The door’s open.
The door to our private room is open, and the entire Sunday brunch crowd heard me.
Brianna’s gaping.
Steve’s confused.
Some brunchers are whispering or giggling at the freak show. The Jaeger family are all tongue-tied.
And Tyler—Tyler’s sitting there livid.
Completely, one hundred percent livid.
My heart is a punching bag and his eyes are throwing the daggers to obliterate it.
“And you can all fuck off if you don’t like it,” I finish.
And there you have it.
I’m done.
My career?
Over.
I cheat.
I break the rules, representing people I’m not on dating apps so that I can screen for the good ones for women who deserve love as much as, if not more than the rest of us, and I announced it to the world while dating a hockey player whose sister-in-law is among the tabloids’ favorite subject.
I’ll be news for exactly fourteen minutes at some point today, and everyone who matters will see it.
People who think they matter but don’t—like Connie Bragowski—will see it and try to friend me on social media to pretend to care but really because she wants to feel superior and be in the middle of the drama, to tell people she saw it coming.
And Tyler?
I have no idea what I’ll do about Tyler.
I just know that if he wants to be pissed at me for doing my job, even if I’m stretching the boundaries of how I should do my job, then he’s not the guy I thought he was.
And maybe this is a convenient way for him to dump me so he can go back to Gator Cranford’s sister.
Fine.
Whatever.
I snag my bag off the back of my chair and march to the door.
You know what?
I hope he does go back to her.
And when he does, you’re damn right I’ll take credit for that match.
No matter how much it hurts.
44
Tyler
For the second time in twelve hours, I’m watching Muffy leave me behind.
But this time, I’m so pissed I might take a chunk out of the table with my bare hands.
I need to follow her. I need to get up and follow her.
But my entire body is so tense I’m positive all I’ll do is yell, and I’m just rational enough to know that yelling at Muffy right now would be a bad, bad idea.
Why doesn’t she trust me enough to know I don’t care if she does her job, and I will literally break people if they so much as look at her wrong for any of the ways that she’s exactly perfect?
And who the fuck made her national news?
West drops into the seat she vacated while Brianna and what’s-his-name turn and do the one thing I’m supposed to be doing. “Breathe, Ty.”
“I am breathing.”
“No, you’re punishing the air with your nose and lungs, and pretty soon, it’s gonna be too bruised for the rest of us to survive.”
I snort.
“Oh, no, I’m going to faint dead away,” Brit says.
Three of her kids burst into tears.
When I turn around to glare at my siblings, four more do too.
“Down, boy,” Allie says as she gathers two of her kids up and shushes them. “None of us think Muffy’s a failure, and you’re being an idiot if you think sitting here is going to make her come back.”
“You do want her to come back, don’t you?” Keely says as she hands one of Brit’s kids a biscuit, which is like plugging the cry hole before it bursts.
“I want her to come back,” Mom says. “You were happy yesterday.”
“She’s off-limits in your show. Understand?”
Mom rolls her eyes. “The easy targets are never the fun jokes, Tyler. You know that.”
“So?” West says. “You going after her, or what?”
Fuck this.
Or what.
I’m going after the tabloid who published her secrets, and then I’m going after every single person who’s ever made her feel small and insignificant and like a failure.
I rise and grab my coat. “Come back for Thanksgiving,” I grunt at my family.
I pass Staci and her family on my way out. “Whaaaa…?” she says. “I just saw Muffy, and—Tyler? Ty!”
Not worth answering.
Someone else will fill her in.
Muffy’s long gone when I hit the street, which is fine with me. I’m not chasing her today.
Not yet, anyway.
It takes me forty minutes to get where I’m going, and I’m still fuming when I pull my car to a stop in front of the two-story house where my girlfriend grew up, behind an old beige Crown Victoria with custom plates that say BADA88.
Hilda flings the door open before I’m halfway up the walk and steps out into the chilly morning in nothing but a baggy silk robe and mismatched animal slippers. One’s a sheep. The other’s an elephant. Her hair’s swept up like she’s going to a ball, and she’s plastered on full-face makeup. “Tyler! That black eye looks good on you. Are you here to ask for Muffy’s hand? Because I’m not going easy on you, even though she doesn’t have any other prospects. She’s a modern woman. She doesn’t need a man to be complete.”
“Quit making her feel like a loser,” I growl as I shove my way into the house.
Hilda’s made-up eyebrows shoot so high they could give the ceiling a lift. “What are you talking about?”
“Somebody calling Muffy a loser, Hilda?” an old dude in grandpa pants asks behind her. “Let me at him. I got a can of mace somewhere in my pockets.” He pats his thighs, then his butt, then reaches down the front of his pants and comes up with a can of whipped cream.
“What the fuck?” I snarl.
“Huh. Wrong can. That wasn’t from your fridge, Hilda. Promise. I wouldn’t steal your whipped cream. I brought my own.”
“I’d let you have it, William,” she replies. “Have you met Tyler Jaeger? He’s boinking Muffy.”
The old dude peers down his old man nose at me. “You making sure she gets her cookies first?”
“I could just look at him and get my cookies.” Hilda fans herself.
“I’m not here to give you your cookies.” Jesus. “Do you have any idea how much Muffy needs you to accept her for who she is without making comments about her weight or her size or her food or what you want to do to her friends? Jesus. It would be like my mother using you as all of the material for her shows. How the hell would you feel being the butt of every joke?”
William pauses in trying to pull the cap off of the can of whipped cream.
Hilda freezes. “What are you talking about?”
“Muffy. Your daughter. The woman who talks tough and acts like she doesn’t care but feels like she’s never good enough and doesn’t deserve good things. That’s what I’m talking about. She needs you to be her mother, not the food police, and not some kind of twisted social influencer.”
She’s shrinking like every word is a blow, her eyes getting shiny, and I don’t fucking care.
I don’t. Fucking. Care.
“I don’t want her to end up like me,” she whispers.
“What are you talking about?” William says to her. “You’re a fox.” He turns a glare on me. “And if you’re insulting my friend Hilda here, you should know I have a criminal record and I’m not afraid to go after your bank accounts.”