BRITTANY
Who the hell did that b***h think she was?
Telling me—*me*—to book a hotel room like I was some random hookup crashing a family barbecue.
I climbed the stairs to Chase’s room with the same deliberate calm I used before a big shoot. Heart hammering, sure, but face composed. He’d never been able to say no to me when I was already naked on his bed. Never.
I unzipped the sundress as I walked. Let it fall open to the waist. Hair loose over one shoulder. The whole production—calculated, practiced, guaranteed.
I lay back on his comforter, legs crossed at the ankle, waiting.
The door opened.
Chase froze in the doorway—still in those gray shorts, hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it downstairs—and looked at me the way he used to look at a bad call from a ref.
