I grin, needling him instead of giving him an out. “So I was right. You keep a 'good boy' image.”
He grits his jaw. “A 'nice man' image.”
I laugh. “If you insist.”
Spencer crosses back by me, and our bodies nearly brush.
My pulse jumps. Maybe my lizard brain remembers us having sex, and that’s why I almost reach for him.
He leans against the counter. “And your playboy image—"
“Fun man image,” I correct him.
He tries to scoff again but can’t help but laugh. “How fake is that?”
“The flings are real,” I tell him, “if that’s what you mean.”
He gives me a look that I can’t read. “I guess getting around that much must be fun.”
I frown. “A little judgmental for the closeted jock,” I challenge.
His cheeks flush again, but he manages to not turn his eyes away. “No one’s judging,” he says. “Despite being married to you, it’s really none of my business who you sleep with.” He lifts his hands, exasperated. “Although I doubt the tabloids feel that way.”
“It’s easier to keep things casual. Especially with my touring and recording schedule. No strings attached. Everyone knows what they’re getting into from the start.” I shrug. “The tabloids are used to me moving on quickly. This will pass.”
“Your sex life sounds exhausting,” he says, and I realize he’s stepped off from the counter another half-step toward me, entering my space in a way that feels a little like a challenge and a little like something else. “How do you ever tour or write music if you’re always looking for someone new to seduce?”
“Trust me. It’s not hard to find someone to fuck.”
He grunts. “Cocky.”
“Only 'cause it annoys you,” I tell him, raising a half-grin, which makes him furrow his brow. “Anyway, you’re a famous tennis stud. You can get laid whenever you want.” I drag my eyes up and down his body, taking him in a little, and he turns abruptly, returning to the couch.
And whoops, I’m half-hard now. Just fucking great.
We must be, like, hormonally compatible or something.
“With any luck, the press will just treat this like your other hookups and move on,” he says, turning back to the coffee table and the documents the lawyers left. “A hookup with extra paperwork attached. It won’t get me my privacy back, of course, but it will be something.”
“I guess your standard nondisclosure paperwork must be substantial,” I muse as I join him again, neither of us sitting. “Being closeted complicates things.”
He frowns. “I don’t have nondisclosure paperwork.”
“How do you handle it when you meet a man?”
“I don’t,” he says brusquely. “It’s like I told you in Vegas. I don’t do this.”
“Oh.” That sinks in. He’s not insisting that he’s bisexual and happy dating women or that he’s not interested in sex at all. As far as I can tell, Spencer is gay and just denying himself the chance to experience what that means.
“That’s sad,” I say before I can think better.
He bristles. “Says the rock star with the emotional music.”
This time, I’m thrown off. “Emotional?”
“It’s not?” He looks genuinely confused, his lips pursed in a way that is annoyingly cute. “I don’t listen to hard rock, but I checked out a few songs. You sound upset.”
“Upset? Emotional? I sound angry and angsty and wild and like a badass rock god,” I tell him. “I sound like I’m going to rip the universe in two with my guitar solo. Trust me. You can read a million reviews. No one thinks I soundemotional.”
