Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
She gasps. “Do people think that?”
Uh. Yes. “Babe. They think all kinds of things.”
She lets out a groan and flops backward onto the couch, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. “This is my nightmare. I didn’t sign up for any of this.”
I sit beside her, trying to ignore the fact that she’s still wearing my hoodie and I still want to kiss the panic right off her face.
“You did. You signed up when you fell asleep in my hammock.”
“That wasn’t a contract.”
“That feels legally binding in some states.”
She cracks a smile, barely, but I can see the overwhelm swimming behind her eyes. In a perfect world we’d forget about the statement to the media, the team’s publicist, the chaos storm brewing online, and I’d just pull her into my lap and let her breathe.
But that’s not what we need right now.
Right now, we need control. Or at least the illusion of it.
I soften my voice. “Hey. I’ll wait, okay? Until after we talk to your parents. We’ll write it together. You’ve got to trust me—if we don’t say anything, the vultures will say it for us.”
“I don’t want to write it. At all. Why can’t we wait until I’m further along?”
Better now than never. “We won’t mention the baby. Just the relationship part.”
She huffs. “It’s so freaking dumb that this is anyone’s business. My life is no one’s business but mine.”
“I agree,” I say, because I do. “Unfortunately, it is mine. And mine happens to come with a jersey and a media clause and a publicist who’s already drafted three statements without us.”
She stands up from the couch, pacing now, hands flying as she talks. “God, do you even hear yourself? You’re acting like we’re launching a new shoe line—not trying to figure out how to be in an actual relationship!”
“I am trying to figure it out,” I snap, standing too. “But I don’t have the luxury of doing it in secret.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault you’re famous?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to!” Her cheeks flush with color. “I get it, okay? Your image matters. You’re thinking long term. Protecting your brand.”
I wish she wasn’t getting herself so worked up.
“Annabelle, you are part of the long term,” I tell her. “Don’t you see that? This isn’t about damage control—it’s about setting the tone. About telling the world that you matter to me. That I’m not hiding you.”
Her eyes flash. “Then maybe don’t act like I’m a PR problem.”
That lands like a punch to the gut. I flinch, because she’s not totally wrong. The point of a statement is to get ahead of any stories . . .
She folds her arms tightly. “Do you want to know what I need? I need time to breathe. To feel normal. To feel like this is still ours before it belongs to everyone else.”
I stare at her, chest heaving. “I’m scared too.”
She blinks. “You don’t act like it.”
“I’ve had a few more years of practice at pretending.”
And with that, the room goes still again. Her arms loosen, her shoulders drop an inch. And mine do too.
It’s not resolved. Not even close.
She sighs, brushing past me to the kitchen. “I want to go home.”
I don’t follow her, but I do call out after her. “One second you’re fine and the next you want to leave?”
She doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway.
The clatter of a cabinet slamming is answer enough.
I walk to the edge of the kitchen but stop short of going in. She’s standing at the counter, hands braced on either side of the sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“I’m not your enemy,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t move.
I keep going. “This thing between us? It’s not a PR problem. It’s the best damn surprise of my life. I’m just trying to protect it.”
“Too late. I’m pissed, and I want my privacy.”
But she has had privacy; we’ve been living in a bubble since we arrived, holed up in this luxury condo at the top of the world. Food delivered, getting to know each other. Having sex, getting intimate.
And now she’s talking to me like I’m the reason it’s fucked.
“I’m not the paparazzi,” I snap, instantly regretting the bite in my tone. “I’m the guy who rubs your back in the middle of the night without even being asked because I know it’s bothering you.”
Annabelle whirls around, eyes flashing. “And I didn’t ask you to go public with us either!”
“I haven’t!” I haven’t said shit!
“But you want to.”
“Because it’s going to come out anyway,” I argue. “At least let me help shape the narrative before someone else twists it into something it’s not.”
She throws up her hands. “You’re talking like this is some sports scandal to manage instead of a relationship that’s barely had time to breathe!”
My chest tightens. “It is a relationship. And I’m trying to keep it safe.”