game in the series against the Tide. I'm not scheduled to pitch again until next week—if they even let me—but I knew this trip would be the perfect opportunity to pay my future ex-fake girlfriend a visit. It's early because first pitch is at one o'clock this afternoon, so I need to be back to the city in about an hour and a half. This should leave me with plenty of time to sweet talk Monroe into helping me.

I walk up the steps and ring the doorbell, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my Daytona Fury sweatpants while I wait. Shifting from one foot to the other, nerves suddenly wash over me as I hear her approach. The subsequent groan coming from the other side of the door tells me that she's looking through the peephole. I wink, just in case, right before it inches open and she peeks out.

"I'm not interested in any Girl Scout cookies today, but thanks," she says, barely able to open her eyes. Even when she's half asleep, she's still a goddamn smart-ass.

"No cookies, sweetheart," I reply. "But I have a nice, big sausage if you're hungry."

She scoffs. "You're disgusting. Why are you here?"

"First of all, you're lucky I don't remind you exactly how not disgusting you thought I was when I was balls deep inside you," I say smugly. "Secondly, I need to talk to you. Can I come in?"

"If I let you in, do you swear to get whatever this is over with and leave me alone?"

"Yes. Girl Scouts' honor," I promise, holding up two fingers as if I'm pledging an oath. "Five minutes of your time. Then I'll never bug you again." That's a boldfaced lie, but whatever. Maybe I'm an asshole, but I get joy out of driving Monroe crazy. It's easy and she's cute when she's mad.

"Fine," she says, sighing in defeat as she opens the door wide enough for me to step inside. As I walk by, I notice that she's wrapped tightly in a thick blanket. It pools on the floor at her feet, and when she walks, prompting me to follow, it drags across the hardwood floor like a queen's cape. One thing I will say about this woman: she may drive me fucking mad, but goddamn is she a showstopper. Even when I know she just flung herself out of bed after what looks to be a rough night of sleep, she's still one of the most stunning women I've ever had my hands on.

"Take a seat," she says, gesturing to the couch. "Let me go get some clothes on."

I turn and plop down onto the sofa as she walks through the kitchen, disappearing into what must be her bedroom. She closes the door about halfway, but it's open enough for me to see the blanket that was wrapped around her hit the floor in a pile. My cock thickens in my pants, and I imagine her completely naked on the other side of that wall, looking like a wet dream as she sifts through her dresser. Her tits are definitely fake, but they're so perfect with small, light rose-colored nipples that get so hard they could cut glass. They're also sensitive as fuck. I remember having her on the cusp of an orgasm just from rolling my teeth over them.

Fuck. I'm all the way hard now.

She opens the door and I panic, grabbing a throw pillow and setting it in my lap just as she heads back toward me. I'm going to need to get my shit under control if this woman is going to be living with me. My body still obviously hasn't gotten the memo that she's a miserable shrew who we absolutely can't give any amount of power over us.

"Alright," she says, standing with her arms crossed over her AC/DC t-shirt. A sleeve of tattoos runs from her elbow to her wrist, and just like every other time I've seen her since she started getting them, I try to avert my eyes from the intricate designs so she doesn't think I'm staring. She's got one hip popped out and her spicy attitude is on full display. Not helpful for my… situation . If she doesn't knock it off, I'm going to have to replace this throw pillow. "Your five minutes start now."

I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. I probably should've come in here with a plan, but to be honest, I'm not used to getting so much pushback from women. Monroe is a different kind of beast in that aspect, and I'm not sure what I'm doing.

"So, I got myself into some trouble with the team. I'm sure you already saw the videos since they went viral, but I attacked our mascot and now I need to show the owner that I'm ready to settle down and be an asset to the organization and community." I expect her to have a sarcastic remark, but she stays quiet, raising a brow and imploring me to continue. "I randomly blurted out that I was trying to get my girlfriend to move to Daytona, which had me stressed out, and that's why I went off. That's where you come in."

Her brows furrow in confusion. "How does you beating up that long-armed monstrosity have anything to do with me?"

"It doesn't," I say. "But the girlfriend part does. Will you come to Daytona and pretend to date me while I try to fix my image?"

She stands there, barely even blinking for what seems like forever. I widen my eyes, hoping I didn't short-circuit her brain as I wait for her to speak. But she doesn't. Nope. Instead, she bursts into a fit of laughter. And I'm not talking the cute type of laugh that some girls do when you tell a joke that's not very funny. I'm talking a full-on, gut-busting, knee-slapping howl. There's even a point in the middle where she's laughing so hard that I think I may need to perform CPR, because the fucking girl looks like she can't breathe.

Maybe I'll just let nature run its course on this one.

I'm completely speechless as she finally reins herself in and stands up straight. Tears are streaming down her face, and she wipes them away before her eyes finally lock onto mine. "Oh my God," she says, her expression going serious. "You're for real?"

I raise my chin, taking a mental inventory to ensure that I still have a set of balls attached to my body before mustering up whatever dignity I have left. "Yeah, I'm for real. Will you help me?"

Her lips press into a thin line, and she immediately starts shaking her head rapidly. "Riggs, no. Can you imagine us attempting to look like we actually like each other? Not to mention, I can't just pack up and move to Florida. I have work."

"Oh, yeah? Where?" I ask. "Because when I talked to my sister, she told me that the boutique was closing, and you're racing to look for a new job."

Her jaw drops in exasperation. "That bitch really gave me up? Does she know about this? "

"Not exactly," I reply. "I told her I was going to see if you would come do some work for me while I try to get back into the organization's good graces. We both thought your background in marketing might help me from a public relations standpoint. You make all those ugly clothes at the boutique look good, so it shouldn't be hard to do the same for me."

I really need her to say yes to this. Even though we have a rocky past and an even rockier present, I trust Monroe not to take advantage of the situation like all the other women I know would. Not to mention, I wouldn't have to worry about her falling in love with me because she hates my guts.

She chuckles. "Marketing and PR are not the same thing. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to find someone else to help you with this."

Fuck.

I stand from the couch, walking toward her. I'm trying to keep my cool here, but her attitude gets me so worked up every time we're near each other, I end up wanting to choke her or fuck her. Or both at the same time. Her eyes widen as I stalk her way, but she keeps her chin lifted, fake confidence exuding from her small body. "Come on, Monroe," I say quietly, reaching out and ghosting my palm along her jaw. Her eyes flutter shut, and I swear I see her lean into my hand the tiniest bit, which surprises the fuck out of me. A smirk spreads across my lips. "You and I both know you need me just as much as I need you."

That seems to snap her out of whatever trance she was in. Her deep blue eyes go impossibly dark, and her brows pull tight in anger. She slaps my hand away and pushes at my chest, throwing me off balance and making me stumble backward a step.

"I don't need shit from you or anyone else," she seethes. "I can take care of myself. So why don't you go back to Florida and find some bimbo to be your girlfriend? You'll have a lot better luck controlling someone like that with your money and fame than you will with me. Get the fuck out of my house, asshole."

I'm shocked by her reaction, but scramble to take the words back, not knowing why they triggered her so quickly. "Wait," I rush out. "I'm sorry. I know you don't need anyone. I didn't mean it like that. I just think this situation has the potential to help us both." My apology seems to make her fume a little bit less, but I can tell she's conflicted. Her lips are pressed tightly together and her nostrils flair slightly with every inhale. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt as she shifts from one foot to the other.

"How?" she asks. "What could you possibly offer me besides doing PR for you? I'm not qualified to do that, even if I wanted to."

I let out a breath, thankful that she's not kicking me out. But once again, my lack of a plan has me at a loss for what to say. If I tell her I'll pay her to be my fake girlfriend, she'll lose her shit. She obviously doesn't like the idea of being reliant on anyone besides herself, so I need to tread carefully if I want her to hear me out.

"Have you ever thought about working for yourself?" I ask. I already know she has from my conversation with Grace, but I wasn't given many details, so I'm flying kind of blind here. She narrows her eyes, and her tense arms drop to her sides. Seeing the opening, I take it, continuing to speak before she has a chance to stop me. "What about starting your own business? You could take the time in Daytona to get everything in order, make some fresh new contacts, then you'd have the freedom to go wherever you want with it."

She shakes her head. "Already tried. My credit score isn't high enough to take out a loan. I need more time to save up before I can do anything like that. I just need to find something else and keep putting money away."

Bingo.

"How about this?" I begin. "Come do this for me, and I'll invest in your business as a silent partner."

She chews on the inside of her cheek, contemplating my offer. I internally pat myself on the back for having the wherewithal to come up with something that would reassure her that she'd still be in control of her own life. After what seems like minutes of silence, she finally speaks.

"Okay."

Fuck yes.

"But under one condition," she rushes out.

"What?" I ask, raising a brow in question.

She puts her shoulders back, looking right into my eyes. "Every dime you give me will be paid back, with interest . I don't need a handout, and I refuse to take one, no matter how rich and unconcerned you are about your money. It matters to me that I make my own way and don't have anything for people to hold over my head. If you can't agree with that, you can find someone else to help you."

I nod my head rapidly in agreement. "Yeah, of course." I'd love to know why she thinks I'd ever give her money then hold it over her, but that's not important right now. The only thing I'm worried about is getting the fuck out of here before the bitchy side of her personality pops back in and fucks this all up for me.

She shakes her head in defeat. "When did I get this desperate? Pretending to date arguably the biggest dickwad on the planet just to survive."

Okay, drama queen.

"All I heard was ‘ biggest dick' ," I say with a grin. "So, thank you."

She rolls her eyes, but I don't miss the way she's tamping down a smile. I can't believe I got her to agree to this. That was some Jedi mind shit, right there. I extend my hand out between us for her to shake, but of course she doesn't.

"Rule number one of this arrangement," she says, looking down at my open palm like it's covered in dog shit before bringing her narrowed eyes to mine. "Don't touch me."

I drop it to my side, giving her a tight nod.

"Whatever you say, Mayhem."