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However it happened, someone else definitely knows.
As in, the whole fucking world.
The news must have come out while we were flying, our phones off.
One last note blinks up at me. I stare at a text from Vance like it’s a bomb, then I man up and open it to find out what my agent has to say.
Vance: Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t say a word. Bring your new man and I’ll be waiting on the other side of customs.
Frantically, I text Hunter.
Nate: Wait for me.
His reply appears in seconds.
Hunter: Of course. Also, I got service. Nate, we need to talk.
The last time I heard those words, Oliver told me he wanted to go to therapy. But what he was really saying was “It’s over.”
That’s all I hear in them now too.
Like chastened children, my husband and I walk to my agent. Standing with his arms crossed by the escalator on the other side of customs , Vance is sporting a tailored shirt that looks like money, and his best shut up say nothing grin.
When I arrive, he drapes an arm around me, squeezing too hard. “So good to see you, buddy,” he says, jaw clenched, making his fair skin look even fairer.
“You too,” I manage.
When he lets go, he extends a hand to Hunter. “And you must be the one and only Mr. Colburn.”
Hunter swallows, clearly nervous. But then he squares his shoulders. “Pleasure to meet you, Vance,” he says, suddenly all confident and in control.
Damn, he is a badass producer. Even when we’re in hot water, he’s handling the boil.
“I’ve got a town car. Let’s get out of here before the paps see you. But if they do, you two are going to smile and wave,” Vance whispers, this close to seething.
I nod.
Hunter doesn’t even protest.
Hmm. Something’s up with him, but we didn’t have so much as a second to talk once we cleared customs.
There’s no chance now, either, as Vance shepherds us out of the airport and straight to a sleek black waiting car. The driver flies around the back of the vehicle and hoists our bags into the trunk while Vance opens the door for us.
Hunter slides in first and I’m next. Then Vance joins us, slamming the door and raising the partition.
The second the glass is up and we’ve pulled away, the practiced smile on my agent’s face vanishes. “So, why don’t you men put your rings back on?”
20
THE INTERNET DETECTIVES
Nate
I dig around in my pocket for the band, then slide it back on.
Hunter does the same. He doesn’t even ask a question. He knows exactly why we’re in trouble.
I hate being the last to know. “What the fuck is going on, Vance?”
As the car swings away from the airport, he picks up the tablet on the seat next to him, then hands it to me. Hunter scoots closer and together we peer at a terrific shot of us laughing at the San Francisco airport, clearly together.
But my skin prickles. I get that we were in public, but this feels like an invasion of privacy.
“That’s a shot of us waiting for our flight,” Hunter says calmly, checking out the pic. “Who took it?”
Vance shrugs. “Some rando. Doesn’t matter.” He tells me where to find the next shot.
I click it open. It’s me kissing Hunter at the concert. Fine, there were tons of people, but this feels personal too.
“Then check out this lovely video,” Vance says.
I squint at the thumbnail of Bryan and me, then groan, annoyed. Seriously? “Do people have nothing to do but take videos of others?”
I hit play. “Buddy, maybe go to a twenty-four-hour drive-through instead. More private,” Bryan is saying.
My skin crawls.
Someone followed us.
The next pic is Hunter and me in the sunroof, kissing after we said I do.
I close my eyes, trying to let this sink in. But all this evidence feels unreal, like I’m watching our accidental marriage unfold from a distance. Like it’s happening to someone else.
“There’s one more pic,” Vance says, his tone less annoyed, more gentle.
I brace myself as I open my eyes. The photo is us on the plane, his head on my shoulder.
My breath hitches.
And my dumb heart squeezes.
I steal a glance at Hunter, but he’s unreadable, just studying the tablet like he’s coming up with a plan. Like he’s producing the coverage of this docu-reality series for Webflix. My Drunken Marriage Bet.
But I’m still shell-shocked. “Who did this?”
Vance huffs. “It doesn’t matter. Someone took a shot of you guys going to the chapel, posted that online. And once that was posted, the Internet detectives went out and found the others. That’s what happens when you play pro ball for a living and get hitched in a very public place. There were five or ten thousand people at the concert last night. The bloodhounds have been having a blast looking through their camera rolls and finding shots. Including this one of you two cuties from an hour ago.” He stops to take a breath, and to tell us, “Cuties is not my word, by the way. It’s theirs.”
