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Guess that was her answer about what else he had up his sleeve—he was going to be pleasant instead of an obstinate jackass. Strictly to mess with her head, most likely.
But she needed to work with him to benefit both of their goals. She bit her tongue and slipped her hand from his. “I can give that a shot.”
They put their heads together, and true to his word, Logan listened to her ideas. She considered it a plus when he laughed at her jokes. No one had to know she secretly reveled in it.
* * *
By the end of the afternoon, they’d amassed a solid four hundred dollars and change with their McLemonade booth. God knew how. They’d fought over everything: how much to charge, where to set up, how much lemonade to put in the cups. Apparently, Mr. Nice Guy only made an appearance when he wanted something, then vanished once he got into the thick of things.
Finally, the show’s producer asked them to pack up and head to the studio so they could wrap up the day’s shooting. They drove separate cars to the set and met up again in the fake boardroom.
This time, Trinity grabbed a seat. An entire day on her feet, most of it on grass while wearing stilettos, was not doing her body any favors.
“Welcome back, everyone!” Rob Moore called, and the teams gathered around the table.
Logan stood at the back and Trinity pretended like she didn’t notice the vacant seat by her side. All the other teammates sat next to each other. Fine by her. She and her partner got on like oil and water and had only figured out how to work together because they’d had to.
“We’ve tallied all the sales, and I must say, this was an impressive group of teams.” The host beamed at them. “But the winners are Mitch Shaughnessy and John Roberts!”
Disappointed, Trinity clapped politely as the winning team high-fived each other and jogged to the head of the table to claim the giant check made out to St. Jude Children’s Hospital. That was the important thing—the money was going to a good cause.
“The winning team’s proceeds were...” Rob Moore paused for dramatic effect. “Four hundred and twenty-eight dollars. Impressive!”
Oh, dear God. They’d lost by a measly twenty-five dollars? She thought about banging her head on the table, but that wouldn’t put the cameras on her face with a nice graphic overlay stating her company’s name. But what if there was a way to get some additional airtime? The cameras were still rolling, panning the losers as the host launched into his trademark parting comments.
“Fire up the electric chair, boys,” he cried. “We’ve got some executions to perform!”
This was the cheesiest part of the show, which she’d hoped to avoid. She had a good idea how to do that and get some cameras on her at the same time.
Pushing her chair backward with a sharp crack, she bolted to her feet and charged over to her partner, poking her finger in his chest with a bit more force than she’d intended. But she’d gotten the cameraman’s attention, and that was all that mattered.
“This is all your fault, McLaughlin. We would have won if it wasn’t for you.”
His gaze narrowed, and he reached up to forcibly remove her finger from his person. “What are you talking about? This ship started sinking the second we were paired. Bad girl meets all-American boy. Please. What they should have called us was train meets wreck.”
That struck her as such a perfect way to describe the day that she almost laughed, but she bit it back. She could admire his wit later, over a glass of wine as she celebrated the fact that she never had to see him again. “You know what your problem is?”
“I’ve got no doubt you’re about to tell me,” he offered and crossed his arms in the pose that she’d tried—and failed—to ignore all day. When he did that, his biceps bunched up under his shirt sleeves, screaming to be touched. She just wanted to feel one once. Was that so much to ask?
“Someone needs to. Otherwise, you’d walk around with that rule book shoved up your...butt,” she amended, lest the producers cut the whole exchange due to her potty mouth. “Some rules are made to be broken. That’s why we lost. Apply for sainthood on your own time.”
His expression heated and not in a good way. “Are you saying I’m a Goody Two-shoes?”
“If the shoe fits, wear it,” she suggested sweetly. “And that’s not even the worst of your problems.”
He rolled his eyes, fire shooting from his gaze, and she almost caved, because he was really pissed and while she wanted the cameras on them, she also felt like crap for poking at him. But when he got hot and bothered, he lost all his filters and focused on nothing but her.
