Tomboy (The Hartigans #3)(9)

He finally tore his focus away from Shelly’s cups that raneth over and up to her face. “We both know you don’t really feel bad. If you did, you wouldn’t have brought the press with you.” He glanced over at the photog. “Hey, Marty.”

The photographer lifted his chin in greeting. “Blackburn.”

Shelly let out a huff that sent her bangs flying upward. “You know how this works, Zachy. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone—you, me, and Marty.”

“No,” he said, sounding more tired than he had a minute ago. “It’s a way for you to use me to lengthen your fifteen minutes and for Marty to get an extra freelance check. Normally I wouldn’t mind so much, but you went too far, Shelly. I have a game tomorrow night.”

“But, Zachy,” she said with an exaggerated pout.

“No, Shelly.” The vein in his temple pulsed, the only tell that this whole thing was pissing him off. “Go home.”

That’s right, and think about how damn lucky you are that he’s not pressing charges, Fallon mentally added.

“Fine.” Shelly straightened, smoothed away any hint of repentance from her face. “But don’t go blaming me if you have a shit night on the ice again. You’ve been a bust since you got here, and my muffins had nothing to do with that.”

Final poisoned arrow delivered, she turned and flounced on her spiked heels back to her shiny red sports car, yanked the door open, got in, revved the engine, and took off with her tires squealing. Fallon didn’t like the woman, but she had to admit that Shelly wasn’t wrong on the state of Zach’s play. Plus, the other woman sure knew how to make one hell of an exit.

Once the only thing that remained of Shelly was the scent of burnt rubber hanging in the air, the photographer gave Fallon a piercing once-over, brought up his camera, and snapped a few shots. “So who’s the new one, Blackburn?”

Zach took a step forward, partially blocking her from Marty’s view. “It’s a secret.”

“Oh, really?” Marty asked, still clicking away. “What’s your name, honey?”

There were two people in the world who could call her anything close to a pet name: her granny and her dad. Anyone else who tried it was playing Russian roulette with his gonads. Marty was lucky there was a fence between them.

“I am not your honey,” she said with enough ice in her voice to reverse climate change.

“Feisty,” Marty said, seemingly unperturbed. “I like it. So how’d you manage to swoop in and snag Blackburn from the sharpened talons of Harbor City’s favorite party girl?”

Because that’s totally what she’d done.

“She didn’t.”

“Really, Blackburn?” Marty lowered his camera, an incredulous look on his face as he turned his attention to Zach. “Does she realize the innocent-me ploy hasn’t worked since the invention of social media? I like the tomboy without makeup thing she’s got going, though.”

“Hello,” Fallon said, waving her hand, the annoyance at being talked about instead of talked to making her skin prickly. “I’m right here, and I can hear you.”

What sounded like a smothered laugh came from Zach. She turned her glare on him as he stood there with his muscular arms loose at his side as if this was just another day ending in Y.

“And don’t you”—she pointed a finger at Zach—“even think about answering for me.”

He raised a pierced eyebrow, and his lips twitched as if he was trying not to smile, but he kept his mouth shut.

Marty let his camera down so it hung on the strap around his neck and swiped his thumb across his phone, opening an app. “Okay Mystery Lady, why don’t you start by telling me who you are and how long you’ve been…” he paused, the creepy look on his face making her skin crawl, “with Blackburn.”

There was no missing what the guy meant by “with”—and it wasn’t dating. “I am not fucking him.”

“Really?” The photog turned to Zach. “That’s the story you’re going with? No one’s gonna believe that, even if she’s a little…rustic compared to your normal hookups.”

Fallon was about two seconds from opening the security gate just so she could strangle the photographer. What an asshole.

Rustic? So she didn’t have a girlie-girl card or a VIB membership to Sephora or a shoe addiction, and so she only made it to the salon twice a year for a quick trim of her ends (no blow-outs, no stupid head massage). That didn’t make her “rustic,” as if she was a dilapidated cabin in the middle of the woods desperate for a makeover. It just meant the idea of glitter eyeshadow or spending more than twenty minutes getting ready in the morning made her break out in hives. But for this guy—and, to be honest, so many other people—her lack of girlie-girl ways meant she had less value in the only thing he thought mattered when it came to women: fuckability.

She turned to Zach. “Would you just tell him?”

He gave her a considering look and then shook his head. “No way, you told me not to speak for you.” And with a grin, he lifted his hand to his mouth, mimed a key turning in a lock, and tossed the invisible key over his shoulder.

Then, because that wasn’t bad enough, he turned and started back up the driveway as if he hadn’t just all but told the photographer that they were fucking.