The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs 2)

“I was thinking—”

We share a smile, and he lifts his chin.

“You go fir—”

“What were—”

This gets a laugh from us both.

“Want some water?” I offer.

“Sure, thanks.”

He follows me into the kitchen. “You smell incredible.”

“Thanks.”

He leans against my counter, crossing his arms. “Going anywhere?”

My phone rattles on the counter, and both our eyes drop as Brett’s name lights up the screen. My eyes flick to Troy’s, whose voice cools when he speaks.

“Don’t not answer on my account.”

“I can call him back.”

“Answer it.”

“I said, I’ll call him back.”

He shrugs, indifferent.

Maybe he regrets his declaration now that things got heavy, and a part of me hates him for it. I was doing just fine before he forced his way into my daydreams with his intoxicating kiss and words. His perfect words.

And I believed him, and for a moment, I took them seriously. And everything about his demeanor now tells me I’m a fool. But that’s what words are, a fool’s gold.

Pretty promises make liars out of men and suckers out of the women who believe them. It was the kiss I believed most, and now that feels like a lifetime ago.

The man in my kitchen is not the man who kissed me. He’s jaded by my lack of belief in him, which I understand all too well. I’m not jaded by the first guy I kissed, or the man who took my virginity, nor the short line of boyfriends that followed.

I was raised by the Machiavelli.

Joseph Arden was just as handsome, just as dazzling, just as charming, equally disarming, and exploited his affect whenever it suited him.

But Dad had my devotion, and I was the only lady he couldn’t leave. That was my leverage. And I’m sure as hell not going to, nor will I ever, use my son as leverage for any man, especially his own father.

Troy pulls a five-dollar bill and a printed gift card from his pocket.

“I was thinking this code, and some cash would be cool. You know so he has some game money?”

“Oh? That’s perfect,” I say, grabbing him a water.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the bottle and standing wordlessly in the kitchen, staring at one of Dante’s drawings on the fridge.

“Troy, I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“It’s fine,” he says, eyes drifting over me before he darts them away. “Just so you know, I’m going to be working a lot, I’ve picked up more shifts to get Dante’s Christmas presents, and I’ve got my games.”

I cross my arms and nod. “Okay.”