Chapter 2 A fiancé?

I hung up. And lean my head against the cold cinderblock wall.

Great. Fantastic.

Ten years of building a career scaring millionaire athletes and I’m going to end up unemployed and living with my mom who still keeps my participation trophies.

"Well. You look like someone just told you your dog died."

I don't even have to turn around. That voice.

Chase is leaning against the wall opposite me, hands in his pockets, cap still backwards. Up close he’s worse. Taller, broader. He smells like expensive cedar body wash and something else underneath it, something wild and warm that makes the back of my neck prickle. My wolf, the one I haven't let out since I was sixteen because of Frey, does this sleepy, confused stretch inside my chest.

Oh, hell no. Not now.

"Wow. Stalking female reporters in hallways now? Add it to the list of charges," I say.

"Relax, Hart. I was coming to say thank you."

"For what?"

"For keeping things interesting. Everyone else asks me what my favorite cheat meal is."

He pushes off the wall and takes two steps closer. Too close. I can see the scar on his bottom lip from that fight in college. I can see the faint shadow of stubble. I can see that his eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn't been sleeping.

He looks tired. In a way that has nothing to do with baseball.

"You’re still pissed about the championship game, huh?" he asks, quiet enough that no one else can hear.

I laugh. It's short and ugly.

"Oh, I don't know, Chase. Is the sky blue? Is water wet? Is my brother still unable to lift his arm above his head without wanting to scream?"

His jaw tightens. There’s that guilt. That flicker I’ve seen for ten years. And then he does that cocky thing where he hides everything behind the smirk again.

"Still holding a candle for me, then."

"In your dreams, Bennett."

"In a lot of them, actually," he says, and winks.

I want to throw my recorder at his head.

"Are you done? I have an unemployment to go plan."

That makes him pause.

"You're leaving SSN?"

"No, I’m getting fired from SSN. There's a difference. One comes with a cake."

He stares at me for a long second. And then his expression shifts. Like he just made a decision that I am absolutely not going to like.

"My lawyer wants to talk to you."

That is not what I expected.

"Your lawyer can get in line behind my landlord, my mother, and the IRS."

"Freya." He says my name differently now. No teasing. "I need help."

The famous Chase Bennett. MLB’s golden boy. Alpha heir to one of the biggest packs in Washington. Needing help from me?

That should feel good. It doesn't. It just feels weird.

"And I need a winning lottery ticket and a lifetime supply of Lobster tails. Guess we're both disappointed."

"I'm serious. It's about my niece. Sophie."

I know about Sophie. Everyone does. His sister and brother-in-law died six months ago in that accident on I-90. Left behind a seven-year-old little girl. The internet lost its mind when the tabloids said baseball's biggest trainwreck filed for custody.

"Look, I—"

"I need a fiancée," he blurts out.

The hallway is loud with people walking past, but I swear all the sound sucks out for a beat.

"I'm sorry, you need a what?"

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, and finally, for the first time since I've known him, Chase Bennett does not look cocky. He looks desperate.

"A fiancée. Fake one. For six months. For the Council hearing. Sophie's paternal grandparents—they’re trying to say I’m too unstable to raise her because I’m unmated. My lawyer says if I show up with a mate, stable, with a family environment—"

"Stop." I hold up a hand. "Stop talking. You lost me at fake fiancée. Have you suffered a recent head injury that hasn't been reported?"

"I'll pay you. A lot. Enough to cover... whatever Linda just told you about."

My mouth opens. Closes.

How does he know?

His eyes drop to my phone, still clutched in my hand. To my ratty sneakers. To the bag I've had since college because I can't afford a new one.

Cocky bastard can still read me like a book.

"I still hate you," I whisper.

He smiles then. That slow, devastating, ten-years-in-the-making smile that made half the girls in high school cry in the bathroom.

"I know," he says. "That's what makes you perfect. No one will believe I paid someone who actually likes me."

And before I can tell him to go straight to hell, he slips a business card into my jacket pocket. His fingers brush mine and my whole body zings like I stuck a fork in an outlet.

"Think about it, Freya Fierce."

He walks away, all easy swagger and number 17 on his back.

I stand there in the hallway, unemployed, debt-ridden, holding a billionaire werewolf's business card, and the only thought in my head is:

I’m in a jam.