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“Cheers, Hunter. I can’t remember if you like the yogurt with the granola or the oats with chia seeds.” Bernard seems oblivious to my suddenly very public relationship. Wouldn’t that be nice if he had no clue. “I can set one aside for you before everyone arrives.”
Oh, that’s right. I have my breakfast meeting in thirty minutes. “I’ll take anything,” I say, trying to sound amiable.
It’s a pretense I’ll have to keep up all day. Why did I think going to Vegas and flying back in the nick of time for a meeting was a good idea?
Oh, because I thought with my dick, that’s why.
But I need to use my head so I cover the phone and whisper to Machiavelli, “I have a meeting at Webflix in thirty. Can the car take me there?” I ask, giving him the address of my office.
Vance raps on the window and tells the driver where to take me, while on the phone, Bernard prattles on. “Great. I’ll get you the granola. Those chia seeds are dastardly. They get stuck in your teeth. Then all day long you’re running around trying to pluck them out with your tongue. It’s awful.”
“Yeah, chia seeds are the worst,” I say, stealing a glimpse at Nate. His expression could make a BuzzFeed list of Top Ten Scowls.
Finally, Bernard drops the chitchat. “Can you talk about the interstitials before the meeting with Ilene? We have a good chance to show her what we can do here in the London offices. I was thinking something fabulous with players’ stats. All sorts of eye-popping numbers and graphics for the tossing yards, and the end-zone penetration.”
I bite back a laugh I don’t feel. “Penetration in the backfield,” I correct. “Not end-zone penetration.”
“That’s something else entirely, I bet,” Bernard says, then laughs, a little embarrassed, before he recovers. “And I think we’ll also want some coverage of the most explosive players. Those who have the biggest sacks and such.”
Stop, Bernard. Please just stop.
It’s a good thing the man has creative vision for our coverage, but it’s a better thing that Ilene is spearheading the sports details. “Sacks aren’t measured by size,” I explain, and when I hazard a glance, I spot both Nate and Vance rolling their eyes.
“Good to know,” Bernard says, then drones on again about the interstitials—the brief promo spots we’ll run across our home page menu to entice our audience to tune into the big game this coming weekend. As he is wrapping up his plan, the car pulls up to the office. “Well, I’m here,” I say to my boss, relieved to get away from Nate’s glower and Vance’s fangs.
“Perfect. We’ll carry on in a few over the granola. Ilene is here, and she’s ready to go.”
Ugh. Ilene! I still want to impress her so badly. But I want to impress her with my skills, not with my romantic life. If I’m married and divorced in one weekend, that’d be the talk at the water cooler. If I’m married, and then eventually divorced down the road when we’ve all moved on, that’ll be a whole lot less interesting to others.
I hang up, and with the car idling, I turn to Nate and Vance. Only, I’m at a loss as to where to start—the details of my checkered family history or the rules of my new and necessary fake marriage?
But the most pressing matter is my job. “I should go,” I mutter, reaching for the handle.
When Vance clears his throat, I freeze. “Tonight you should meet your husband at his hotel room,” he says.
Oh, right. We have to keep up appearances.
“I can’t stay at my flat?” I ask, but then kick myself since I meant to ask if we couldn’t stay at my flat—we not I.
But before I can correct myself, Vance says drily, “Yeah, that sounds like a bright idea.”
Wow. His sarcasm is so endearing.
“Don’t talk to Hunter like that,” Nate snaps.
Vance holds up his hands in a half-assed apology. “Look, I don’t give a fuck where you two stay,” he tells us. “Your flat or his room. But I do give a million fucks about Nate keeping his deals and his reputation.” His tone shifts from irritated to imploring. “That means you have to stay together this week. And on Friday night, you’ll go together to the reception that Webflix is throwing for the teams, take some pics with execs, and don’t get drunk and blow our cover. Capisce?”
Reprimanded, I look to Nate. But his face is stony once again. Is he pissed at me or the whole situation?
“Shall I meet you at your hotel tonight?” I ask.
Shall?
When did I start saying shall? I sound like a posh asshole.
“Sure. See you tonight,” Nate says tonelessly.
Great. Just great. I’m already fighting with my fake husband.
Sounds just like a real marriage.
