Fake Shot (Boston Rebels Book 2)
Chapter 40

“I deeply regret my life choices right now,” I tell Morgan as I set the bolt of tulle on my farmhouse table and look around at the mess of fabric, vases, and candles scattered around my kitchen.

Morgan sighs, then takes a deep gulp from the bottle of hard cider she just opened. “She’s going to love it, and that’s all that matters. Right?”

“Of course. But we are not crafty people. Why didn’t we just do this at a restaurant?”

“Because we wanted it to be personal, and we wanted to be able to hang out all day.”

“Well, we should have just hired someone to plan this all.”

“All we’re doing are the table arrangements and the photo booth,” she reminds me. At least we decided to have it catered, because as much as I enjoy cooking, I replace I’m doing a lot less of it now. Partially because stress was always a motivating factor with my cooking, and with Colt around all the time, I’m either less stressed or just better able to handle it.

I glance over at the ten-by-ten whitewashed wooden backdrop that stands against one wall of my entryway. Building it was the only part of this party that I’ve felt equipped to help with. We have strands of leaves and flowers that need to be intertwined and hung along the wooden frame, and a custom-cut banner with adorable gold letters that will hang beneath the floral swag. But the vases and candles and the fresh flowers that will be delivered tomorrow, all of those decorations feel very much outside of my wheelhouse, even though I know we’re creating something spectacular that Lauren will love.

“I should have taken Graham home for bed and let Audrey stay and help. She’d probably be a lot better at all this than me.”

Morgan laughs. “Jules, you work with your hands. You’re great at this stuff.”

“Being good at something and enjoying it are two totally different things.”

The only thing keeping me going is knowing how much Lauren will love it, and I’d do just about anything to make her happy. Even her gift, which I really hesitated to make, since it will mean divulging my secret hobby to my friends, was custom designed because I knew she’d love it.

Morgan’s phone buzzes on the table, and she flips it over to look at the notification. As I pull over another hurricane vase to wipe out before placing the candle inside, I watch her eyebrows scrunch together. She taps the screen, and her eyes narrow as she reads whatever it is.

“Everything okay?” I ask when she sets her phone down on the table, but doesn’t look back up.

“Uhhhh . . .”

“Okay, now you’re kind of scaring me. What’s wrong?”

She raises her eyes to meet my gaze, and her face has gone full-on pale. Her eyes are huge, like a deer caught in the headlights, and she reaches up, smoothing her hand over her strawberry blonde hair where it’s pulled back into a bun. Her lips part, but no words come out.

“What the hell, Morgan? What’s going on?”

“I . . .” Picking up her phone, she taps the screen and hands it to me. And as my eyes scan the direct message that was sent to the Our House account, which Morgan manages for us, my stomach drops so fast I’m afraid I’m going to throw up.

Jasmine Waters

Hi, this message is for Jules. I’ve been seeing your “fiancé” since October. I’m sure you didn’t know about me, just like I didn’t know about you until I met you last week. Just thought you’d want to know that he’s a liar and a cheater. Message me back if you want more details. I’ve got receipts, and I’m happy to go to the media with them if you don’t respond.

Taking a screenshot, I send it to myself from her phone, then hand it back to her and pick mine up off the table. I quickly send a message off to Colt before I can think twice about it.

Jules

What the fuck is this all about?

“I know who that woman is,” I tell Morgan, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, she was at the Neon Cactus . . . I don’t know . . . like a week ago? Colt and I were about to walk home,” I say, remembering how pleasantly buzzed I was feeling at the time, “but I went to the bathroom first, and when I came out, she was next to him, leaning into him and running her hand along his arm.”

Bile rises into my esophagus, burning as it comes up, and I swallow hard to prevent myself from throwing up. Deep breaths. In, two-three-four, out, two-three-four. I repeat the breathing technique that sometimes can prevent me from spiraling into a full-on panic attack.

“But she wasn’t there with him, right?”

“No, we went together to meet up with some of his teammates right after we got back from Montreal.” I shake my head, because my brain feels cloudy—like it’s having trouble completing its most essential functions: thinking, as well as reminding my heart to beat and my lungs to breathe.

In, two-three-four. Out, two-three-four.

“He was very clearly pushing her away when I came out, but I don’t know . . . she seemed surprised. At first, I thought she was surprised he was turning her down, but maybe she was actually surprised he was engaged?”

My stomach turns over again, and that takeout sushi that we got earlier tonight feels like it’s gone rancid and is trying to make an escape.

“What did he say about you two meeting at the time?”

“Nothing. He introduced me as his fiancée, and we left together.”

“Did you ask him about her?”

“I’m sure I meant to, but I was a little drunk⁠—”

“Wait, what?” Morgan cuts me off. Everyone knows I never have more than two drinks. Ever.

“Yeah, story for another time,” I say, unsure how to explain that I’d trusted Colt enough to lose my inhibitions. I’d trusted him enough to do a lot more than that—like hand my heart right over to him after, how long? A few weeks? A month? “Anyway, we walked home, and I forgot to ask.”

“Jules, I know that message looks damning, but I’ve seen you two together. He does not look at you like he’s holding anything back. He lives with you. You two have been inseparable. How could he possibly have been dating someone else?”

I close my eyes, trying to remember every last detail about Colt—all the ways he’s been here for me and made me feel safe. And the idea that he could have been with someone else the whole time not only feels logistically impossible, it doesn’t check out at all with what I know of his character.

Morgan’s right, and I knew it without her having to say it: he’s held nothing back with me. He’s shared his feelings all along. He’s done everything he could to let me know that I’m safe with him. He isn’t the kind of person to cheat.

But then why is she sending this message?

My phone rings in my hand, and I glance down to see a picture of Colt lighting up my screen. “It’s a video call,” I tell Morgan.

“I’ll give you some privacy. I’m going to head downstairs to your office and call Audrey. Is it okay if I let her know what’s going on?”

I nod, and as soon as she opens the door to the basement, I answer my phone. I don’t say anything, just prop it up on the bottle of cider Morgan left behind and raise my eyebrows in question.

“You know that’s not true, right?” he asks, his gaze littered with concern. He’s walking down a street, the midnight blue sky peppered with streetlamps behind him as he walks quickly.

“It doesn’t feel true,” I say, but the hesitation is there in my voice. “But if there’s no truth at all in it, why would she send it?”

“I slept with her one time,” Colt insists. “Last fall. I’d only seen her in passing until she showed up at the Neon Cactus the other night and I introduced you two.”

“So why is she claiming it’s more than that?” I ask.

The thoughts spiraling through my head are taking up so much of my focus that I forget to breathe. I know this feeling. I haven’t had a single panic attack since Colt and I have been together, but I can feel it coming on. More gradually than normal, but it’s there just the same.

“Did you catch her last name?” he asks as he steps through a doorway. I think he’s in the lobby of his hotel now.

“I was more focused on the message.”

“Waters.”

“Shit.” The world carries on a long exhale. Is Jasmine related to Jerome?

“Yeah. And so, I think this is my fault. Well, mine and your brother’s.”

“What’s Jameson have to do with this?”

“He and I may have paid a visit to Jerome’s office earlier this week.”

“You what?” I practically spit out the words. “You knew that I didn’t want you getting involved like that. It was over, and I wanted it to stay that way. What the hell did you two do?”

He steps into an elevator, and while the video breaks up a bit, the sound carries through just fine. “His company was a sponsor of the Rebels. When AJ saw the video from the restaurant⁠—”

“There’s video footage from the restaurant?” My voice is shrill, and my heart picks up pace.

“Jameson had it.”

“What the fuck?” I whisper.

“I guess he got a copy of it just in case it was necessary to . . . I don’t know. Anyway, AJ talked to Frank Hartmann, you know, the owner of the team, and they agreed to rescind Jerome’s sponsorship of the team.”

“What does that have to do with Jasmine?”

“I’m guessing that Daddy losing access to the team—his luxury box, the special events for sponsors, that type of thing—really pissed her off. And given that I’ve turned her down repeatedly, I’m guessing that when she found out, this is the little revenge plan she hatched.”

Colt’s walking down a long hallway with beige wallpaper and fancy lights, then he’s heading through the door to his dark hotel room. And still, I’m silent, because I’m busy processing all of this.

And the question I asked myself that night at the Neon Cactus rattles around in my brain, trying to cast as much doubt as possible: Am I going to have to worry about this with every woman he knows? Has he slept with them all? Are others going to come out of the woodwork, for whatever reason, trying to cause drama?

I’m not cut out for this. I like peace. I like stability. And in the wake of this situation, I worry about whether Colt can give me either of those things.

His eyes flick to the top of his screen, then back at me. I rest my elbows on the table and lean forward, holding my head in my hands, forcing myself to breathe in slowly through my nose, and exhale through my mouth, like I’m training myself to do when these feelings come on.

“Your brother will be there in about five minutes.”

That has me looking back up at him, as a new wave of anxiety spikes, crashing over me until I feel like it’s holding me under water. “What? Why?” I can barely speak.

“Because I was worried about how you’d react to this, and I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” I barely get the words out because my lungs feel like they can’t expand, and I fold forward, resting my head on the table.

“Jules!” Colt’s voice is a bark, and in my surprise, I sit up and look at him. “Eyes on me. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. Just breathe.”

I want to breathe, I really do, but I’m replaceing it hard to make my lungs function.

And then I take a moment to take stock of my body, realizing that perhaps I can’t breathe because every single part of me is tense. I need to release some of this. I start by focusing on my shoulders, letting them fall so they no longer feel like they’re by my ears.

“Good girl,” Colt encourages me from the phone. I close my eyes and focus on letting my abdomen relax. And then I take a breath. It’s shallow, but knowing I can get oxygen helps calm me just a little more, and I’m able to repeat the action. “You’re doing so well.”

Once I’m breathing normally, I look up at him, my eyes full of tears. “Thank you.”

“You did that,” he says, right as Morgan walks through the basement door. “You’re the one doing the work to get things under control. I’m not even there.”

“Yeah, and yet you are still here for me, even from several states away.”

I’m about to tell him how much that means to me when Jameson bursts through the side door. He takes one look at my tear-stained face, and then he’s yelling at Colt through my phone.

“You don’t get to burst in here and start yelling at people,” I say, interrupting his mini-tirade. “You caused this. You and Colt, deciding you were going to handle something that I already asked you guys not to get involved in—that’s why we’re in this situation. I’m not the scared nineteen year old who got drunk-married in Vegas and needs you to discreetly handle my divorce so no one replaces out. I’m a grown-ass woman and I can take care of myself, especially where my business is concerned. You two getting involved in this only fucked things up. And right now, I’m done talking to both of you about this. I’m going to bed.”

And then I head for the stairs, leaving my phone sitting on the table so they can finish their conversation.