Two weeks later…
Harper
“WHOOOOOO! GO RAFE, GO!” I scream from the private suite where we are watching Rafe’s game.
“Maybe we’re supposed to call him Bullet?” Tomás asks, eating off a plate of catered food next to me.
“I figure if you’re sleeping with the man, you get to call him whatever you want,” Damien says dryly. He sips something expensive—scotch, I’m assuming—from a tumbler, but loses all sophistication when Rafe gets sacked. “Roughing the passer!”
“They can’t flag the play every time Rafe gets sacked. This isn’t touch football,” Scott chuckles. He’s munching popcorn, more a fan of that snack than the buffet fare.
Damien purses his lips. “I wonder how much it would cost…”
I reach past Tomás to slap his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying.” His
