by Eden Finley
A hot, miserable asshole with his muscles, tanned skin, and tattoo sleeve. Don’t even get me started on the beard he’s growing out. But all of that aside, he’s still miserable.
Damon owes me big time. I’d text him and complain, but apparently my phone is evil—if the way Matt glares at it is any indication.
These next few months are going to be fun. Why did I agree to this again?
Oh, right. I want to take my father’s Don’t do anything to ruin my political image warning and shove it up his—
The elevator opens to the glass alcove of the basement garage. “Fuck a duck,” Matt says out of nowhere.
“What?”
He tips his head in the direction of the doors. There await two paparazzi for him to make his exit.
“How did they get in the garage?” I ask.
“Who knows.” Matt hangs his head. “How they knew I was at this hotel is the bigger question.” He stares at my pocket where my phone is as if that holds an answer.
“Paranoid much? I didn’t rat you out. This fake relationship thing is going to get plenty of publicity without me adding to it.” Talk about trust issues.
His eyes dart to the guys outside the door and back to me. “Let’s get this over with.” Matt grabs my hand and pulls me through the garage. His grip is deathly and not at all loving or romantic-looking. It looks like we’re trying too hard.
“Ease up, would you?” I make sure the reporters can’t hear. “They’ll think you’re kidnapping me or forcing me if you hold on any tighter.”
Matt’s hold on me loosens but not by much. I fix it by prying my hand free and throwing my arm around him casually. His stiff shoulders give me nothing to work with, and my arm slides right off. Forcing it to stay on his shoulder would photograph even more awkward than the death grip he had on my hand. Improvising, I pretend I’m trying to shield him from the cameras as we rush to the car.
“Give me the keys and you get in the passenger side,” I say.
“Nobody drives my Lambo but me.”
Great, a car nut. “Fine. Get in the driver’s seat but pop the trunk for me.”
Quicker than humanly possible, I put my suitcase and his duffel bag in the trunk and climb in the passenger seat.
The two photographers shove their cameras in my face, and if they’re good at their jobs, I’ll be identified before we get to the docks. The story will hit the media sites before the ship departs, which means I’ll be in cell range when Dad finds out. His people no doubt have a Google alert set up for me.
I was hoping to be halfway to Bermuda before he found out. The fallout will be so much more spectacular if he can’t get a hold of me for seven days.
Matt’s hesitant on the accelerator.
“Just run them over,” I say.
“Yeah, that’ll clean up my image. I can see the headlines now. Matt Jackson in Altercation with Paparazzi.”
Damn it. Something in my gut churns. I think it might be sympathy, but that can’t be right. It has to be hard being Matt Jackson, but Noah Huntington usually doesn’t care about other people’s lives.
Maybe it’s empathy. Being the son of a prominent senator who’s got future presidential candidate written all over him, I’ve had my share of being in the media, so I’ve had a taste of what he’s going through. When I was a teenager, papers liked to print lame stories about the mayor’s son being caught at an illegal, underage bonfire in the Hamptons and other harmless articles that weren’t seen as reckless to anyone but my father and his precious image. But this? This is a bloodbath.
Matt’s been dubbed the bad boy of football—gay edition. Random hookups in nightclubs, drunken antics, and a drug problem probably. Damon tells me the drug addiction is fabricated, but the media doesn’t care about facts.
“You know where you’re going?” I ask when we finally crawl out of the underground garage.
“No idea.”
“There’s a reason OTS booked you a room here. The cruise terminal is a few blocks that way.” I point.
I get a nod in response. Why do I get the feeling this is what I’m going to have to endure for the foreseeable future?
I take out my phone, much to Matt’s disgust.
“Can’t you go two minutes without that thing?” he asks. If he’s going to give me attitude, I’ll give it right back.
“Nope.”
Noah: You owe me. I thought I was a fake boyfriend. Not a fake husband.
Damon: Fake husband?
Noah: We’re already acting like a married couple. Is he always this cranky?
Damon: Oh. Umm … Maddox says he’s not, but I’ve only known him to be surly.
Noah: Something you conveniently left out when you asked me to do this thing.
He responds with the angel emoji. Asshole.
“Where to now?” Matt asks.
With my instructions, we pull up to the terminal and drop the car off in long-term parking. Matt scoffs at my six-thousand-dollar Gucci suitcase as he pulls his no-name-brand duffel bag out of the trunk.
“Okay, what’s wrong with my luggage?” I ask.
He shakes his head as if the answer is obvious and stalks off.
Yup, Damon definitely owes me.
We follow the path like the rest of the cruise guests being herded toward the ship, but when I catch sight of the paparazzi lining the entrance, I freeze. We were told there’d be media, but it must be a slow news day, because this is insane. I count at least fifteen people holding obnoxiously large cameras.
Matt stops in his tracks. “I-I can’t … I can’t do this,” he says quietly.
People bump past us and glare for holding them up.
I’ve seen the articles online and, well, everywhere, but it’s not until I’m staring down the lens of a million cameras all wanting a photo of us that I realize it’s not just a matter of a photo. It’s the need for a story. The more scandalous the better. And right now, there is no bigger scandal than Matt.
I pretend I’m unaffected, but the truth is, it’s a whole lot more daunting being on this side of it.
“It’s easy. We walk through the crowd, say no comment every five seconds, and ignore everything else.”
Matt’s feet lock to the ground, his skin pales, and it looks like he could vomit. “I …”
“Matt,” I murmur. “We need to move. We’re standing in the middle of the walkway, and you can’t afford to freeze up right now.”
The media spots us, and they begin converging.
“Babe, I left something in the car,” I say loud enough for them to hear. I turn back and head toward the parking lot, weaving my way through a few more people heading for the terminal. I practically have to drag Matt who’s in shutdown mode.
A parking attendant stands by the boom gate of the garage, and I wave him over. “Is there anything you can do about the photographers over there?”
The dude’s eyes flit from Matt to me and back again. “Umm … I … I’m sorry, but are you Matt Jackson?”
“Yes. He is. So, can you see why we wouldn’t mind bypassing the swarming vultures?”
“Right. But, uh, there’s only one way onto that ship, so no matter what, you’re going to have to get past them.”
“Thanks for nothing,” I mumble and continue to drag Matt back to his car.
A quick look over my shoulder shows one or two ambitious assholes with cameras coming our way.
I pin Matt up against his car and lean in, speaking low. “Okay, you’re going to have to snap out of whatever panic attack you’re having, because we’re thirty seconds away from being photographed again, and you look like you’re about to shit a brick.”
Matt manages a nod, but I’m not convinced he’s not going to freak out again as soon as flashes start going off in his face.
But the photographers are on us, and I do the only thing I can think of to snap him out of his trance. I cradle his head and bring my mouth to his, all the while hoping his eyes haven’t grown to the size of saucers.
That wouldn’t make for a great photo.
Matt tenses, his mouth not responding to mine. My lips are soft against the steel bars that have taken residence on his face. His overgrown facial hair has gotten past the scruffy stage and is soft against my smooth skin.
“Better do a better job than that,” I whisper against his lips so the paparazzi can’t hear.
“If it weren’t for the photographers, I’d kick your ass right now, Huntington.”
“Let’s not play the last name game, Jackson. I’m helping you here.”
“Seems like you’re tryin’ to get your time in the spotlight.”
I pull back but stay close. “Let’s have this conversation somewhere else. You ready to face them?”
“No.”
“Need me to kiss you again?”
He frowns. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Huh. He’d rather deal with the media than kiss me. Someone get me a crash cart, because my ego just flatlined.
Suddenly Matt has no issues with walking through a crowd full of photographers. It’s slow going, and I make sure to keep my face neutral as the flashes go off in my eyes.
Damon told me I’m supposed to sell this lie, but I’ll bet if I were to reach out and grab Matt’s hand, he’d swat it away. Or try to break my bones.
When we make it through the throng of media and into the terminal building, Matt doesn’t relax at all. Lines of people fill the space, and there’s not much room to move.
Matt doesn’t stop glancing around as if looking for an emergency exit.
When we finally get to the front of our line and check in our baggage, we’re given our room keys but told the rooms aren’t open yet.
Matt tries to hide it, but he tenses, and his eyes practically bug out of his head. He needs to get away from the crowds before he freezes up again or, even worse, loses it in front of everyone.
I lean in and lower my voice as I ask the check-in lady, “Is that really true or is it more convenient if we’re not in the rooms?” I tip my head in Matt’s direction. “You know who that is? Think we can catch a break here?”
The woman looks Matt up and down, and her eyes light up in recognition. “I’ll have a look for you, sir.” She types something into her computer. “Housekeeping has your room all set, so you’re free to go there. I’ll put a push on getting your luggage to you immediately.”
“Thank you.”
The plan is to take Matt straight to the room until he chills the fuck out, but as soon as we clear the gangway and reach the welcoming lounge, we both stop short at a woman wearing a towel and hissing at Damon and Maddox.
“Who the hell is that?” Matt asks.
I recognize her when she flips her wet, blonde hair. “That’s Stacy. Damon’s sister. Looks like he’s in trouble.”
“Should we—”
I put my hand on his chest to prevent him from going over there. “Don’t. You don’t want to see Stacy pissed. And considering she’s only wearing a towel and yelling? No one on this ship is safe.”
We leave Maddox and Damon to their tongue lashing and try to find our room. The halls of the ship are so narrow they barely fit Matt’s wide frame. When we weave our way past guests and finally find our room, we can’t get inside fast enough. Matt leans against the door and breathes a huge sigh of relief.
OTS must be cheap-asses to put us up in a regular stateroom instead of a suite, but I won’t voice that aloud. Everyone already sees me as the spoiled rich guy, and at least we have a balcony.
“What the fuck was that?” Matt asks.
“Stacy yelling at Damon or—”
“The kiss.”
“Oh, we’re still on that, are we?”
“That’s not … we’re not … we need some ground rules.”
God, this guy is unbelievable. “Dunno if you know this, but boyfriends kiss, and the vultures on your ass think we’re together. Also, you were about to flip your shit at them. You didn’t give me much option.”
“This is a business arrangement, and I don’t know what your game is yet, but I ain’t gonna let you use me to get famous or land a reality show or whatever you’re here for.”
“There goes my dream of becoming a regular on Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” I say dryly. “Are you seriously this pessimistic?”
“Well, you cain’t be here for the money. You’re loaded.” The angrier he gets, the more drawled his words become, and I hate that it’s adorable.
“I’m not even getting paid. I’m here as a favor, you jackass.”
Wow, about an hour into our relationship, we’re already fighting. This is only one of the reasons I don’t do real relationships. What was I thinking saying yes to this?
You know why, my conscience reminds me.
“Are you really standing there telling me there’s nothin’ in this for you? Why would you agree to this?” Matt asks.
“Because Damon’s probably the closest person to me in this world, and he asked me to do it. Maybe, I’m a decent guy.” Underneath all the bullshit.
Matt stares at me as if he doesn’t believe me.
I roll my eyes. “Believe what you want, but trust me when I say I don’t have to play tricks or manipulate you to get my face in the media. I’ve already got it by standing next to you. You’re everywhere.”
“I don’t want to be everywhere,” he yells. “I just wanna play football. It’s all I fucking have.” Matt sits on the bed and runs his hands through his wild hair. “Had.”
I grit my teeth and squeeze his shoulder in a reassuring gesture, even if he is being an ass. “And I’m here to help you get football back.” Annoying my dad in the process is just a bonus. “How about we go find Damon and see what’s on our agenda?”
“We have an agenda?”
“He told me about some magazine shoot and interview, but I don’t know when that is.”
“W-what?” Matt pales. “I’m not doing interviews.”
I throw my hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Fuck this.” Matt stomps his way to the door but turns at the last second. “You comin’?”
Has it been a few months yet?
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Matt barks at Maddox when we find him in the bar area.
“Headache. He’s napping.”
“Why was Stacy yelling at you earlier?” I ask.
A redheaded guy I’ve never seen before comes to Maddox’s side.
“Holy shit, you’re Matt Jackson,” he blurts out.
Just what we need—random people approaching Matt. I’m about to tell him to fuck off, but in a nice way, when Maddox says, “Aaand this is my very uncool friend, Jared. He’s the reason Stacy was naked and yelling at us earlier. She didn’t know he’d be here.”
Matt hesitantly holds out his hand for Jared to shake. “Just Matt is fine. You don’t need to use my last name. Especially so loud.” He glances around the small bar.
“I’m Noah,” I say and lift my chin in greeting.
“When will Damon finish napping?” Matt asks. “He’s supposed to talk to us about what exactly we’re doing here.”
“We’re about to leave port,” Maddox says, “so why don’t you go up to the main deck and wave at all the paparazzi back on land. Maybe give one of them the finger while you’re at it.”
“Yeah, Damon would have my balls if I do that,” Matt says.
“I don’t think you have a future in PR,” I add.
Maddox shrugs. “Fine. Do what you want. I’m going to drink.”
Jared points at Maddox. “That is a great idea. I’m in.”
“I read they have an onboard gym, so guess I’ll be there if you need me.” Matt stalks off, and his strides are long and fast as if he can’t get away fast enough.
“Great. You guys set me up with a gym rat,” I say.
“He plays for the NFL. That’s a given,” Maddox points out.
“Guess I’m going to the gym then,” I say. “Damon told me not to leave Matt’s side thi
s whole week, but he’s not giving me much to work with. Is he always this standoffish?”
“He’s been through a lot,” Maddox says. “Cut him some slack.”
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m playing nice, and he keeps rebuffing me. He knows I’m doing him a favor by going along with this, right?”
“It’s not like you have anything better to do. You just can’t handle that Matt doesn’t want you,” Maddox says. “Does your poor ego need stroking?”
“You going to do it?”
“Pass.”
“What did they teach you guys at Olmstead University? You both obviously can’t see quality when you find it.” It’s no secret I hit on Maddox when I first met him. Damon needed some healthy competition to get him to admit he had a thing for Maddox.
I give Maddox and his friend a wave and chase after Matt. He’s not in the room, and I assume he went straight to the gym seeing as he was already wearing sweatpants. I change out of my jeans and into my gym shorts, put on my sneakers, and then make my way to the onboard gym.
I find Matt on a machine in the corner. His long, powerful legs carry him on a treadmill. His tight ass, strong body … It’s a shame he’s an asshole because we so could’ve turned this game into a few months of sweaty fun.
My cock likes that idea.
No, I say to him. We’re not allowed to like that guy, so down, boy.
When I jump on the machine next to him, he leaves and goes to the weights section.
Okay, I guess that’s how it’s going to be.
Half an hour goes by and then an hour. I think he’s done when he goes to fill up his water bottle, but nope. He chugs it back and then heads to another machine.
By hour two of nonstop working out, I’m fairly certain I’m dying. I wobble my way on shaky legs over to Matt who’s now on a rowing machine. “Are you done yet?”
He shakes his head and breathes hard. “Another hour.”
“Well, I’m heading back to the room. If I can make it that far.” I can’t be sure, but as I slip away, I swear he chuckles. But Matt laughing? So far that seems impossible, so I assure myself I’m hearing things.
After a long and hot shower to loosen my muscles, I check my phone, which I purposefully left in the room while working out. As expected, there are voicemails from my mom and dad. We’re too far out at sea now, so I can’t call my service to see what they say, but I’m certain I already know.
