He frowns and lowers his head, scanning me. “Yeah. Who the fuck are you?”
A short laugh comes from my chest. I’ve let my hair grow into an unruly mess during the off season, and my jawline is covered in scruff, but surely I’m not that unrecognizable.
Built like a truck, he’s a defensive player for our rival New York team, the Hawks. In his position, he’s the guy who wants to tackle the tight end—me.
He’s a few years younger than me and was a real talent when he was first drafted, but not so much lately. You have to be an idiot to get a DUI. Every player in the NFL has access to a driver twenty-four seven, provided by the league. All it takes is a phone call. The Hawks’ PR said he was benched for an injury, but the gossip is it’s more about his personal issues.
I step into the light, and his eyes widen. “Graham Harlan. Shit. Sorry.” He tucks his annoyance away and flashes a quick smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Passing through. You?” I glance at Emmy’s door.
He tucks his hands in his jeans. “Looking for my girl. Have you seen her?”
His girl? I keep my face impassive as realization dawns. She mentioned she was through with the guy she’d been seeing. She might have even said Kian’s name.
I take in the scratches on the tops of his fingers, others on his cheek and under his eye. He’s the one who choked her, and she must have defended herself.
Rage rises like a wave inside me, but I keep my tone steady. “Nope. You guys have a tiff?”
“No. We get along great.” He assesses me, eyes hardening. “It’s funny that her room is next to yours.”
“Small world.”
“Very small.”
“Minuscule,” I drawl.
“Uh-huh. I mean, we’re in the middle of nowhere. What are the odds.” He opens the flashlight on his cell phone and roves his gaze over the parking lot, scanning the lobby area, then the pool. It’s lit up but empty. He rechecks the parking lot, shining a light into the interior of the vehicles. He comes back to me, eyes narrowed. “She hiding in your room?”
I smile. Dangerously. My hands tighten as I speak slowly, enunciating my words slowly. “You’re . . . welcome . . . to . . . check.”
He rolls his neck. “Nah, nah, just messing with you. I believe you. She likes to play games with me, is all. If you see her, tell her I came by, and she needs to call me.”
“Sure. Hope to see you on the field soon.”
“You’re coming back? After what happened? I mean, I hear your head is messed up.”
“I hear you drink too much.”
His jaw tics as he glares at me. “Yeah, looks like we both need to straighten our shit out.”
Stuffing down my anger, I whip around and head downstairs. As I’m leaving, I hear him pounding on the door again, his voice pleading with her to come out.
I reach the clerk at the desk. Grinning, he’s looking down as he counts out several hundred-dollar bills.
I see how it is.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Kian paid the clerk to get her room number.
I move closer. “The girl in Room 307. What’s her last name?”
Just noticing me, he sputters as he tucks the wad of money into his pocket. He clears his throat, face reddening. “Sir, I can’t give out that information.”
“But you gave out her room number for that money in your hand?”
His mouth opens and closes like a fish’s.
I lean in over the counter until our faces are close. My words are soft as I grip the counter. “Name. Now. Or I’ll come behind that desk and make you regret it.”
He goes white and practically jumps at his computer, eyeing me as he types away. “Um, it’s Emmaline Darling. Do you want her home address?”
I nod, and he scribbles it down and hands it to me.
“My car was stolen from your parking lot. Did you see anything?”
He frowns. “I saw a girl running. She had blonde hair.”
I glance out the window, a part of me hoping my car will magically appear. I see that Kian has sat down outside Emmy’s door, while the girl paces back and forth in front of him. It looks as if he doesn’t plan on going anywhere for a while.
I smirk. Sorry, Kian. She’s in my ride.
“When the cops show up, put us in an empty room on the first floor. I don’t want anyone knowing my business.”
“Yes, sir.”
I glance down at the paper he gave me, and her name jumps out at me. Emmaline Darling. I heard the clerk say it, but it didn’t click until now with what my brother said.
Jeez, what’s her name? It starts with an E . . . Esme? No, wait, I’ve got it—Emmaline Darling.
Emmaline. Emmy. Of course.
I dial Brody, who answers on the first ring. “What’s up with your car?”
“Forget that. What was the name of the girl you mentioned, the one I need to meet?”
“Emmaline Darling. Pretty. Nice boobs—not a D cup, but who needs mountains when you can have gentle rolling hills—and long legs. Will look fantastic in Vera Wang.”
“She stole my car.”
He gasps. “What? No way. That’s a crazy coincidence. Impossible. Plus, she’s a sweetie.”
“And a thief.”
He sputters: “Are you sure?”
“I have her name right in front of me.”
A groan of disappointment comes from him. “But I already had a Pinterest board going for her—”
I cut him off as I pace, chopping the air with my hands. “She’s the one. She’s my fake wife.”
“What? How? Wait, is she the one who pulled you into her room? Did you have sex with her? Are you still in the ‘pussy glow’?”
“Hardly. What matters is she owes me.”
“Um, not seeing it. She’s a thief. Why would—”
“Let me handle it. I gotta go. Bye.”
“Graham, wait—”
I hang up and watch the cops pull up.
Gotcha, Miss Darling.
Chapter 4
EMMY
It’s barely seven in the morning when the wailing starts. Dragging myself out of bed, I rub my eyes and pad out into the hall. I pass Jane’s room and peek in. Snoring softly, my sister has a sleep mask on, ear plugs in her ears.
In the next room, Andrew stirs and stretches his arms. “Better get her before she wakes up the whole neighborhood,” he says with a crooked smile.
“I will. You have an early class?” I ask, lingering at his door as I tug my robe around my sleep shorts and shirt.
He scrubs his jaw. “Meeting a girl at the library. She’s been taking notes in philosophy. I haven’t.”
“Hey, NYU isn’t cheap.” His tuition (sixty thousand a year) weighs heavily on my shoulders. “Keep those grades up.”
“All right, Ma. I promise.”
“Not your mama.” I cross my arms and pretend to glower. “But I am your elder by eight years.”