If pouting were an Olympic sport, I would take home gold.
Eric snorts. “Buck up, buttercup.”
I crackoneeyeopenintimetoseehimclappinghis hands together with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for kindergarten teachers sending their students home at the end of the day.
“We are going to have breakfast downstairs at the coffee lounge,” he announces briskly. “We will not be speaking to cameras orhusbands.” He emphasizes the word husbands like it’s a slur. “When we are done eating, we will be gambling a massive amount of money, I’m talking tens of dollars, and then spending our winnings on a new outfit for you to wear the next time you see Aks-hole.”
“Aks-hole,” I repeat, my mouth twitching in amusement.
“I will be aggressively throwing clothes around until I find something that screams ‘hot, mysterious, and emotionally unavailable’. I should have something that says those things,” Eric says as he rummages through his clothes.
Fabric flies through the air as he digs. Shirts, jeans, and something with too many straps streak past me.
I side-eye him, suspicious. “You promise I don’t have to talk about it?”
Eric pauses mid-rummage and turns to face me fully, expression suddenly serious. “If anyone eventriesto talk to you about it, I’ll punch them in the face just like I did Aks-hole yesterday.”
I blink. “You punched Aksel in the face yesterday?” “Yup,” he says proudly. “No one hurts my bestie.”
He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The bravado softens as he takes my hand, squeezing it once. His thumb rubs over my knuckles in a comforting motion.
“I won’t ask you about it today,” he says quietly. “I won’t let anyone else ask you about it today either.” He meets my eyes, gaze steady. “But tomorrow? Tomorrow we’re going to address the giant polka-dotted elephant in the room.”
I sigh. “The elephant being my mom…”
“And the polka dots are your sneaky husband,” he finishes gently.
“DoIgetcoffeefirst?”Iask,resignedtofollowhis plan.
Ericgrins,squeezingmyhandoncemorebefore standing. “Obviously. I’m not a monster.”
Maybe I can do this. Just not today. Today, I’ll eat pastries and drink shitty coffee. I’ll lose thirty dollars and buy someclothes. I’ll let Eric distract me from the dumpster fire that is my life.
Tomorrow is when I’ll deal with the elephant.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Aksel
“With the show coming to an end and only one elimination to go until the finale, how has your experience with the show been. Or even better, how has your life and marriage been affected by this competition?
Aksel looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes, the whites threaded with red. A deep purple mark stains the right side of his cheekbone justabove his square jaw, stark against his lightly tanned skin. His normally clean-shaven face is scruffy with unshaved facial hair.
His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, shoulders rigid, as if holding himself together takes conscious effort. For once, there’s no easy grin. No charm. No carefully curated confidence.
“I think,” he says, voice low and worn raw, “You can guess how the competition has affected everything in my life.”
“Yes,” Cammie murmurs, her voice gentle with practiced concern. “We all saw exactly what Hale and Eric thought of that little stunt, didn’t we?” She pauses, then presses, “Have you spoken to Hale since then?”
Aksel’s jaw tightens. He swallows once before answering, not with words, but with a single, clipped shake of his head. The movement is stiff, like even that small admission cost him dearly.
Cammie softens her tone further, sensing blood in the water. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Hale? An apology, maybe?”
Aksel exhales through his nose. His eyes flick briefly toward the floor, then back up. His gaze is clear now, resolute with his resolve to fix things.
“I wouldn’t do Hale the disservice of talking to you before him,” he says firmly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
