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But I don’t want to play Sherlock Holmes games. “Who are they?” I bite out.
“The world,” he answers crisply. “Just look at the captions. Or I can read them to you. So sweet, congrats, OMG you look so much happier than before.”
I blow out the deepest breath, trying to let this all go. “Okay, so now what?”
Vance stares sharply at me. “Well, do you want to look like the Liz Taylor of the NFL, known more for your marriages than your receiving yards?”
I wince. I’m already too known as Oliver’s ex. And I’ve kept my mouth shut as he’s spewed lies. “No,” I mutter. “But what does—”
“And I doubt your sneaker sponsor is going to like it if you’re the guy who got drunk married and then instantly divorced? How about Less is More? They market their energy bars to kids and teens. Kids and teens love you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with two dudes getting married,” I shout, exploding for no fucking reason and every reason.
He rolls his eyes. “I fucking know that. I don’t care who you marry. Nor does Less is More. Their CEO is a lesbian. The issue is you were shit-faced drunk. Do you want to go tell the world you made a dumbass decision when you partied hard in Vegas and married the first guy you’d dated since Oliver?”
I burn inside. When he puts it like that…
“Or do you want to, say, stay happily married for thirty days to the guy you’ve been privately dating for the last few months?” He takes a breath and plasters on an exaggerated smile. “I imagine in the last week of conversations with the cutie you even planned to elope after the concert in Vegas. You intended to marry him. And now, you’ll spend a delightful week together in London as newlyweds. After that, you’ll return to San Francisco, he’ll stay in London, and you’ll publicly miss each other. Then down the road, you can quietly let this blow over, and once no one is talking about you two anymore, you can move the fuck on. How does that sound?”
It’s not really a question.
Vance already scripted out the whole story. I have to hand it to him—privately dating is not a bad explanation.
I slump back in the seat again, weighing my limited options now that a quick and easy annulment is off the table. A drunk-marriage-turned-instant-divorce after my very painful divorce earlier this year would look bad. Especially since my first ex-husband blathers on about me like I’m a rich prick.
If the world thinks I’m a jackass playboy who gets wasted and then hitched, I’ll lose sponsors and fans.
If the world thinks I’m happily married to a guy I’ve been secretly seeing and am now in love with, I’ll maintain my good guy rep.
I drag a hand down my face, weighing the choice. But it’s not up to me alone.
I turn to Hunter. As bad as I feel about my own situation, I feel a million times worse to have dragged him into this storm of my love life.
“What do you want to do?” I sound as defeated as I feel. I’m sure he’ll say no. He doesn’t need this shit in his life.
I expect an argument. A scoff. A you’ve got to be kidding me.
But he solemnly nods. “I think that makes perfect sense. A fake marriage for appearance’s sake.”
What? He agreed? Like that?
Vance sighs contentedly. “I thought you might, Hunter.”
I cock my head. Hold the fuck on. “Why would you think he’d want that?” I ask Vance.
My agent stares at me like I don’t know jack. Then he speaks slowly. “His father’s been married five times. You might have heard of him. Ian Granger is his dad. The creator of your favorite show—Sweet Nothings. And Hunter worked on the show for a few years. I figured Hunter wouldn’t want to get married and divorced in one weekend. Am I right, Hunter?”
“Yes,” my husband says, tight and crisp. “And I just got a new position at work. I don’t want to cast any bad publicity on the network.”
I jump out of my skin.
What was I thinking? I barely asked any personal questions about Hunter.
Now I have no clue who the hell my fake husband is. And it feels like I’m making the same mistakes all over again.
21
TWO GROOMS IN ICING
Hunter
There’s no time in the back of the car to explain to a scowling Nate why I don’t want to talk about my father—like how a one-night marriage would make me look just like him, but a thirty-day one at least is more palatable. There’s no time because my phone brays with a call from my boss.
Is Bernard going to cross-examine me too? Just what I need. A double dose of judgment. I answer the call. “Good morning, Bernard,” I say brightly, as if I’m not freaking out over how my wedding looks to my colleagues.
