by Tara Wyatt
Marlowe reappeared wearing a blue tank top and a pair of denim shorts, her wet hair piled into a bun on top of her head. She held her phone in one hand as she sat down on the bed. “My numbers are up thanks to the story about us getting married.”
Hunter nodded. “That’s what my agent thought the case would be. Which is why I don’t think we should get divorced. At least, not right away.”
She let out a bitter little laugh. “Ha, yeah. No. No way. Not gonna happen. We can’t stay married, Hunter. That’s crazy.” Her eyes were wide, almost frantic, the words spilling out of her mouth.
“Why is it so crazy? It’s already done, we get along, it’s good publicity…” He trailed off, playing his hand carefully even as he could see her panic mounting.
“No. We were drunk. It’s not real. It doesn’t count.”
He wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince herself or him, but he fought back a wince and pressed on. “Yeah, we were drunk, but that doesn’t mean it’s not real. We’d have to get divorced to undo it, so like it or not, it counts.”
“Fuck.” She stretched the word out into a long, low sound, something almost pleading to it. She stood and wrapped her arms around herself, pacing to the window. She bit her lip and shook her head as she muttered to herself. “I can’t do it. I can’t.”
“Why, Marlowe?” He moved behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She jumped and then relaxed into his touch. “Why can’t you do it?”
She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes begging him to understand. “Because I can’t. I just can’t.”
“I’m not asking you for forever, or for promises or anything like that. All I’m suggesting is that we let this play out a little.”
She was quiet for a moment and he didn’t say anything else, letting her think. He felt her relax a bit more, her spine softening. “For the publicity.”
He was in it for a hell of a lot more than the publicity—he was playing for keeps. But if that was what she needed to tell herself to get over this damn fear of hers, he could work with that. “Yeah, for the publicity. Career-wise, it’s the smart thing to do.” She smelled like warm vanilla and it took everything he had not to press his lips to her neck and taste the soft skin there. Images from the ridiculously hot sex they’d had last night flashed through his mind. The memory of Marlowe moaning his name, her nails raking down his back as he thrust into her, over and over, made his cock stiffen. He could tell she felt it by the tiny moan she made as she shifted against him, adding the tiniest bit of pressure with her ass. Fuck, he wanted her. He always wanted her, but there was something different in the need churning through him now.
He wanted to fuck his wife. He started to lower his head, wanting to trace the delicate curve of her neck with his mouth, when she moved away, shaking her head.
“So…what? Pretend we’re happy in love newlyweds?”
He shrugged, trying to get his libido under control. “Pretty much. We’re good for each other’s images. I’d be benefiting here too.”
“How?” She sat down on the bed and he sat down beside her, leaning forward and clasping his hands between his legs.
“Aerin told me that I need to grow up. Getting married looks pretty damn grown up.”
She blew out a breath. “And getting a quickie divorce much less so.”
“Right. And since an annulment is off the table, maybe it’s worth staying married for a little while to see this good publicity through.”
She looked at him warily. “How long is a little while?”
“I dunno. Maybe until the end of the baseball season and you go on tour. What’s that, like ninety days?”
“Something like that. Assuming you make it to the post season,” she added, a little spark coming into her eyes.
He smiled, some of the tension radiating down his neck letting go. “We got drunk and did something impulsive, but we’d be making a big mistake not to capitalize on the good publicity that’s come out of this.”
She stared off through the window, deep in thought. After a moment, she nodded. “Okay. Fine. We’ll stay married. Ninety days and then…”
“And then divorce court, here we come.” Unless the other part of Hunter’s plan worked out. And if he was a betting man—and God knew he was—he’d bet it all on finally getting Marlowe to admit her feelings for him.
He tipped her chin up and kissed her gently on the lips. Everything inside him warmed, but he didn’t push for more, knowing she probably needed some space. And as usual when it came to Marlowe, he was right. She pulled away and stood up, pacing across the room.
“We probably shouldn’t…” She gestured at the bed where he still sat. “Since things are…confusing. You know? All the lines are already so blurry, and if we…even though I want to, I just don’t think…”
Hunter stood and pulled her into his arms, giving her a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. He pulled back and tucked a loose tendril of damp hair behind her ear. “Whatever you need, Mrs. Blake.”
She shivered and everything inside him felt supercharged, like he could jump out of his skin with how fucking hot that sounded. Mrs. Blake. Fuck.
“So…” she said, shooting him a rueful smile. “What’s next?”
Hunter smiled, so ready to get on with this pretend-but-not-pretend marriage. “My parents are dying to meet you.”
“I guess we have a lot of stuff to figure out, huh?”
“We do. Come back with me to Dallas and we can brainstorm on the plane.”
She blew out a breath and then nodded. “Texas, ho,” she said, adding an adorable little fist pump. Then she turned away and started packing up her things.
Hunter grinned, feeling more settled than he had in a long time. He was going to make Marlowe Story admit she was just as in love with him as he was with her. And he had ninety days to do it.
Six
Marlowe tucked her icy hands into the sleeves of her blue cashmere cardigan, curling them up to try to find some warmth. Airplanes always left her feeling chilled, and the feeling was only amplified by the shock still pulsing through her. Try as she might, she couldn’t quite wrap her head around the turn the past twenty-four hours had taken. All she’d wanted was to have a little fun with Hunter, and now look at the mess they were in. Married, and stuck together for the next several weeks.
She twisted in her seat, trying to find a position that would help soothe the latent nausea still hovering in her stomach and tightening her throat. Her thoughts felt like they were drowning in the storm raging through her mind as she tried—and failed, mostly—to process everything. She’d broken a promise to herself. She’d sworn she’d never get married, would never sign up for the kind of messy heartbreak it inevitably promised. Not only that, but she’d dragged Hunter into the muck with her. She had no idea why he wanted anything to do with her, especially after what had happened in the spring, with the baggie of weed. She seemed to bring him nothing but trouble. A shiver of revulsion ran down her spine and she pulled her sweater tighter around herself, the leather of her first class seat groaning softly beneath her. Reaching forward, she tapped the screen embedded in the seat in front of her, calling up the map to see how much longer until they landed in Dallas.
Hunter dozed in the seat next to her, his big hands folded over his flat stomach, his Longhorns cap pulled down over his eyes. How he could relax enough to sleep right now, she had no idea. She felt wired, taut and ready to break with the slightest pressure. She nibbled on her thumbnail as she studied him, wishing she could have even a quarter of his devil may care zen.
Really, the only silver lining in this situation was the apparent good publicity coming from the story of her quickie wedding to Hunter. Her sales and downloads were already tracking up and the story of their wedding had been picked up by all the major news outlets.
Hooray. All she’d had to do was royally screw up her personal life and one of her closest relationships.
She glanced over at Hunter again, taking in
his sprawling athletic frame, his full lips framed by his neatly-trimmed beard, his corded forearms and long denim-clad legs. What if, at the end of this ruse, she lost him? Not that he’d ever been hers to begin with—not in any real, permanent, tangible sense.
She sighed and Hunter stirred, pushing his hat back on his head and sitting up. Surprising her, he laid a hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze. “We’re gonna get through this and everything will be fine, Mar. Okay?”
She smiled and shook her head. How did he do that? It made her feel naked the way he could often see right to the core of her, as though he were wearing x-ray glasses. “Maybe we should talk about how this is all gonna work.”
He nodded and sat up straighter, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. Her fingers tingled with the need to repeat the gesture, but she didn’t move. Getting physical with Hunter would only make things even more confusing and messed up. In the name of self-preservation, she needed to maintain some kind of boundary.
“As far as everyone’s concerned, we’re married. We’re in love, and we’re happy. I think we have to maintain that—even if it’s just an illusion—to make the story convincing,” he said.
She nodded. “If people think it’s just a showmance or whatever, that’ll only bring speculation and negative publicity down on us.”
“Right. It’s gotta look authentic.” He smiled at her. “People love a good love story.”
“That they do. That’s why I sing so many songs about it.”
“So I think it makes the most sense if you stay with me at my place. And you’ll need to come to at least some of the games, but I know you have your own shit to do too.”
“I’ll have to go out of town for promotional stuff sometimes, but I can move tour prep to Dallas to make things easier. Am I supposed to go on the road with you?”
He shook his head. “Only if you want to. Honestly, it’d be pretty boring for you.”
“Okay.” At that moment, a gorgeous flight attendant walked by, her eyes raking over Hunter. Something tightened in Marlowe’s stomach, and she found herself speaking before she could talk herself out of it. “Is it easier for you if I stay home so I don’t cramp your style on the road?”
Hunter frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we weren’t exclusive before, and I don’t see why that’d change now. All I ask is that you’re discreet. Just don’t embarrass me, okay?” She crossed her arms over her chest, curling back into her seat.
Anger flashed in Hunter’s eyes and he leaned toward her. “Marlowe, listen to me. Since we’ve been hooking up, I haven’t been with anyone else. Yeah, I’ve got a reputation and I might’ve flirted to keep up that image, but you’re it, babe. I’ve never cheated on you, never will. I’m lots of things, but a cheater ain’t one.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. Not that she’d been with anyone else either, but…it somehow felt more official, more serious, knowing they’d been exclusive with each other, even if it wasn’t exactly planned.
He leaned even closer. “You asked me something yesterday, and I’m tossing the question back to you. Why are you the way you are?”
She shook her head. “I don’t…”
“What are you so fucking scared of?”
She swallowed, her throat tightening in an effort to keep it all inside because sharing would make her vulnerable, and being vulnerable meant getting hurt. “I’m not scared. I just have a healthy sense of reality and how the world works. My eyes have been open for a very long time when it comes to relationships.”
He glanced down and took one of her hands in his, gently prying it out of her sleeve. Warmth flowed up her arm at the feeling of his strong hand engulfing hers. “You don’t have to be scared with me. I’d never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right?” With his other hand, he reached up and stroked his fingers over her cheek. Her nerve endings unfurled like flowers in the sun, stretching toward his touch, and she found herself pressing her cheek into his palm. God, he made her so weak.
“No one has a crystal ball, Hunter, and you don’t need to make me any promises.”
“What if I want to?” He closed the distance between them and kissed her, a soft, gentle kiss on the lips that had her sighing and melting into him. “I don’t know what’s got you so damn scared, but I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.”
He was so sincere that her eyes started to sting. “Why?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Why me?”
“Because you’re my girl.” He said it like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he was telling her that the sky was blue or water was wet.
“But why am I your girl?” She pulled away, finding it hard to think with him so close. “All I do is cause you trouble.”
He grinned. “That’s not all you do.”
She swatted his arm and bit back the smile trying to break through. She wanted to ask him more, to press him for details, when the flight attendant returned and laid a hand on Hunter’s shoulder.
“This is for you,” she said with a flirty wink before sashaying back down the aisle. She’d slipped a little scrap of paper into Hunter’s hand, and Marlowe’s stomach sank at the way he watched her walk away. She believed him that he hadn’t slept with anyone else since starting up with her, but that didn’t change his reputation, or his past, or who he was, really.
She’d be a fool to let herself feel anything for Hunter Blake, even if he was her husband.
Hunter took a breath and pulled open the door leading to the Longhorns’ clubhouse. The All-Star break was done and his suspension was officially over, and he wanted nothing more than to get back to normal.
Well, as normal as things could be with Marlowe crashing—scratch that; hiding—in his guest room because they were freaking married.
As he stepped into the clubhouse, a cheer went up and he was suddenly pelted with handful after handful of sunflower seeds.
“Hey, here’s the married man!” said Alejandro Cruz, dumping the rest of his bag of seeds on Hunter’s head. Music started playing through the speaker system—Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust.” As Hunter tried to fend off the onslaught of sunflower seeds, he felt numerous claps on the back and shoulder shakes as the team congratulated him. Any stress or tension caused by his suspension seemed to be forgotten, and Hunter felt the muscles in his shoulders relax as he made his way to his locker. He hadn’t been sure what kind of reception to expect, and this was far warmer than he’d let himself hope for.
“I feel like there’s a hell of an interesting story here,” said Dylan McCormick from his locker beside Hunter’s as he pulled a gray Nike T-shirt over his head.
“Understatement of the year,” said Hunter, dumping his duffel onto the floor and starting to get changed for practice.
Dylan leaned in close, glancing around the clubhouse before speaking in a low voice. “So what the hell’s going on? Last I heard, you weren’t even sure things were gonna work out with her.”
Hunter let out a snort as he sat down and tugged on his cleats. “Still not sure things will.”
Dylan frowned. “Okay…listen, I’m here if there’s shit going on that you wanna talk about, or…”
Hunter stood and clapped Dylan on the shoulder. “Yeah. We’ll go for a beer soon, assuming you can tear yourself away from Maggie.” Dylan was happily shacked up with his girlfriend, the former Longhorns PR director and Dylan’s high school sweetheart with whom he’d recently reunited.
Dylan laughed. “I think I can manage one beer.”
Hunter shook his head, deliberately giving Dylan a hard time. “If you say so.”
“It’s good to have you back.” Dylan sighed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck before tugging on a Longhorns ball cap. “I feel like I owe you an apology. I’m the one who started that brawl, but you’re the one who ate the most shit for it.”
“No apology needed. I’ve got your back anytime. Besides, that suspension was about more
than just that fight, and we both know it. I’ve been managing to piss in Javi’s cornflakes all season.”
“Speak of the devil,” said Dylan, ducking away and grabbing a pair of sunglasses from his locker.
Javi, the team’s manager, strode into the main area of the clubhouse, an unreadable expression on his face and his tablet under one arm. Hunter was pretty sure he slept with that thing he was so attached to it. But he knew Javi’s work ethic was one of the reasons he was such a good manager, and why the Longhorns were having a better season than everyone—including the players themselves—had predicted.
“Can I talk to you?” he asked Hunter, tipping his head in the direction of his office. Hunter nodded and followed him, not sure what to expect. Javi had reamed him out royally after his role in the brawl, and they hadn’t spoken since.
They entered Javi’s office and he closed the door behind them, then gestured for Hunter to have a seat in the lone leather chair facing the desk. Javi sat down behind the desk, drumming his fingers on the faux-wood surface. The office was small and surprisingly cramped, with a row of metal lockers lining the back wall and overflowing with equipment. The off-white cinder block walls were covered in Longhorns memorabilia, most of it from years long past. The last time the team had won the World Series was over twenty-five years ago; even their most recent playoff run was five seasons past, before Hunter’s—and Javi’s—tenure with the team. He took a seat, steeling himself for whatever might be coming.
Javi pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his stomach. “I’m still pissed at you. Just thought you should know.”
Hunter braced his arms on his thighs, his hands clasped between his knees. “I get it. I fucked up. I gotta earn my way back into your good graces, and I accept that.” But it didn’t really matter what he said. Javi was the kind of man who valued actions far more than words. He didn’t want long apologies and promises; he wanted a change in behavior, and Hunter knew it.
