Mother Faker

“You want me to open the stadium up to a bunch of preschoolers?” my boss grits out, his forehead wrinkling and his green eyes boring into me. “They’ll probably piss on the field.”

God. The man could be so dense.

I place my hands on my knee and stare down Beckett Langfield. “First of all, they aren’t dogs. And statements like that are exactly why the media says you don’t like kids.”

“I like kids,” he says matter-of-factly, like the sky is blue and the grass is green.

Internally, I roll my eyes at my clueless boss. Beckett Langfield likes three things: his steaks rare, his women bare, and the billions he’s got in the bank earning interest. Beckett wouldn’t know what to do around a child, let alone convince anyone he likes them.

Laughing in his face wouldn’t be my best tactic here. Not with a man like Beckett. So I placate him and spin it, as the head of PR for the Boston Revs so often has to do.

“This isn’t about what you do or don’t like,” I start, lying through my teeth. “This is about giving the appearance of what you like. And right now, it appears that you don’t like kids. We need to change that.”

“All because I said no to one charity,” he grumbles, gripping the edge of his seat on either side of his legs so tight his knuckles are white.

“It was St. Jude, and it was the way you said it that caused the problem.”

“The stadium is booked that night.”

This time I can’t stop my eye roll. “Yes, for a swimsuit edition event. You picked pinup models over preschoolers.”

“I never used those words. That’s what the media ran with,” he defends, his frown turning into a scowl. “I didn’t even know St. Jude was the organization reaching out to book the event. All I told Wendy was to let them know we were booked.”

With a shrug, I lean forward. “Wendy ran her mouth, so now the story is that you don’t like kids.”

“But I do like kids,” he growls as the limo we’re traveling in jolts and the tires screech to a stop. Without a seat belt to hold me in place, I go tumbling forward, straight into my boss’s lap.

“Fuck,” he groans above me.

Lifting my head, I peruse the length of him, realizing then that I literally headbutted him in the crotch. As in, my head is currently touching my boss’s dick.

“Oh my God,” I cry, trying to right myself. Of course, in my attempts to do that, my hands land on his thighs, and then the car jolts forward again, this time causing me to punch him in the balls.

“What the hell, Liv?” he howls, pulling his knees together to protect his junk.

But I’m still too close, so as he squeezes his legs together, my head ends up trapped between his thighs, causing me to lose my balance and fall forward again.

The door to the limo swings open, and Charlie, our driver, leans in. “Mr. Langfield, I’m so sorry⁠—”

I try to turn my head, but I’m literally stuck in a death grip between Beckett’s thighs. Above me, he’s still groaning in pain, unaware that we have company.

“Oh, shit!” Charlie shouts. His eyes bulge when he catches sight of me. “Um, we hit a dog, um… I’m sorry to interrupt, but…”

I elbow my way out from between my boss’s legs and grab for a seat belt to right myself. “For God’s sake, Charlie, you aren’t interrupting anything. I just fell down when you hit the brakes.”

Charlie’s red face sags in relief, but we both turn when Beckett cries out again in pain.

“I need to go to a hospital.”

With a huff, I scoot down the seat and slide out of the car. “You do not,” I call back to him. “Men are such babies.” Standing straight on the sidewalk, I pull my skirt down and adjust my top. I’m sure my hair—which is normally in a bun on the top of my head—has been destroyed by Beckett’s thigh burn. Is that a thing? I think it just might be. I rub my neck where he had me in his vise grip and wait for the big baby to get out of the car.

“You killed my dog!” a little boy shouts at Charlie.

My stomach drops, and I can’t help but groan at how bad this is.

I love kids. And dogs. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but why couldn’t this have happened to someone else? I close my eyes and breathe in for four, then out for four, preparing myself to approach the bereaved child and his mother.

The little boy can’t be older than eight. He’s about the same size as my Winnie. She’s dramatic, and I expect this kid will be too.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, striding over to the mother.

Her lower lip is trembling and her face is streaked with tears. She looks like she’s absolutely beside herself. “Were either of you hurt?”

The kid points at Charlie, who’s still standing by the back passenger door. “He killed my dog!”

Poor Charlie looks gutted, his face ashen like he might collapse at any second. Beckett, of course, is still MIA. I swear, if that man comes out here howling about his broken penis, I’m going to scream.

“Someone call the cops!” the kid wails. “He killed my dog!”

I hold up my phone, indicating to his mother that I’ll make the call. A report will have to be filed, but hopefully I can talk her into accepting a nice settlement so we can keep this out of the press. Offering that kind of incentive right now, though, won’t calm her child.

As I turn around to make the phone call, Beckett finally appears. I motion for him to smooth things over—something he’s surprisingly good at when it comes to women. He can use his absurdly good looks to win the mother over, and then she can calm her child down.

As I talk to the dispatcher, though, the voices behind me get louder. Spinning on the sidewalk to assess the situation, I find the kid pointing an accusatory finger at Beckett. “Aren’t you the kid hater?”

Oh no.

Without hesitation, he winds up and kicks Beckett in the shin. At that exact moment, the dog springs to life, scaring the living hell out of all of us and causing Beckett to fall forward. Naturally, he lands on top of the kid, and half a second later, I hear the click of a camera.

Oh, hell, I really hate my job.