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I could text him, but he’s busy working. Not gonna bug him with a what kind of cereal should I get while I’m at the grocery store kind of request.
Judging by the few meals we’ve had together—on the plane, and then here in London—Hunter’s not picky. He seems to go with the flow.
In addition to my spicy noodles, I grab an eggplant dish, then a curry, then a chicken Pad Thai.
When the server asks for the level of heat, I roll the dice on Hunter being a game-for-anything guy.
“Hot,” I say.
I return to the hotel and eat my spicy noodles on the couch while listening to Huxley’s hero commandeering a jeep in Barcelona to chase down a thief of rare antiquités.
As I dine, my gaze drifts to the door more times than I can count. But it never opens.
When I’m done, I find a new text.
Hunter: Still here.
And he’s sent two emojis—an eggplant and a sad face.
I reply.
Nate: Got you some food. It’s in the fridge. Warning—it’s spicy. But I think you like spice.
For a fake husband waiting for his fake spouse, my heart feels truly heavy when I get into bed alone.
31
CHOMPING ON EGGPLANTS
Hunter
I feel like a stalker.
I’ve been watching Nate for the last thirty minutes, looking for any sign he might wake up.
Hell, I even tried to rouse him by chomping on this fantastic eggplant dish louder than my mum would have let me get away with at the table.
But I’m finished with my late-night meal, and I can’t exactly scroll through my phone noisily in the hopes he might perk up.
Maybe he’ll stir if I get ready for bed. I move around the room in the dim light, but after I’ve brushed my teeth and stripped out of work clothes, the football stud is still conked out.
At least the sheets are riding low, so I enjoy the view of his abs as I settle under the covers. I dim the light the rest of the way.
He shifts to his side. “Hey,” he murmurs.
Hallelujah! We have a live one!
“Hey, stud,” I say, with hallelujah in my voice too.
Barely opening his eyes, he smiles sleepily. “Stud. Ha. I like.” His words slur together.
But I fight on. “Thanks for the dinner,” I say, upbeat.
“Spicy. Like you,” he mumbles.
Please rally. Pretty please.
“It was great,” I say, but he’s a lost cause, and his eyes flutter closed.
In seconds, Nate’s snoring lightly, and I’m cursing time and fate.
It’s Wednesday night. We only have two more nights together. I won’t even see him after Saturday morning when he goes into lockdown mode before the Sunday kickoff, then he’ll fly home mere hours after the game ends.
My heart thuds painfully.
I’d thought a week would be enough, but now I don’t want it to end.
As my limbs grow heavy and my eyelids flutter, the day floats past me in a slow, sleepy blur. At least we have Thursday morning.
My mobile buzzes at seven. Grabbing for it, I click on the message from Ilene.
Ilene: Can you come in early? I’ve been brainstorming some extra promo packages! Could use your brain and its storms.
Sleep would have been nice but won’t win me promotions.
I hop out of bed and shower quickly, sans singing, then tug on clothes without Nate even stirring.
Should I wake him to say goodbye? I imagine he’d get up and dressed and insist on walking me to work.
I’d love that. But the man has a game in three days and needs his rest.
I drop a kiss onto his forehead, then leave the hotel, feeling like I haven’t seen him in forever.
As I head down the steps to the tube, my mobile vibrates with Ilene again.
Ilene: Oops! Come to Triumph Stadium. We’ll be working from there today.
I’m no longer cursing fate. I’m smiling as I cross to the other platform to catch the train in the opposite direction. I get to see my guy at the stadium. It’s hardly a date, but I’ll take whatever I can get.
Ilene crunches on raw green beans from a Ziploc bag as we take the cavernous hallway underneath Triumph Stadium on our way to the field. She’s a multitasking executive.
She finishes a bean and says, “It seemed like a good idea at the time—to ask the Leopards and Hawks what they’re most looking forward to in the game. But now it feels so blah.”
Her voice sounds downcast. I’ve rarely seen her so creatively frustrated.
“I want something fresh. A snappy question. We’ve got the whole starting line-up here and I want something…” She rubs her thumb and forefinger together, like she’s hunting for an idea just out of reach, and it’s not another bean. “Something catchy.”
I wrack my brain. What would I want to hear from the football stars? “How about asking what football means to them in five words or less?” I suggest. “Sometimes when they have to give a snack-size answer, you get something juicy.”
