The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(11)

In short, he screamed trouble, and not the kind I had time for.

“I have a proposition for you.” He tipped his nose up.

God, he was so arrogant I wanted to throw up on his Fear of God Jungle sneakers ($995, Emmabelle had once told me—at this point, he was a theft victim begging to be targeted).

“The answer is no.”

“That’s an untextured way of thinking. You haven’t even heard it yet.”

I raised my palm, smiling politely. “Based on your reputation alone, combined with the fact that we’ve been standing here for ten minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the point, I can deduce we are not a good match. For anything.”

“I need you to live with me for six months. But, like, in a sick-ass apartment downtown. Super rad shit.”

He completely ignored my rejection. Furthermore, he talked like he was doing me a favor. True, my parents were not on any list of the richest people in the country, continent, or outer space, but they did very well for themselves. In fact, I’d grown up in luxury. But like Mom, I rejected the idea that money equaled happiness. I found that oftentimes, the opposite was true.

“Oh,” I said cheerfully. “Well, in that case, the answer is still no.”

“Wait! I have something you want.” He had the audacity to close the driver’s door behind me, bracing his arms on either side of my shoulders, caging me in.

I stared at him, bewildered. Was he high or something? “What?” I spat, wishing someone would come out of the club, see us, and shoot an arrow through his skull. Another part of me—a teeny, tiny part—enjoyed the attention this fine male specimen was providing me. I made a mental note to drown that part of me in the bathtub when I got home.

“My da says if you agree to this deal, he’s willing to sponsor you all the way to the Olympics. Said he’ll make you a household name across America, and Boston’s sweetheart. I’m talking commercials, hooking you up with the best sports agent in America, get you a book deal. You’ll be famous, baby.” He offered me another one of his toothy-dimpled smirks.

“I don’t want any of those things. I just want to do what I love.”

“That’s cute, but I know Lana Alder from New Mexico is breathing down your neck in the archery department and might take your place on the squad. And she’s got beauty campaigns and movie deals coming out of her ass, so you might want to reconsider that big, fat rejection.”

“You did your homework,” I said sullenly. Lana was a sore subject for me. Her name alone made my skin crawl.

“First and last time.” He wiggled his brows.

I bit the tip of my thumbnail. He was right. My main competition was Alder, and she, unfortunately, was as gorgeous as she was talented. She was coming to Boston in five months so we could train together with Junsu, and had already secured more media coverage in my hometown than I’d had the entire year.

I shook my head. “No.”

“You sure? Same crib, separate rooms. My parents just want you to watch over me.”

“Why?” My eyes flared in annoyance. “Why me? Why not a willing girl? I’m sure there are lots to choose from.”

“That’s exactly why. You’re unwilling. They said you wouldn’t be persuaded or seduced—incorruptible. You have good character and know the meaning of responsibility.”

“Ehm, thank you.”

“Dear God, woman, that wasn’t a compliment.” He laughed.

I frowned. “Well, sorry to disappoint your parents, but the answer is still no.”

“Seriously?” He groaned when I swatted his arms away from me, opening the door again and slipping into my car before I could consider his crazy idea. “My da knows your da and gave him the skinny on things. Apparently, he is super into the idea. Ask him. Da can make your career. If you care so much about archery, do yourself a favor and bite the bullet, man.”

“My dad is influential, too,” I said, not quite believing the words leaving my mouth. Was battiness contagious?

“Your dad can influence the body count in Boston, but he is hardly a public figure. My old man, however, donated millions to build a new stadium for the Patriots. You need connections, Sailor. Let me help.”

I started my car with the door still open, fully tucked in, gripping the steering wheel and feeling my fingers going numb around it.

“You just have to make sure I’m sober and celibate. That’s it.”

I looked up at him, aghast. “Like, be your nanny?”

He shrugged. “I’m fully potty-trained, sleep through the night—sometimes well past the morning and afternoon—and can make a mean-ass omelet.”

“Can you stop using the word ass as an adjective, verb, adverb, and noun?” I half-asked, half-wondered.

“I’ll stop saying the word ass if you agree to my once-in-a-lifetime offer.” He pressed the button to lower my window so we could continue our conversation a second before I slammed the door in his face. Good instincts.

“This is crazy,” I mumbled.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” He slapped my window frame, grinning.

Junsu would kill me if he ever learned of the deal. He said archery was a respectable art, not a Disney Channel special that required me to do press junkets—not that he was ever going to know about it. As far as he was concerned, that qualified as cutting corners. But I was falling behind the curve and knew Lana Alder could crush my Olympic dream—and take great pleasure in it, too.