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)
He paid for the whole ride.
I should have paid. He’s my date.
As we rush up the escalator, racing toward security, I say, “Can I Venmo you the money for the Lyft?”
Irritated, he rolls his eyes. “Nate. I can afford a Lyft.”
Shit.
My second husband is going to hate me as much as my first.
The wait for TSA lasts the equivalent of the Pleistocene era. Hunter taps his foot and scans the line then blows out a long stream of air. I wish I could do something to make it move faster, but people will get pissed if I pull the I’m a pro baller, can I cut in line routine. That kind of act would get my mug all over socials for the wrong reasons.
Vance would kill me. Reese would be pissed.
Hunter checks the airline app constantly, muttering the gate number under his breath.
“We’ll make it,” I say.
He nods sharply, but his jaw is tight.
I don’t want to miss the flight either, but the reality is I’d be forgiven. There aren’t many guys on Earth who can catch footballs to the tune of more than eighty to ninety receptions a year. Hunter’s legit stressed though.
He waggles his phone. “Flight’s already boarding.”
“Boarding takes a while. We’re almost there,” I reassure him.
Ten minutes later, we reach the front of the line and rush through security, setting down phones and picking them up on the other side. Hunter grabs his device, checks the app, and curses. “They’re on Group D already,” he mutters.
I can run. He can too. So we do, charging down the concourse like a couple of jackasses and get to the gate as the agent is checking in the last of the passengers.
“Made it,” I say, victorious.
But once we check in and head down the jetway, that feeling slinks away. Hunter gives me a professional smile, no dimple this time. “That was fun. Enjoy the flight.”
Why is he saying goodbye?
Oh, duh.
We’re not sitting together. “I can try to upgrade you,” I offer, but I feel like a privileged asshole who throws his money and his perks around.
Hunter shakes his head as we walk to the plane. “I’ll be fine,” he says.
“I can ask though,” I say, wishing he’d let me, even if I sound jerky. Hell, he enjoyed it on the way to Vegas. It’ll be so much more enjoyable flying over an ocean.
“No, thanks. I’m all good,” he says.
Maybe he doesn’t want to sit with me. Maybe he’s done with this fling, except for that pesky matter of the annulment.
Just because we have an I do to undo doesn’t mean we need to sit together.
When we reach the plane, he boards ahead of me, stepping on with his right foot.
He remembered. That makes me happier than it should. “Right foot first,” I say, automatically as I do when I board.
Hunter turns, looks at me blankly, then his eyes drop to the threshold of the plane.
When he looks back up, he’s bemused.
Oh. He didn’t do it on purpose.
It was an accidental right foot first.
He’s not honoring your silly travel superstition, Nate.
When he rounds the galley and heads through first class on his way to his seat, I give a faint wave. “Bye,” I croak out under my breath.
“See you around,” he says, and if that isn’t the picture of a stiff upper lip I don’t know what is.
But I know this—I’m the biggest schmuck in the world as I watch him go.
I turn into the second row, slumping into my seat next to a woman in a leather jacket. Big pink headphones cover her ears, and she’s bopping her head.
I settle into the chair. It’s comfy and perfect for a big guy with a little headache that’s already fading.
But it feels wrong.
The flight attendant swings by—a redhead with a constellation of freckles. I recognize her from yesterday.
“Hi Mr. Chandler,” she says. Her brow knits for a moment, as if confused, but then she brightens. “Would you like some water, tea, juice, or champagne?”
“Water, please.”
She brings me a bottle and I want to tell her to send one to Hunter too. But would that bug him? No idea.
Instead, I simply say, “Thanks, Grace.”
“You’re welcome,” she says as she heads to the next row.
My phone buzzes in my hand, igniting a spark of hope. Maybe it’s Hunter asking me to smuggle him some water.
But there are only notes from Amy and Bryan. I open my sister’s first.
Amy: Bryan told me you brought a gorgeous guy to Vegas? How was it? I want details! P.S. The massage was amazing! You’re the best.
I run my thumb across the screen, contemplating my answer.
It was the best time I’ve had, and then I ruined it. And I don’t know how to fix anything.
But I don’t write that. Instead, I click on Bryan’s text.
Bryan: How you doing, buddy? Need anything?