Reputation (Mason Family 2)

All I do know is that I’m not getting drawn into whatever it is.

“Oh, please,” I say, ignoring the way his abs flex in the sunlight. “There’s not one thing about you that I find charming.”

He rolls his tongue around his mouth, letting his lips smack together at the end. “I think you lie, Miss Davenport.”

Bree moves at my side, slapping my thigh with her softball mitt. The sound pops through the air and breaks the tension between us.

“Can you teach me to throw a curveball?” she asks Coy. “I’ve been watching videos on YouTube, but I can’t figure it out. And since the last one I tried ended up hitting you in the face, I think it’s safe to say I can’t do it.” She looks at me disapprovingly. “But I do think it was catchable, Bellamy.”

Coy lets his gaze linger on me for a long, irritating second before looking down at Bree. He crouches down to her level.

I blow out a quiet breath and consider that mini-interaction a victory.

“I’m not sure the best way to throw a softball,” he tells Bree.

“That’s fine. I don’t want to throw a softball. I want to throw a baseball,” Bree says with her hand on her hip. “My cousin, Michael, plays baseball, and I want to do that too. He says girls can’t do the same things as boys, and I think that’s a bunch of junk.”

Coy laughs. “Well, I think that’s a bunch of junk too. Let me see your ball again.”

Stop being nice to her.

“Bree,” I say, trying to figure a way out of this. “We really should talk to your mom before you play with boys. You know she’s not sold on you playing baseball.”

Bree looks up at me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “True. But he’s not a boy. He’s a man. I think Mom would be okay with it.”

Coy looks up at me with a twinkle in his eyes too. “Yeah, Bells. I’m a man.”

“Maybe anatomically,” I say, hoping that the only thing he sees in my eyes is a lack of entertainment with this whole thing. “Bree, since we don’t have any sugar, and it’s clear we aren’t going to get any, what if we go home and get out the glitter?”

She gasps. “I thought glitter was evil?”

Coy stands, his grin getting wider.

“Well, it’s the lesser of the two evils today. Lucky you,” I tell Bree, my eyes still fixed on Coy. “Why don’t you run back to my house and get it out, and I’ll be right there?”

“Yay!” Bree squeals as she runs through the open gate toward my house.

“Keep it on the table,” I shout after her, already regretting the idea.

But as my attention lands back on Coy, I realize I didn’t have a choice.

Seeing him on television and in magazines at the grocery store is one thing because I can turn the channel or look away. I scroll by online articles about him like it’s my damn job, and every time he’s on the radio, I change the station.

But in person, it’s different. And it’s definitely not that easy.

If I hate one thing in this world besides Coy, it’s feeling vulnerable. Standing in front of him makes my carefully constructed shields develop cracks the size of the Marianas trench.

“Glitter?” Coy laughs, either oblivious to my inner turmoil or unconcerned. “I’ve had a lot of bad things said about me, but never that I was worse than glitter.”

“That’s not the worst thing I’ve said about you.”

With a harsh, matter-of-fact tone, my words are short and chopped and to the point. I’m not entertained.

It’s also clear that he is.

He runs a hand through his bedhead and graces me with a simple grin that makes people feel as if they’re getting a side of him no one else gets. It’s a damn good thing I know that’s a lie.

“How ya been, Bells? It’s been a long time.”

“By design.”

He juts out his bottom lip. “That makes me sad.”

“Coy, shut up.”

He laughs as his hair flops to his forehead again. “I’m glad you still have your moxie. I was afraid you’d actually become the basic bitch you pretend to be.”

The laughter stops, but his smile stays put.

I don’t even know why I’m surprised at this point, but I am. Maybe I hoped if we ever did encounter each other again, it would be more civil. Friendly. Less … us. Perhaps I hoped that I’d see Coy and feel more compelled to forgive him. Move on. Be less … hurt.

Clearly, that’s not the case, so there’s no point in pretending to be nice.

“I hate you, Coy Mason.”

His grin grows wider. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

I’m done.

My blood pounds through my vessels as I turn toward the gate. I contemplate whether to take the high road or just stoop into the gutter like him.