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There. I’ve exonerated him.
He stares as if I’m speaking another language, and I need to get away from this man who, in spite of everything, I still want to curl up with.
Hunter winces, but manages a sturdy, “Okay.”
“I’m going to get ready for bed.” I head for the bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and say a prayer to the gods of hot, sexy single men that I won’t be tempted when sharing a bed with my too-handsome husband.
Back in the bedroom, I strip out of my jeans and shirt, and without making eye contact, I tell Hunter the bathroom is his.
“Thanks,” he says curtly, then retreats to the john. Alone, I slide under the covers as the faucet runs.
I turn out the lights on each side of the bed. That’ll make it easier for both of us. While I’m at it, I’ll close my eyes too. Maybe I can sleep through every second of being in this room this week.
C’mon, Sandman, bring it on.
A minute later, I hear the bathroom door open and Hunter’s footsteps approaching. When he reaches the bed, I can’t resist a peek at the beautiful man getting under the covers next to me.
Hunter’s quiet as he lies down, then he whispers, “Good night.”
He sounds sad. I hate that he’s sad. I hate that it’s my fault.
“Hunter,” I say roughly. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“Are you kidding me?” He pushes up on one elbow, turns to me.
“I’m sorry about this whole…thing,” I add.
“But it’s my fault,” he says, like he can’t correct me fast enough. “I lost the bet. Or won the bet. Whatever it was.”
“But I insisted on going through with it.” I huff in frustration.
“And I went along with it happily. I was happy the whole night.”
“It’s okay,” I say again, at a loss.
Hunter sits up. “Stop saying that.”
“Saying what?”
“It’s okay,” he parrots, annoyed. “You won’t even let me talk.”
Can I botch this any more? “Talking never leads to anything good.”
Hunter drags a hand through his hair then launches into his confession. “You think I kept secrets from you, but I didn’t tell you about my father or the show or anything because I’ve spent my whole life with his lies and bullshit. He eloped with his last wife, and made a big show of it, and it was his fifth marriage, and then there was this whole public thing about his marriage later in the summer, and I don’t want to be remotely like the man for a million reasons. I’ve spent so many years trying to get out of his shadow, and here I went and did the same thing.” He blurts his words the way he did on the plane to Vegas, pausing only for a breath. “And then you were pissed I didn’t tell you who he was,” he goes on.
That’s what he thinks? That I’m frustrated because of his father? “That’s not it at all,” I say firmly.
In the dark room, the moonlight casts shadows over his confused face. “Then, what do you mean?”
“That’s not why I was kind of…shut down.”
“Then why were you shut down then?” Hunter presses gently.
“Because you said at the airport you wanted to talk.” Doesn’t he get it? I want to talk is the kiss of death.
“Right,” he says matter-of-factly, that wrinkle in his brow digging deeper. “Talk about the whole situation. That was all I meant.”
“But then you wanted to stay at your flat…” I don’t even know where I’m going with this anymore.
Hunter groans. “I wanted us to stay at my flat. But Machiavelli had me all twisted up with his plans and his attitude.”
Despite the heavy convo, I smile. “Machiavelli, eh?”
“Well, he is.”
“Vance definitely is.” With some of the tension defused, I sheepishly add, “I thought you meant talk like we need to talk.”
“Well, yeah. In the sense that we needed to sort out the whole ‘we got smashed and hitched and the world knows’ business.”
I close my eyes and flop down against the pillow. I read this so wrong.
“What did you think I meant?” Hunter pushes.
“Nothing,” I grumble, feeling stupid.
But then Hunter straddles my hips, pins my wrists over my head, and gives me a devilish smirk. “Nate…”
That feels good with him on me. I open my eyes. “Talk like have a serious conversation about…feelings and shit.”
He laughs. “No. I just meant get on the same page. But you seemed so pissed, so I got all worried that you were mad about, I dunno, Sweet Nothings and me not telling you about my family and my dad and that I worked on the show. I should have said something on the plane when you were going on about it.”
I shake my head. “I’m truly not mad about that.” I sigh, then rip off the painful bandage. “I married my ex quickly. But a few months later, he started getting on my case about how I needed to communicate better. He wanted long talks about everything, then he was checking up on me when I was on the road, calling the hotel to see if I’d checked in, asking where I’d been. A little after that, he started accusing me of cheating.” It hurts, and at the same time, it feels good to tell him the truth.
