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My stomach flips and churns at the words your husband. That’s a frustrating reaction.
“Ah, here it is.” The concierge hands me a key.
“Thanks,” I say, then take the key and head toward the elevator. The route takes me by the hotel bar, and my pace slows near the entrance because…Is that Nate with a group of guys? I can only see him from the back—familiar head of brown hair, broad, strong shoulders.
Is Nate out with his teammates, laughing and having a good time while I’m a mess?
Maybe he’s the wanker.
As I head upstairs, my head swims with regrets—but are they over what happened in Vegas? Or what happened after Vegas?
When I slide open the door to 1412, the suite is empty, and my heart sinks. There’s just his suitcase and a note on the pillow that says, Be back later.
This empty ache in my chest answers some of my questions about regret. I definitely regret how I handled things the last few days. I should have been more direct with Nate about my dad. I had ample opportunity to tell him I don’t come from nothing, like I’d let on, but rather from Sweet Nothings. I should have been honest, because I knew before word got out of our nuptials that I wanted to see him here in London this week.
Now I pluck at my black shirt, dejected. It was pointless to wear something sexy. I kick off my shoes, flop down on the bed, and turn on the telly.
Sweet Nothings is on.
Seething, I turn it off and read a book instead. But soon the letters levitate, the sentences turn to gibberish.
I’m about to fade out completely…Then I hear the door unlock.
23
BIG HANDS
Nate
I can’t avoid Hunter any longer. I’ve tried all day. I worked out and talked to Amy. I tried after dinner too. I rounded up my teammates for a drink at the lobby bar, though I ordered water.
His text message—we need to talk—has repeated on a cruel loop all day. Guys only say we need to talk when they’re about to dump you.
Sure, it’s possible—maybe even probable—he meant we need to talk about the wedding news getting out. But after he dropped that awkward I can’t stay at my flat, I haven’t been able to shake the conviction that his talk involved telling me hasta la vista. He might need to stay married to me for appearance’s sake, but he doesn’t want to be with me even for a week.
Maybe he’ll be asleep when I return to the hotel room.
Or better yet, maybe he won’t want to talk anymore.
I hate talking. I hate the bullshit that comes with serving up your guts to someone and then it turns out oops—the guy who’s been accusing you of cheating every time you go on the road is the one banging someone else.
Several someones.
But I can’t put Hunter off any longer. I say goodnight to Jason, Devon, Xavier, and the other Hawks and head to the elevator and take it to fourteen. When I get to the floor, I step out, but then lean against the wall by the elevator banks.
Get over it, man. So what if he’s not into you? It’s a fake marriage anyway.
Except I’d foolishly hoped to steal time with him this week. Before the chapel, before the bet, before I even took a single drink in Vegas, I already liked the guy. I wanted more.
But it’s time to stop stalling and start walking. I head down the hall to my room, unlock the door, then swallow my hurt and go inside.
Hunter is stretched out on the bed in the half-light, his eyes fluttering closed. I kick off my shoes, but as I pad across the room, he stirs, pushes up, and blinks his eyes open.
“Hey,” he mumbles.
“Hi,” I say, halted in my tracks.
We’re both quiet. I stand ten feet from him. He stays on the bed. We are statues. Frozen married men.
What the hell do I say next? I go with a bland, “How was your meeting?”
“Good. Productive. Did you have practice?”
I shake my head. “No. Just worked out, reviewed game video, and then we had a dinner with the press.”
“How was it?”
Are we doing this? Talking about our day? I guess married couples do that.
I cross the room and sit on the couch across from him, perched uncomfortably on the edge of the cushions. “It was good. Yours?”
“Busy,” he says, scratching his jaw.
“Is it good to be home?”
“Great. Real great,” he says, smiling too widely.
The tension between us is so thick you could slice it like a pie.
“Nate.” He says my name thickly, full of regret, and I can’t deal.
I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. I get it. You don’t want to be in this situation either. We only have to fake it while I’m here in London, and we’re both busy this week and it won’t be hard to avoid each other without anything seeming off. Then I’ll go back to San Francisco after the game on Sunday, and you’ll stay here, and we don’t even have to talk to each other. We don’t have to pretend when it’s just you and me here in the room. It’s fine. I swear it’s fine.”
