In Too Deep

by Lexi Ryan

  “Tonight’s not good, Bailey. Call tomorrow, okay?”

  I bite my lip as my throat goes thick. “Sure thing.” I’m not going to let her get to me. I don’t need my family drama hanging over my head right now. I have enough on my plate.

  We say goodbye, and I end the call. I have thirty minutes until I get to board the plane that’ll take me to my husband. I might as well get some work done.

  I focus my attention on the set of photos I’m editing on my laptop. The girl from this shoot was exceptionally nervous. She lost a bunch of weight while her husband was deployed and wanted to surprise him with boudoir photos when he returned home. The upside of spending a couple of years stripping is that I can be clinical about body parts, so it doesn’t feel overly intimate to take pictures of women in lingerie. I did it for a friend of a friend a few months ago, and then word spread, and now I’ve done almost a dozen boudoir sessions and have another four on the books. Most women have no idea how beautiful they are, so I use lighting and shadows to show them. Watching a woman who’s afraid to look at her pictures fall in love with the images on the screen is the best thing ever. I think this one is going to love hers. There’s a whole series where she’s wearing one of his camo jackets and a scrappy lace thong with a stripe of black paint under each eye. If she doesn’t love them, I know he will.

  I apply a filter to soften an image of her standing in knee-high grass at sunset, and my phone buzzes. I grab it with one hand and tilt my head to study the finished product on the screen. Only when I’m convinced it’s the perfect blend of sexy and cute to add to the set do I look at the text that came through. I don’t recognize the number, but as soon as I read the words, I know the message is from Ron from the bank.

  A slut like you would be lucky to have a chance with a man like me.

  “I want a divorce.”

  A thousand times I’ve imagined Bailey Green showing up at my front door, and those were almost the words I hoped would come out of her mouth. In countless fantasies, her sentences started with “I want.”

  I want you.

  I want your mouth . . . hands . . . body.

  I want us to try to make this work.

  All that. But never I want a divorce.

  Even so, this isn’t unexpected. The timing is, however, pretty damn inconvenient.

  “Good to see you too.”

  She groans and stomps inside my house. “Jesus.” She spins around the foyer and gapes as she takes in the open-concept kitchen and living room. “What did you do? Fuck an interior designer? A bachelor pad isn’t supposed to look like this.”

  “I’m not a bachelor,” I say.

  Her eyes widen and her cheeks blaze pink. I’m not sure I’ll ever tire of reminding her of our drunken Vegas nuptials.

  I drag my eyes from the roots of her blond hair down to the tips of her toes. I’m still waiting for the day that looking at her doesn’t punch me in the gut with need. I’m not sure it will ever come. She’s dressed for the Florida heat in cutoffs and a tank. Those curves would make a godless man believe. I want to drop to my knees and give thanks in every way I know how, starting with the strip of soft skin exposed between her shirt and her shorts. Instead, I kick the door closed behind me and tuck my hands into my pockets, where they can’t get me into trouble.

  God, I’ve missed her, and there’s not much I want to do right now more than hold her face in my hands and kiss her. Just a kiss. Then another. Would that be what I need to let her go?

  When I moved down here to play for the Gators, I’d given up on her. I did everything I could think of to get my mind off her, to move on from the girl who’d give me her body but refused to give me her heart.

  And then, a month after I stupidly slept with Lindy, Bailey and I were in Vegas with our friends. One drink made the next seem like a good idea, and the third made dancing and touching seem like a good idea, and then more drinks made for more touching. We capped off the night with our best idea of all: a visit to the wedding chapel down the Strip.

  I knew she was drunk and I was taking advantage of her at a weak moment, but the fact of the matter is, when Bailey’s guard was down, she said “I do” with tears in her eyes and her hands gripping mine like she was afraid I might run away.

  “We agreed we’d deal with this after Mia and Arrow’s wedding. Their wedding is over.” She swallows. “Let’s deal with it.”

  “About that . . .” I wander into the kitchen and lean against the center island. “I changed my mind.”

  She blinks at me. “Changed your mind about what?”

  “I don’t want a divorce.”

  “You . . . don’t want . . . a div—” She shakes her head. “No. Do you want to make my life difficult? You don’t get to put me off for weeks only to stand there and tell me you don’t want one.”

  “But I don’t. My circumstances have changed.”

  She bites her bottom lip. “I didn’t mean to marry you.”

  I grunt. “Yeah, you did.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “You were sober enough to walk into that chapel and down the aisle. Sober enough to repeat the words.” My gaze flicks to her hand and to her bare ring finger. I came home from Vegas with two rings and no wife. “You were sober enough to make me promise that I wouldn’t let our impulsive marriage ruin my life.”

  “That does sound like me.” She frowns. “You know I don’t need you to end this, right? I can get a divorce without you.”

  I draw in a breath through my teeth. “Yeah, but contested divorces are a whole lot harder to get.”

  “So that’s your plan?” she asks. “You’re going to stay married to a woman who doesn’t want to be married to you until I’m willing to go through some ugly divorce?” She stares at me, as if she’s waiting for me to come to my senses. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Like I said, my circumstances changed. I need a wife, and conveniently, I already have one.”

  She combs a hand through her hair. “You’re a sexy NFL receiver.”

  I grin. “Thanks. You’re not so bad to look at yourself.”

  She groans and tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. I have to avert my eyes to block out the raw sensuality of the image. There’s no denying that this woman gets to me on every level. She’s my kryptonite. “My point is, if you’re so desperate to have a Mrs. Dahl, there are lines of women who would happily take up the position.”

  I don’t want them. “Why would I go to that trouble when I already have you?”

  She backs away from me as if I’m a wild animal and she’s trying to escape without moving too fast. “You really want word to get out that you married the stripper?”

  “Stop it. You’re not a stripper anymore.”

  “The trailer trash.” She lifts her chin and swallows hard. “The broke bitch gold-digger.”

  I flinch. “Stop.” Those are labels my snobby parents would throw around. I don’t like hearing Bailey talk about herself that way.

  “Do I need to continue with the things they’ll say about me if this reaches the media?”

  “Four months,” I say. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  She shakes her head. “For what?”

  “I have to leave for training camp Sunday, but I’m asking you to move in when I come back.”

  “Move in?”

  “Temporarily. Live here through the regular season—that’s through the end of the year. I’ll pay you well to act like my wife, to be my wife for those four months.” I draw in a breath. This is the hard part—the part I have to promise myself I’ll stick to, no matter how much it sucks. “If you do me this favor, come January, I’ll take care of all the legalities of ending our marriage.” I’ll let you go, no matter how much it hurts. “And you’ll be thirty thousand dollars richer.”

  She sputters. “Thirty thou— You’re offering to pay me thirty thousand dollars to be your wife?”

  I shrug. “Yeah.”

  “For four months?”

  “
If you move in right after training camp, it’s technically four and a half.” I fold my arms. “It’s better than what you’d make managing The End Zone in that time.”

  “No shit. You’re insane. Completely insane.” She screws up her face as she studies me, as if she’s never seen me before and is trying to figure me out. “Is this about sex? Are you offering me money to warm your bed for four months? Is that what you think of me?”

  I cock my head and wait a beat before stepping forward and cupping her face in one hand. I can’t help myself. When she’s close, I want to touch her. “You and I both know you’ve always been happy to come to my bed.” My gaze drops to her lips before my thumb sweeps over them. “But right now, I need more than that from you.”

  “I can’t give you more.” Her voice trembles. Is that regret? Sadness? I might know if she’d let me in. But she’s kept her walls up for four years. I’m not holding my breath that she’s going to let them down now. “I have nothing to offer you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re already my wife. It’d be a favor, Bailey. A favor that just might save my career.”

  I blink at him, half delirious under the spell of his touch. His hand feels so good against my skin—warm and reassuring and right. Even though he’s only touching my face, every cell in my body takes notice. “What does our marriage have to do with your career?”

  He drops his hand and steps back. I want to follow him and ask him to touch me again, because I feel so much stronger when his heat is on my skin. Instead, I lean against the counter and remind myself why I’m here. “The owner of the Gulf Gators has a daughter,” he says. “A beautiful, young daughter he thinks walks on water. Our families are friends, and they’ve always had this idea that we’d end up together.” He cuts his eyes away. “When she was visiting in the spring, I slept with her.”

  Jealousy is a dull blade sawing through my lungs. The daughter of an NFL franchise owner is exactly the kind of woman a guy like Mason should end up with. And the exact opposite of everything I am. And the idea that he slept with her? Fuck, why bother with the small talk? Why not grab the knife from the butcher block and carve out my heart?

  I have no right to be hurt—I have no claim on Mason, and after years of pushing him away, I’m a hypocrite for feeling jealous at all—but that doesn’t change the fact that I am.

  “She’s doing an internship with the Gators this season,” Mason continues. “And when she wasn’t taking the hint that I’m not interested in making our night together into something more, I told her I’m married.”

  “I’m not following how this is going to help with your career. What does your relationship with her have to do with your job?”

  “It shouldn’t have anything to do with it, but Bill McCombs is a very powerful man who likes to give his children exactly what they want. Right now, Lindy wants me. If I’m married and uninterested, I’m faithful. If I’m unmarried and uninterested, I’m an asshole.”

  “You want a fake wife so you can fend off some rich bitch?”

  “She’s the owner’s daughter, and I’m just trying to keep the peace.” He studies me, his eyes soft. “My career is on the line, and our accidental marriage might be the best thing to save it.”

  “Mason, what do you make after endorsement deals? Seven figures a year?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not all guaranteed money, but it’s definitely enough to compensate you for your time.”

  “Seven figures a year, and on top of that, I bet you have a trust fund.”

  “Why are you bringing up money?” His expression is guarded, but I see in his eyes that I’m right. Of course I am. His mom was some sort of model and his family is rolling in money.

  “I’m bringing up money because you have all that net worth, and you married me in Vegas without a prenup. Regardless of whether or not an heiress is pursuing you, you should be jumping at the opportunity to end this with no strings.”

  “Now I’m supposed to believe you married me to swindle me out of my trust fund?” He folds his arms, making his biceps strain across the soft fabric of his T-shirt. Sweet Lord, he’s fun to look at. “You and I both know I could write you a check right now for everything I have and you wouldn’t take it.”

  “You don’t know that.” But it feels good that he believes it—the bittersweet ache of someone believing you’re better than you are. “You’re sure this is just about your career? Four months of a pretend relationship, and then I go back to my life?”

  He’s silent for a beat too long, his jaw hard, his eyes studying my face. “Like you said, why would I want to be married to a woman who doesn’t want to be married to me?”

  That crushes me, because this isn’t about what I want. It’s about the promises I’ve made. But I can’t tell him that. “Let me think about it.”

  “What’s there to think about? We’re already married.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, how about my job or my life back in Blackhawk Valley? How about how I’m going to explain this to our friends?” I stare at him, looking into his eyes and wishing I could say yes. I want to do this for him, but it’s so damn complicated. “I’m not taking your money.”

  “You have bills to pay.” He casts me a sideways glance. “And clearly your job at The End Zone isn’t cutting it.”

  I frown. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugs. “There’s a pile of collection notices in the office addressed to you. They started showing up a couple of weeks ago. Someone’s really determined to get the money you owe them.”

  I flinch, feeling confused and exposed. “That’s private.”

  He holds up a hand. “I didn’t open them. I’m just saying you could make better money working down here than Keegan can pay you to run that bar. That’s in addition to what I’d give you, and obviously, you need it. Is my offer too low? Name your price.”

  “I don’t want your money.” My phone buzzes, and I reach for it, thinking it might be my sister.

  He shoves his hands into his pockets.

  I take my cell from my pocket and unlock the screen to open the last text message. A single swipe of the screen, and I’m eye to eye with some asshole’s cock.

  You won’t think my dick is small when I shove it down your throat.

  I gasp, as if it isn’t just a picture, as if Ron is actually in front of me and whipping it out.

  Mason takes the phone from my hand. “What in the actual fuck?” His eyes go wide and his jaw hardens before he looks back to me. “Who is this asshole?”

  Maybe it shouldn’t matter, but I’m glad I didn’t get that text while I was alone. My skin is crawling, and I feel a little dizzy with the implied threat in the message. “I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s probably from a guy I ran into at the bank yesterday.”

  He stares at me, dumbfounded. “This is normal behavior for guys you run into at the bank?”

  “No, obviously not. I . . .” Why is this so embarrassing? How can I be so grateful that he’s here, seeing what this ass sent, and at the same time wish he’d never found out about it? How can I want to tell him everything about my interaction with Ron while simultaneously wishing I could keep it a secret? “Ron was a regular when I worked at the Pretty Kitty, and he didn’t take it too well when I declined his invitation to take me to dinner.”

  Mason scrolls up and reads the text Ron sent me when I was at the airport last night. His nostrils flare as he grips the phone tighter. “What’s his last name?”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I think I need to visit Blackhawk Valley and pay this asshole a visit.”

  “I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “He’s just mad that he got rejected. I’ll have his number blocked, and it will be over. Don’t go looking for trouble.”

  He draws in a breath, and I can see that he’s struggling to remain calm. “Do you get this shit a lot?”

  Honestly, it comes with the territory of being a stripper—even a former stripper—in
a small town. “I keep my number pretty private, and that helps. He found my workplace from my account at the bank, so I’m guessing he snagged my number while he was at it.”

  “Sounds like his boss needs a call at the very least.” He steps closer and puts the phone on the counter behind me, then cages me in with a hand on either side of me. When he looks down into my eyes, it feels as if he’s washing away all the ugliness Ron’s message made me feel. “I really want to kick his ass, Bailey.” His voice is low and simmers with something volatile, and I feel guilty for loving it, for finding a sense of security in his rage.

  “I know you do. And . . . thanks.”

  Guys like Ron are a dime a dozen. They think that because they could pay to look at me once, I remain their property on some level. They’re the reason I stopped dancing even when my debt was still piling up. They’re the reason I was so happy to have my friend Sebastian be my roommate in college.

  But guys like Mason are one of a kind. He never treated me like a piece of property or made me feel like my most important qualities were physical ones. Not once.

  I lift my hand to his face, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Before I can overthink it, I push onto my toes and brush my lips against his. The kiss is soft and brief, and it seems to take him by surprise, because he draws in a sharp breath. I pull away, just an inch, my hand still on his jaw, and the room goes too quiet. I don’t think either of us breathes for several seconds.

  “What was that for?” he asks.

  “For being you.” I shrug as if it’s nothing, as if he hasn’t been the rock holding me up during the last four years. Again and again, when it seems as if my entire world is crumbling beneath my feet, Mason is solid.

  “Does that mean you’ll be my wife?”

  The emotions swirl and battle in my chest, and I laugh outright. “It means I’ll think about it.”

  Four years ago . . .

  The Pretty Kitty was packed tonight. When I change into my street clothes, I’m exhausted, but I’m leaving with a purse full of cash and the knowledge that my sister will be able to pay the rent for one more month.