Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I’ll be here.”
He gives a what can you do shrug, then says, “And I’ll be there.”
My heart’s both fuller and a little more hollow. What’s there to say except, “That’s how it goes I suppose.”
“Yeah, it is.” He yawns, then pats the futon. “Want to crash here tonight?”
“Mister First Class wants to sleep on a queen-size futon?”
“I’m a size queen,” he says, shooting a salacious glance at my spent dick.
Laughing, I flop next to him. He wraps his arms around me. “Besides, this whole place smells like you. And I like it too much to leave.”
I close my eyes as if that can mask the sound of my heart thumping, saying I’m falling for him.
But I’d do well to remember the ground rules. One week. No commitments.
No matter how much longing I can hear in his voice, come Sunday night, we’ll be thousands of miles away from each other.
33
GAME FACE
Nate
All day Friday, I’m dogged by annoying thoughts…of Monday.
During practice with the team, we review the playbook and I do my final round of media interviews, but the whole time, I can’t escape images of next week.
When I’ll be home in San Francisco.
Waking up alone.
Then in another few weeks, I’ll be prepping to divorce Hunter quietly.
The idea twists my gut.
But tonight is the Webflix reception, and I need to focus on the moment—and have a good time. Fortunately, my seven seasons in the NFL have given me blinders and a damn good game face.
I shower, trim my beard, and dress for the reception along with Hunter thinking only of the immediate future.
I catch a glimpse of the pair of us in the mirror, and I’m struck by the rightness of the guys looking back at me.
“Damn,” I say, whistling low as I check out his trendy look—trim black slacks and a mint green shirt. I’m wearing tailored pants and a royal-blue button-down.
“We look good,” he says. “Like we stepped off the pages of GQ.”
“I need a picture,” I say, then snap a selfie. I check it out on my phone. “Yup. That’ll be a nice memento of this week.”
“Send it to me,” he says, upbeat too.
See? I’m focusing on the moment. Living in it. Enjoying it. So is he. That’s all we can do.
And I plan to enjoy stepping out tonight with my husband.
The event is close—ten minutes away by foot. I like the way it feels to leave a hotel room with him, walk through the lobby, then head out on the street, talking as we go. Everything is easy.
Because it’s fake. Because it’s ending, cynical me says.
Or maybe because it’s just easy, I tell myself.
The blinders are slipping, so I try tricking my brain with a change of topic.
“I enjoy London more with you than when I came here with my family in high school,” I say.
“And this whole time I thought you were a London virgin,” Hunter says.
I drape an arm around him. “London with you is nothing like London with my parents.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
There’s a hint of a promise there—London is ours. “It’s a deal,” I say, even though we both know that’s unrealistic.
Then he asks me about the Huxley book we shared on the plane. Maybe he’s trying to stay rooted in the here and now too.
I catch him up on the latest goings-on in the thriller as we walk.
“You should snag a copy and we can listen together,” I say, before it’s too late. Sharing a story means we’ll be spending time together, even in the form of texting about a book. “I mean, you should listen to it,” I amend as we reach the venue.
He looks at me, his brown eyes resigned but understanding. “I knew what you meant.” We’re at the entrance now, and he draws a steadying breath. “All right, hubby. It’s our last hurrah. Let’s be the best temporary husbands we can be.”
I square my shoulders and head inside with my husband, wishing I didn’t want to show off the guy by my side so badly.
The guy who gets me.
The guy who wants me.
The guy who cares about me as deeply as I care about him.
My blinders are long gone.
34
NO MORE ARM CANDY
Hunter
I walk into the reception with my date, photographers snapping our picture the second we step into the glittery ballroom.
The room is stuffed with athletes, execs, members of the press, advertisers, marketers, and anyone and everyone it seems.
Pop music plays from a DJ in the corner. The song is William’s “I Said Someday,” and I nudge Nate. “That’s our guy.”
“Sure is,” Nate says.
This feels a little like Vegas again—the lights, the energy, the music. Maybe we’ll go out on a high note. Have a fantastic final night here.
As an associate producer, I’ve rarely attended fetes like this. But now I feel like I’ve earned my way past the door. Especially when Ilene flags me down. “Hunter! So glad you’re here,” she says as she arrives by my side seconds later.