A ripple of desire shimmies down my spine because I like growly men. And it’s rare for Nash to be anything but monotone. “I’m just trying to figure out if this is a pull-out, not trying to steal any memorabilia from your shrine to yourself.”
He jerks his head back and frowns. “It’s not a shrine to… all players have a room with their awards. Somewhere.”
I know he's right. We have a lot of space in our family home in Silver Bay, Maine, which is a showcase of everything my dad and Tate ever did. Our grandparents have a basement full of awards, photos, game-winning pucks, medals, and trophies from everything my dad and uncles ever did before they were drafted. But am I going to admit that to Nash? Nope.
I stick my hands on my hips. “Is it a pull-out or not?”
“Yeah, it folds down into a bed,” Nash replies. “But I’ve never used it as I don’t have guests.”
"Well, you do now," I reply. His eyes snap up to mine, wide with horror. "I need to stay here. To sell the marriage."
“To who?”
“To everyone.” I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose because I feel a stress headache creeping in. “Look, I hate the idea more than you. Trust me. But TMZ is still interested in this story. And whoever the rat is is still watching. And Fisher told me they’re coming here tomorrow to film your whole day. How weird would it be if your wife wasn’t part of that?”
“I was gonna say you were back in Maine… or something,” he grumbles.
“FYI you should have told me they were filming. I shouldn’t have to find out from that asshole pretending to be the director.” I turn my back to him and go back to trying to figure out how the couch turns into a bed. I’m bent over, hair hanging, blood rushing to my head, when I feel his hand grip my shoulder and pull me upright.
I glare at him over my shoulder and his face is red and he’s almost sweating. “You’re wearing a loose crop top.”
“So?”
“So when you bend over you’re showing everyone… and by everyone I mean me… your bare stomach and that hot pink lace bra you’re wearing. Plus your ass is… on display.”
“Oh.” I let him move me out of the way. “Well, you’re welcome. Probably the most female anatomy you’ve seen in a long time.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat which I recognize as "yeah, right". He lifts a velcro piece of fabric on the side of the couch and pulls a lever hidden underneath. He pushes on the back of the couch and the whole thing flattens out. But I'm still concentrating on that sound he made. "What? You're fucking someone?"
“Crass.”
“Right. You’re the delicate flower here. I forgot.” I roll my eyes. “Are you having intimate relations with someone Nash-Hole? Because umm… you’re married and also, I thought players abstained during playoffs.”
“The marriage isn’t real,” he replies and motions towards the couch, like ‘ta-da!’. “And everyone has their way of handling extracurricular activity during playoffs. Most abstain on game days and the night before.”
“Are you involved with someone?” I ask again as he starts out of the office, and I find myself following behind. “I mean, I don’t care but I think I should know. And you would have to be extra careful.”
“I’m not,” he says and for some reason I feel relief at that. Probably because it would just be another thing that could sink this lie we’re floating. “I had a bed buddy but we haven’t been together in a few months and obviously I’m not going to do it now and complicate this.”
“Cool.”
He looks at my bags in the kitchen. “You’re serious about staying here?”
“Like I said, it’s a necessary hardship.”
We stare at each other. I can see him trying to wrap his head around this development. He wants to argue. I can see it all over his face, but I can also see the resignation in his eyes. He knows I’m right. He scrubs his face with his hands and I pretend not to notice how big they are. Yeah, Nash has big hands. I actually believe that garbage about hands and feet size indicating the size of something else. I haven’t had a ton of experience in the bedroom but what I have had doesn’t disprove it.
“Fuck. Fine,” he growls again. He takes my bags and carries them back into his office.
I bite my tongue to keep myself from making a snarky comment about the nightmares I’ll have sleeping in his shrine. “I’ll get the extra sheets.”
I unzip my suitcase and pull out the photos and knick knacks I brought with me. When he stomps his way down the floating stairs that lead to his bedroom, he stops dead as I place one of the photos on his stainless steel fridge with two lobster shaped fridge magnets I also brought.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“It needs to look like I actually live here Nash-Hole,” I reply. “My stuff melded with your stuff. That’s how couples live.”
“Who is even going to notice that shit?” he asks. “No. I can’t do clutter.”
