Page 53

The little flip I felt in my throat when I saw Willow’s progress is problematic.

I want her to feel at home, which is why I pushed the decorating issue last night. I don’t want Willow to feel like her room is an isolated apartment within my penthouse. If she’s going to be here for a year, she should have full range of the space, especially since I’ll be gone more than half the time.

I’ve never cared about what my place looks like because I’m hardly ever here. What’s important is a good home gym, a chef’s kitchen for Gabriel, my mattress, and the automated blackout curtains that cover the bedroom windows with a click of a button. Recovery sleep is arguably more important than another hour in the gym when it comes to performance and longevity. It is hands-down the most underrated training technique.

Running a towel over my sweat-damp hair, I finally dial Carter’s number.

“I solved the robot issue,” I tell him when he picks up.

“This, I gotta hear.” A creak sounds in the background, like Carter is stretching out in his office chair.

“I…”

Though I know I could tell Carter the truth, that Willow and I married for convenience, a part of me doesn’t want to voice that this is fake. Even when I’d been working with my lawyer, I’d simply mentioned that I was getting married and I needed him to prepare documents.

“I’m married.”

“And Kylie Jenner is my girlfriend. Now that we’ve got those nonsense statements out of the way, what’s your solution?”

I press my fist against my forehead with a slow exhale. “Feel free to check with the Circuit Court Clerk’s Office.”

Carter mutters a muffled curse as keyboard clicks resonate over the line. “You’re serious?”

“When have I ever joked about anything?”

Except with Willow, but she seems to be the exception to everything.

“You got married a week ago, and you’re only telling me now?” The pitch of my agent’s voice skyrockets.

“If it makes you feel better, you’re the first person I’ve told.”

Carter makes a noise in his throat. “That does, actually.”

After giving Carter Willow’s basic information, I listen to his pitch about having me endorse an off-off brand of turf shoes before shutting it down.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll see if I can find something else. Do me a favor and crack a smile during a game, or maybe rescue a baby from falling over the outfield wall or something. I’m good at my job, but I’m not a miracle worker.”

After ending the call, I find Willow in the kitchen, her hair still mussed from sleep. A ‘70s rock ballad whispers in the background about missed opportunities as she putters around. When Willow opens the refrigerator, her oversized cardigan slips off one shoulder, exposing a white tank over plaid pajama pants, and the desire to wrap her in my arms snaps the breath from my lungs.

“Morning,” she says while rubbing one eye. “I’m going to heat up a breakfast burrito. You want one?”

I nod, sitting on one of the stools at the large center island.

While the microwave whirs, Willow shoves a stack of envelopes toward me. “Sally delivered these while you were gone.”

I debate lying, telling Willow I’ll get to them later, even going so far as to take them into my room, but what comes out of my mouth is an unfeeling, “You can throw them out.”

She frowns, sifting through the pile. “Some of these look like they were addressed by children.”

“All the better for them to understand disappointment early.”

Willow looks at me like I just suggested drowning a puppy for funsies.

“Shane.”

Standing, I snatch the envelopes from her and throw them in the trash. “This is who I am, Willow. I don’t do fan mail, charity signings, or kids’ baseball clinics.”

I do donate large sums of money to various charities, but never so it’ll be traced back to me. Most of them support children who want to play baseball but can’t afford it and, ironically, T1D research focusing on regenerating insulin-producing beta cells in the pancreas. Bryce sent me information about the research institute a few years ago, and I’ve been one of their premiere donors ever since.