Fix Her Up (Hot & Hammered #1)(2)

“Georgie?” Facedown again, Travis turned a little to confirm her identity. There it was. An expression she’d had thrown at her since birth. The perfect combination of irritation and dismissiveness. It screamed, Go away, you are irrelevant! without making a sound. Georgie hated that expression but, somewhere along the line, had been given no choice but to lean into it.

If you can’t beat them, join them, right?

“I’m surprised you recognized another human being through your own self-pity.” Georgie sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, taking the opportunity to memorize his concrete-slab buttocks. “I saw a container of lo mein on the way in here. Figure I’ll throw that next. It’ll pair nicely with vanilla. Probably. I’m not a chef.”

“Get out, Georgie. What the fuck? I’m not even wearing clothes.”

“I’ve seen naked men. Tons of them.” On the internet, God bless it. “You used to be a nine point five, but you’re slowly bottom-ing—ha—into a seven.”

“Really? Because I can feel you staring at my ass.”

“Oops. I thought that was your face.”

Cool. Good one. Five minutes around this man and you’re ten years old again.

Travis’s snort sent Georgie back out into the living room. She toed open a bag of Chinese food, confirming the lack of vermin before extricating the lo mein. One step into the room and she let it fly, noodles and rotten chicken raining down on her brother’s oldest friend. “Might need a pinch of salt to bring it all together.”

“I can’t believe you did that,” Travis roared, sitting up and throwing his legs over the side of the bed. Anger radiated from every inch of his baseball player body, veins protruding from the sides of his neck, his cut biceps. She’d never seen him with a beard before, but the uneven state of it told Georgie the facial hair was definitely the product of laziness instead of a style change. “Go!” he shouted, dropping his head into his hands. “Don’t make me throw you out.”

She refused to acknowledge the sharp pain in her chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll call your brother.”

“Do it.”

Travis surged to his feet, turning a storm of rage in her direction. The noodles in his hair would have been comical in any other instance but this one. Clearly remembering his naked status, he whipped a T-shirt off a nearby chair and held it over his lap. “What do you want?”

Now, that was a loaded question that could be answered in two parts. She wanted one person in her life to see her as more than the annoying hanger-on. As far back as she could remember, she’d always wanted it to be Travis who listened to her. Told her she was special. Right now, none of those hopes and dreams would be useful. Probably never would be. “I want you to stop being a selfish asshole. Everyone is worried about you. My brother, my parents, the local doe-eyed groupies. Spinning their wheels, trying to figure out how to cheer you up. Maybe you just enjoy being the center of attention whether it’s negative or positive.”

His arms shot wide, bringing the T-shirt along for the ride.

Penis.

There he sat. Long and thick and crowned like a king. They didn’t call him Two Bats for nothing. Ever since he’d been snapped by the paparazzi in a compromising position with a Swedish pop princess during his rookie year, the media had been fascinated with Travis, documenting his never-ending one-night stands and notable conquests. “It Wasn’t Me” by Shaggy would play over the stadium loudspeakers when he got up to bat. Women would shriek.

All while Georgie watched from a cross-legged slump in front of the television back on Long Island.

The Player’s Player. The Other Home Run King. The Backseat Athlete. Gorgeous even in his dishevelment, the cocky charm was nonetheless missing at this very moment.

“You think I enjoy this?”

“Yeah,” she shot back. “I think you want to stay in here forever, because it means you don’t have to try again.” Working a loose-hipped swagger out of the room, she called back over her shoulder. “I think you’re a wussy man. I think you’ve been sitting in here crying to your highlight reels, wondering where it all went wrong. What a sad cliché. I’m going to talk to my brother about finding a cooler friend.”

“Hold the fuck on,” Travis thundered, following her out of the bedroom, just your average, everyday, gorgeously pissed-off athlete who was once a contender for Rookie of the Year. “You’re acting like I got laid off from just any job. I was a professional baseball player, Georgie. That was all my life was ever building to. There’s nowhere to go from there but down. So here I am.”

Surprise knocked her back a step. Travis Ford was insecure enough to write himself off as a failure? She’d never known him to be anything but wildly confident—to a fault even. Her hesitation had caused him to back slowly toward the bedroom, though, so she shook off her sympathy and pressed on. “Stay down, then. Become a pathetic has-been who tells the same bummer injury story every time he has more than two beers.” She gestured to the apartment. “You’re halfway there. Don’t quit now.”

“It’s been a month,” Travis seethed.

“A month you could have used to make a new plan, if you weren’t a wussy man.” She raised an eyebrow. “Like I said.”