“A huge mistake.”
There’s a knock at the door. I stand and walk over, answering to see one of my agents.
“Your public relations team,” he says, right on time, “as well as the team at your label both—”
“Excuse me,” I say, cutting him off. “Didn’t I ask for the room?”
“Yes,” he says, trying to get in a word in. “But—”
“No buts,” I say with a smile. “Just my butt and Spencer’s tennis butt right now. Okay?”
He frowns, and I close the door, turning back to Spencer, who is also frowning. Probably at my butt comment.
“They’re getting impatient,” I say, “and so are you. So let’s get this divorce over with, yeah?”
His brow creases. “You keep saying that. It’s not a divorce,” he says. “It’s an annulment.” He lets out a short, raspy laugh and glances at his hand. “Hell, we apparently didn’t even care to get each other rings.”
“I’ve never been married or engaged before,” I tell him, remaining standing because he’s standing. “But my parents had a happy marriage for years. Until they didn’t.”
He looks up to the ceiling. “My parents were miserably married.”
“See? Divorce isn’t always a bad thing.”
He turns his eyes back down to me. “My mother died,” he says, very matter-of-fact.
Shit. I am a fuckhead.
“I am so sorry, Spencer,” I say, leaning forward, wanting him to know I’m sincere.
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.” He gives me a curious glance. “You never considered marrying any of your famous flings?”
“None of the famous ones, no,” I answer with a half-smile. I’m compelled to be honest with him, I guess because he just shared about his mother passing. “One relationship, an old one. I used to fantasize about it sometimes. Thought we’d ride off into the sunset. What about you? You were with your PR rep for a long time, right?”
He hesitates before he answers. It’s barely a pause, but I’ve been around celebrity culture long enough to catch what it means.
“Oh. You were a fake couple. Right?”
He blinks. “I didn’t say that,” he answers, defensive. “And you shouldn’t assume things.”
I shrug. “You don’t have to say it. And don’t worry. I know you might doubt this, but I’m good at keeping my mouth shut when I want to. I won’t let any of your secrets slip. I promise.”
“Thank you,” he says. “Although the biggest secrets are already out.”
“Hell, I get it,” I tell him, joking to keep it light. “I can understand how a playboy rock star conflicts with your good-boy image.”
He scrunches his nose. “I don’t have a good-boy image.”
“Excuse me? Are you telling me that’s not a public face?”
“Of course I have a public face. But I’m not trying to act like a good boy, whatever the hell that even means.”
“What about all that charity work?”
He rolls his eyes. “Charity work can’t be sincere in your world?” he asks as he walks over to the fridge.
“Exactly.” I turn and follow him. “All we do in rock bands is sacrifice goats and drink their blood. No time for charity unless it’s ordered by the court.”
Spencer pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, distracting me slightly with his ass, and turns back. “I have preferred that my reputation and personal life don’t interfere with my tennis career. Okay? And keeping a clean and friendly public face helps with that.” He lifts his phone, which is flashing with a name. “And now my PR rep is calling me, too, by the way. I should call her back.”
