Page 12 of Face Off With Fate

I cut her off. “Absolutely not.”

“Give me one good reason,” she said, hands hitting her hips.

“Because I don’t want your help.”

She clucked her tongue in the same way her cousin did. “That’s not a good reason.”

“I think it is.” I crossed my arms, digging my fingers into my biceps to avoid reaching for her.

“Monroe, it might not be a bad idea,” Thatcher said. “I mean, Gracie knows⁠—”

“I am not taking PR advice from someone I don’t know,” I spat. That I don’t trust. “She used my hockey stick to vandalize your dad’s car. Some people still think it was me who did it. That’s probably the reason for these damned articles to begin with. What kind of public relations strategy is that?”

“Allegedly, his car was hit. And they don’t know with what.” She rolled her eyes. “And if I did do something like that, I wouldn’t feel bad about it.”

My scowl deepened. She didn’t even know how to plead her case. Every word out of her pouty lips only solidified my decision against working with her.

“Yeah, that’s the problem. Do you even think through the things you do, Graciella?”

Her head jerked back at the accusation, jaw going slack. Just as quick as her confident demeanor slipped, it was back in place. “Do you think through the things you say, Joshua? Or do you just spout the first assholey thing that pops into your mind?”

“My name isn’t Joshua. And assholey isn’t a word.” God, this woman.

“It should be burro, because that’s how stubborn you are.” She threw her arms in the air, exposing a strip of tanned skin at her midsection.

My mouth dried, the opposite reaction I was going for when it came to her.

“Monroe,” Thatcher cut in, placing a hand on both of our shoulders. Creating space in the gap I hadn’t realized we’d closed. “You do need help being more approachable. Why not⁠—”

“I am approachable.”

“Sure.” Graciella smirked. “In a ‘do not approach the wildlife’ kind of way.”

My jaw ticked. They might have a point. Maybe I did need help with my image. But there was no way in hell it was going to be from Graciella Barrera.

She didn’t make me better. Clearly, she made me worse.

“No. Out of the question. You aren’t the one who’s going to help me,” I said to Thatcher. “I’ll go find Tommy and get this sorted. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.” Or he’ll fire me.

“Aw, Monroe, afraid to spend time with me?”

“No.” I turned, finally looking at her. “I’m afraid you’ll ruin me.”

Her smile sharpened, and my stomach dropped.

“Oh, I absolutely would.”

FOUR

GRACIELLA

PROFESSIONAL BULLSHITTER SHOULD GO IN THE SKILLS SECTION OF AN APPLICATION TBH.

The hard plastic bit into my palm, fingers cramping from how I held the press badge. A smidge to the left or right would reveal the bright red, outdated numbers.

I flashed it at the door guy, shoulders pinned back and a flirty smile painted on my lips. He gave a curt nod, eyes already fixed on the line behind me. The breath I’d held released in a puff. To think I had the balls to pull that routine every weekend when I was young.

Prefrontal cortex development was wild.