Spencer sits on the edge of the bed. “I know you. You’re constantly sleeping with other celebrities. You’re like Pete Davidson.”
I snort. “Hell no. I don’t do rebounds.”
He buries his face in his hands. “This is so much worse than I imagined.”
I’m about to rib him some more, but when he looks up again, I see how distraught he is. His annoyingly perfect face is twisted, and his muscles strained.
I’m not interested in being anyone’s secret, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally devoid of compassion. With a sigh, I cross over to the bed and sit my naked butt beside him.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say. “And I’m sure our lawyers can work out the finer details of an annulment and nondisclosure agreement.”
He looks up, relief washing over him. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Marrying a tightly wound heterosexual jock wouldn’t exactly help my image either, you know.”
Before Spencer can reply, the alarm on his phone blares out. He startles and pulls it from his pocket. “Damn it,” he says, standing. “My flight.”
“Who catches an early flight out of Vegas?”
“People who don’t want to be here in the first place,” he answers.
“Fine. We should probably talk about this when we’re not hungover anyway. Let’s do numbers.” I pull the drawer open to find my phone but instead see a small black butt plug and a pair of shiny handcuffs, which I show to him. “Yours?”
My husband gives me the kind of look that only married people can give each other. “No,” he says, exasperated.
“I’m sure you could take it in your carry-on.” When he doesn’t respond, I return to the drawer and find a hotel notepad instead. “This is my number,” I tell him as I write. “And my lawyer’s.”
He takes the paper from me. “Thank you,” he says reluctantly. “We’ll be in touch soon, and I’ll text my details.” When I lean back against the pillows without saying anything, he hesitates. “And thank you for your understanding,” he adds.
Without another word, Spencer marches his perfect ass right out of my hotel room.
I look at the bedside clock. It’s barely after nine in the morning.
Typical. I get married, and it’s the shortest relationship of my life.
CHAPTERTWO
SPENCER
My lungs screamas the treadmill kicks up in intensity. My body is a machine perfectly tuned to strength, agility, and endurance. I let instincts and blood take over, and my mind goes blank.
I don’t think about the very real possibility that I could be outed by this.
I don’t think about the fact that I finally had sex with a man again, something I don’t even let myself admit how much I crave, but I don’t remember a second of it.
And for the first time since I boarded the plane with a first-class hangover this morning, I don’t think about the fucking dildo and handcuffs and hickeys and that piece of silky cloth.
“Son.”
My father’s voice rises above the noise of the treadmill, pulling me from my trance. I hit the button to slow down and gasp for breath, a wall of pain hitting me as the high of the run fades.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath, nauseous again from the hangover.
My father stands at the other side of his gym. He’s a wall of meat and muscle. The man hasn’t been a pro hockey goalie for nearly fifteen years, but he still trains like he’s preparing for another Stanley Cup.
“Didn’t know you were here,” he says.
I stretch my arms above my head as I step off the machine. “I came straight to the gym.”
