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I take a left onto a wider street and head west, sending her another glance. “But you believe me now?”
“Of course. I mean, unless you were super-drunk that night—”
“No. I had a beer or two, but I wasn’t wasted. After my concussion, the doctors told me to drink only in moderation and I’ve followed their direction. And I’veneverbeen so drunk that I didn’t remember taking a woman to bed, much less doing all the stuff she claims.”
“Then I see no reason you’d lie. And why would you demand a paternity test if you were? Logically, it doesn’t make sense. Even without all that, I’d believe you.” She reaches for my hand. “We hadn’t known each other long the day her claims went public. I overreacted because…you were getting to me and that scared me to death. I was so afraid I was falling for someone who was like my dad or my ex. I wasn’t really mad at you. I was furious with myself.”
I give her hand a squeeze. “I understand. It just means a lot that you believe me now. Proof that I’ve been nothing but honest is coming, baby.”
She smiles my way. “Thanks, but I already know.”
Just like that, my Sunday starts looking up. Once we get home, my family comes over for an early dinner before Trace boards a plane the next morning for a few days of meetings in San Francisco.
The shit hits the fan and splatters everywhere on Monday morning when Mercedes Fleet gives her most salacious interview yet, revealing details of the things I supposedly can’t resist in bed and the ink I’ve never showed in public. The first claim…she’s guessing. She has to be. Besides, what guy doesn’t like a blow job, followed by some down-and-dirty penetration? But the description of the tattoo on my hip is something else entirely. It’s an elaborate compass, a tat I got after a few years in the league to remind myself which direction was home so that I’d never lose my way. The ink on my shoulders, arms, and ribs are all well photographed. But the compass was just for me.
How the hell does this woman know about it?
I try to block the worry out, work on reducing my anxiety and upping my mental calm. Harlow stays beside me, helping in every way she can. I need it now more than ever. I’m starting to worry that if this liar gives more interviews like the last and I don’t accept the network’s offer before I’m ready, I’ll never have a chance at a career in the broadcasting booth and I’ll have to leave football way before I’m ready.
The call I’ve been fearing comes on Monday night. Cliff didn’t board his plane back to New York because Gus Chickman, who runs the network, wants to see me. In person. As soon as he can get to Maui.
Cue the interrogation.
Shit.
I’m pretty sure this chat is make-or-break.
“You’re going to be fine,” Harlow assures me in a soothing voice as we finish dressing for a dinner meeting on Wednesday night at one of the steakhouses on the island. “I’ll be right beside you. We’ll tell them you’ve been busy wooing me, then planning a secret wedding. After our honeymoon, you’ll definitely give their offer the serious consideration it deserves and you’ll have an answer to them in less than a month. We’ve rehearsed this, so it will be as smooth as butter.”
“Yeah.” I try to sound sure of myself, but I’m nervous as hell. What if I freeze up when I need to defend myself most? I know Harlow will step in and smooth things out…but how will that look to Chickman?
On the way to the restaurant, I don’t complain when she puts on soothing instrumental music I swear only gets played in elevators and funeral homes. To my wife’s credit, the relaxed tempo of the flute-heavy tunes helps me focus on my thoughts and talk myself away from the proverbial ledge. I also practice my breathing on the drive and take a lot of moments to touch Harlow—a squeeze of her hand, a caress of her knee. Just having contact with her calms me.
When we arrive, the valet takes my keys and manages not to gape at us for too long, which is a blessing. But he can’t keep his eyes off of Harlow, and it annoys the hell out of me.
I step into the punk’s line of sight and force him to stop ogling my wife. “We good here?”
He blinks, seeming to realize that he’s staring at Harlow in her strappy blood-red dress. “Um, yes, Mr. Weston. Sir. There’s no problem.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I don’t mean to be hard on the kid. He’s maybe all of twenty-two, and my wife is a vibrant beauty. But not every man who comes to this place with a gorgeous woman on his arm will be so understanding. Hell, I’m not sure how much I can be. This is the first time I’ve discovered how much I don’t like random men gawking at Harlow.
She approaches with a smile for the kid and wraps her fingers around my arm, flashing her wedding ring. “Thank you.”
Her soft voice rings in my ears as we head to the door.
“Was I an asshole?” I whisper.
Harlow holds up her thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart. “A little bit. Wound up or jealous?”
“Both,” I grumble, knowing I need to get my shit together. “Sorry.”
“The good news is, I’m not leaving you for a kid I met in a parking lot two minutes ago and Mr. Chickman is here because hewantsto talk to you, because hewantsto have you on board. If he didn’t, he would have given Cliff the kiss-off speech already and asked your agent to pass it on to you.”
She makes valid points. I’m so lucky to have her in my life. “Damn, I married a smart woman.”
“Don’t you forget it.”
