Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“I don’t want your money.”
He takes a step toward me. “I know that. But they’re going to say it anyway. And they’re going to speculate if you’re pregnant. They’re going to wonder if you tricked me somehow and a million other terrible things just to spin a story.”
I move backward until my legs hit the edge of the mattress. Then I sit. Although I knew all that, hearing it from Renn makes it much more real.
“I told my PR person not to make a statement until we—you and I—talk,” he says.
“You probably have a nightmare on your hands, huh?”
He looks me in the eye. “I’m less concerned about that right now and more worried about you.”
You are?
It takes a few moments for that to register.
I knew, or hoped, that Renn would realize we’re on the same side of this disaster. But the thought that his needs would swamp mine has lingered in the back of my mind. I’ve experienced enough to know that big-dollar deals sometimes outweigh other things—like truth and people.
My heart swells. The man who has so much to lose is worried about me.
He sent me flowers for Valentine’s Day during the DiNozzo disaster. Of course, he wrote a sarcastic card that wasn’t exactly sweet, but I read through the lines. He was just showing his support—and it was very appreciated.
Renn returned to the US one year when Brock had to have surgery because he knew it would just be my brother and me. One summer, he hooked us up with a place to stay when Ella and I went to Europe for a week. And when a coworker’s son got osteosarcoma, and she mentioned Renn was his favorite athlete, Renn didn’t hesitate to jump on a video call with him … for an hour.
He can be a good friend. A great human. Just not a good husband.
“What is happening with your contract?” I ask. “Have they said anything?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t gotten that far.”
“What about your dad’s deal? I know you said not to worry about him, but I can’t help it.”
His jaw pulses. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But Renn, he’s your dad.”
“And you’re my wife.”
We face one another, feeling each other out.
I’m relieved that being with him feels the same as always—that our marriage didn’t make things tense or hostile. We can smile and be playful, despite the impending disaster swirling around us. That I’m not labeled the bad guy.
And I can’t ignore that it’s the second time he’s claimed me so fiercely. That’s kind of hot.
He’s not really your husband, Blakely. Back out of this thought process.
“How are things going?” Brock marches into the room unannounced, flashing a look at Renn that would kill a weaker man.
Ella is at his heels, looking apologetic.
“We’re going to get an annulment or a divorce—preferably an annulment. That way, it’s like the marriage never happened,” I say brightly, trying to avoid another fistfight.
My brother looks at Renn. “What’s going on with your contract?”
“Let’s talk about that later.”
“Did you talk to your dad?”
Renn runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, and he’s about as pissed as you’d imagine.”
“What did he say?” Brock asks, unflinching.
“Oh, that I’m a little punk,” Renn says, dropping his hand to his side. “That I probably just cost myself my job and him two years and a deal worth three-quarters of a billion dollars. I’m careless and selfish. You know, the usual.”
My jaw drops. “Your father said that to you?”
Renn chuckles angrily.
“Reid Brewer can be a real gem,” Brock says, returning his attention to his friend. “What was your response?”
“I told him I’d call him later. Besides, we have bigger fish to fry.”
The two of them exchange a look I don’t understand.
“How are you feeling, Blakely?” Ella asks.
“Hungover.” I tear my attention away from the guys and kick the end of the broken table. “Do you know if there are any big trash bags in the kitchen? Maybe we could load this thing—”
“Forget the furniture,” Renn says, irritation thick in his tone.
I put a hand on my hip. “I’m trying to minimize the charges you get for destroying a hotel suite. Or do you want to say fuck it and add that to the things you have to deal with?”
“Blakely …” Renn looks at the ceiling and sighs. “No one is getting charged for anything.”
“Have you looked around?”
“Yeah, a few times. I own this suite.”
I still, the room shifting beneath me. “What do you mean that you own it?”
“I mean, it’s mine. I own it. I bought it. I wrote a check—or made a wire transfer, actually. Then they sent me a deed.”
“You’re joking.”
“Hey, it’s half yours now, too, technically,” Ella says, shrugging.
Brock fires her a dirty look. “Don’t.”
She returns his glare with just as much passion. Even though she stands up to Brock—a lot—it’s moments like these when I wonder if they’ll survive.