Maybe it doesn’t matter if I want to fall in love with him. Maybe it’s already happening.
It’s almost time to start recording, and I’m set to meet Fox at the studio. Leaving the scraps of bad music at home, I haul my old blue Stratocaster there to test the sound late in the afternoon. The building is on a quiet, shaded street, and inside, Fox and a couple of producers are at work, all drinking coffee around some equipment.
They show me around, introduce me to everything the studio has to offer, an impressive collection of equipment that gets my blood pumping. My guitar sings like an angel when I hook her up to the speakers, and the rich sound begs my voice to join in.
I lower my instrument and release a shaky breath. Next time I come here, I’m going to need to have something to show for myself.
When the producers take off for the day, Fox joins me in the lounge at the front of the studio. He’s got the sleeves of his suit rolled up, showing his tattoos. I’m flipping through the record collection he keeps on hand, admiring the taste.
“By the way, we booked your rooms in Miami,” he says. “They’re both under my account, so no one will be suspicious that there are two.” I must make a funny expression because he arches an eyebrow. “Or… one room?”
I rub my hand over my face as I sit on the arm of the couch. “Two. Two,” I say again and with more confidence. “We’re not in a real relationship.”
He chuckles. “Just in some compromising poses, maybe.” He studies me. “But nothing more? We should continue to schedule your divorce this fall?”
“I didn’t realize it was already making the Google calendar.” I stand up again. “The divorce is still on track, don’t worry.”
I say it because it’s the truth. It might hurt and feel like a lie, but I need to remind myself again and again, Spencer and I are going to divorce each other. We haven’t changed that plan just because we’re hooking up now.
Too bad the divorce isn’t scheduled until after my album is due. Heartbreaks never come when they’d be convenient.
Fox rubs his thumb across his chin. “Shame,” he says. “Seems like you two are good for each other.”
“We are,” I say quickly but realize there’s no need to be defensive. “Despite how much the public is rooting for us, this is still a fake marriage.”
“Whatever you do in private, you two just keep selling the relationship to the press like you have, and I’ll be a happy man.”
I force a smile. “Easy,” I tell him.
As easy as not falling in love.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
SPENCER
“I’m sorry,did you hit your head? Maybe bop yourself with your racket?”
I frown at Alyssa through the phone screen. I’m at my place in Boston, and she’s at her office in Manhattan, eating a salad between meetings with NFL players.
“No, I did not bop myself with my racket.”
“Then explain to me how you came to the conclusion that you suddenly have the capacity for casual sex? And I’m asking as your friendandas the PR rep in charge of managing your fake marriage, by the way.”
“It’s circumstantial.” I pace around the condo while we talk. “Gabriel and I are in a unique position. He is entirely unavailable for love, and I don’t doubt him when he claims that. And asking for more would undermine the entire arrangement, so logically, it’s off the table.”
“And do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Want more?”
“I can’t,” I say again. “There’s not more to want.”
Alyssa hums under her breath, not buying it. Immediately, my thoughts flash back to the conversation I had with Gabriel in Seattle.
He’s been in love three times. He’s given his heart away and had it broken, and somehow, he was still strong enough to give it away again. It kills me to think of him hurt, left sad and lonely. But wallowing in those emotions only makes me a judgmental asshole.
Gabrielisn’tsad and lonely. He’s made the choices that are right for him, and just because they’re not the choices that I’d make, that doesn’t mean he’s unsatisfied. I’m clearly the unsatisfied one.
