18. Warm Nuts Are the Answer to Everything
18
WARM NUTS ARE THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING
Nate
I’ve been staring at the inside of my eyelids for an hour listening to the same scene in the same damn Axel Huxley thriller. I’m not sure if the vigilante-for-hire has rappelled into the museum in Munich using his belt, or his backpack, or dental floss.
I hit pause on the audiobook. The guy’s books are badass, like his heroes. But I have no clue if his newest hero is trying to recover a stolen treasure map or a booklet of IKEA assembly instructions.
Instead of listening, I’ve been replaying images from last night—a concert, a poker game, some bourbon, a bet.
I get how the wedding happened.
But I also don’t get how it happened.
Why did I agree to it so easily? I definitely remember that moment in the VIP room where I declared getting hitched was the perfect end to a perfect night.
But why the hell would I say that?
Beats me.
I stare down at my ring like it’s a strange artifact from a foreign land. It still hasn’t given me any answers when Grace stops by with a tray.
“Would you like a snack?” she asks.
God, I love warm nuts when I fly. I don’t even know why. It’s not like I crave them at home. But they’re a million times better on a plane.
“Yes, thanks.” I take the ceramic dish as she moves to the row behind me. I’m about to pop a macadamia into my mouth when I stop, stare at the dish again.
Does Hunter like warm nuts?
I slip back to last night. To how I couldn’t keep my hands off him. To how it felt to kiss him all night long—at the poker game, at the concert, in the nightclub, at the second poker game, in the limo.
The man never once pushed me away. Never said he was tired. Never claimed a headache.
Hunter was there, with me, the whole time. Touching me back. Kissing me too.
Laughing, joking, talking.
It was everything I’ve missed. Everything I’ve been starving for.
To top it off, he ordered breakfast in advance so we wouldn’t have hangovers.
I unbuckle the seatbelt and head to the back of the plane, taking the dish of warm nuts with me. I don’t know Hunter’s seat number, but I swing my gaze over the rows of weary travelers. When I spot him near the back, my pulse surges.
That’s annoying.
I should not be affected by the sight of him, his strong jawline, his full lips, his deep brown eyes. Or how he looks tapping away on his laptop, worrying at the corner of his lip. He drags a hand through his blond hair and I want that to be my hand.
But minus a ring.
That’s the problem. I can’t have nice things like casual dates because I fuck them up. I date like I’m on speed and steroids, chased with Red Bull.
When I’m two feet away, Hunter raises his face. “Oh, hi.”
It’s like I’m in high school again, walking into the library, searching for the cute nerd who ran the video game club so I could ask him out.
“I brought you this,” I say, thrusting the ceramic container of nuts at him.
Wow.
That’s so smooth. Hello, peasant in coach, here are my first-class leftovers for you .
Can I not behave like a dick today?
But Hunter’s lips twitch mischievously. “I was hoping for some warm nuts.” He takes the dish, plucks out a cashew and holds it up for inspection. “Cashews or macadamia nuts? Which one do you prefer?”
“Walnuts,” I say with a smile.
He fishes around and hands a nut to me.
“Hunter, I hate to break it to you. This is a pecan,” I say.
“Ah, but I bet you like them too. More than pie,” he says, like he’s got a secret.
“I do like pecans.” But I especially dig that he remembered my likes and dislikes from the day we met.
Only, I didn’t come back here to flirt.
I came here because I had something to say. The seat next to him is empty. Maybe his seatmate is in the bathroom. I can make this fast. The hum of the plane gives me some white noise for privacy. “Listen,” I begin.
He tilts his head, attentive, but his eyes are wary.
I push on. “I had a really great time last night. And it’s been a while since I’ve had a great time. So, I just wanted to say…thank you.”
“I had a great time too,” he says, then his gaze strays to the seat next to him.
Ah hell, I can get a massage in London. I gesture to the middle seat. “Do you…want company? I can join you here if the seat is free.” Then I stop, flap my hand toward his laptop. “Shit. You’re working. I’ll leave you alone.”
He reaches for my arm, curls his hand around it. His touch feels so good. “The seat’s empty.”
“Good,” I say, then squeeze into the row, but there’s a tap on my shoulder. “Mr. Chandler?”
It’s Grace. I turn to her. “Yes?”
Her grin is conspiratorial. “We have an empty seat in first class. Would you like me to move Mr. Colburn so the two of you can sit together? It would be my pleasure.”
“Yes,” I say.
I don’t even wait for Hunter to weigh in.
Inside of five minutes, Grace has moved me into the third row, and Hunter is sliding in next to me. “She’s a fairy godmother,” he says.
“She is.” I fight off my smile. But then, fuck it. I’m happy he’s here.
Once he’s settled, I lean closer and speak softly. “I didn’t even wait for you to answer, but I don’t care. Sometimes I’m bossy.”
Hunter laughs. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He adds, “Plus, I wouldn’t have denied you. You plied me with warm nuts first.”
“Warm nuts are the answer to everything.” I relax a little, sinking back in the seat. “How do you feel?”
He lifts a brow in question. “Do you mean my hangover?”
“Yeah. Do you have one?”
Looking smug, he shakes his head. “Nate, I ordered egg sandwiches and made us both drink water. I’m a planner, so I feel fantastic.”
“You are,” I agree. My gaze snags on my ring, then his.
He is great, but I still don’t want to be married. I still don’t want this ring.
Not. At. All.
But we have a plan to undo our vows. I flash back to the speed and calm with which he handled the research. “You must be a good producer. You were pretty whizz-bang with the whole”—I peer around—“annulment thing.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I like to solve problems. That’s what a producer does.”
“I appreciated it,” I say, grateful he had his wits about him.
“I’ll make sure everything’s sorted.” Then he gives a yawn, a big, powerful one.
I pat the seat controls on the armrest. “Want to sleep?”
His eyes pop. “Oh, fuck me. These seats go back, don’t they?”
I crack up. “They motherfucking do.”
“Oh, god,” he moans. “I bet they have blankets and pillows too.”
“The whole nine yards. Want me to tuck you in?” I tease as he grabs both from the seat back.
“I wanted you to do that last night,” he mutters.
Growling, I narrow my eyes. “Dude, you face-planted first.”
“No, you did,” he tosses back.
I shake my head. “Nope, that was you. You were out in a second.”
“I don’t believe it,” he says, crossing his arms.
I stab a finger against my sternum. “I was raring to go,” I say, kind of proud of how much I wanted him last night, even when I was drunk.
“You were sound asleep too,” he argues.
“About two minutes after you. I spent the first two minutes whimpering right along with my dick. We wanted you.”
“You and your dick? Both of you?”
“We’re a package deal,” I say.
He dips his face, laughing. When he stops laughing, he looks at me with heat in his eyes, a tender desire too. “Damn shame.”
My chest warms. “The things I wanted to do to you…”
“The things I wanted,” he whispers too.
But we have zero free time in London. Instead of dwelling on disappointment, I lower my seat too.
Hunter closes his eyes first.
“Yup. Just like last night,” I tease.
“Yes, Nate. I crashed before you, and trust me, it’s the thing I regret most from last night.”
My dick and my heart like that remark so much.
When I wake, Hunter’s head rests against my shoulder as he snoozes. Mmm. That’s real nice. I angle closer, inhaling deeply. My stomach flutters as I catch the fading scent of the shampoo I used on him last night. He smells like the forest, and now I want to spend a day hanging out among the trees.
More than a day. Maybe a week.
He shifts, then mumbles. I adjust myself too, sitting up in my seat as he rouses. When his eyes open, he shoots me a sleepy smile that I want to see again and again.
I want to invent twenty-five-hour days so I can steal time with him in London.
But that flutter in my stomach is a warning that I feel something for him. Hunter could hurt me. I don’t want to be hurt again.
On the field, I take hit after hit all day long. But my body is resilient and I bounce back like a champ. My heart’s pretty banged up though.
I’ve got to keep it closed off.
I try to reset to a cool and casual vibe as we eat breakfast together—it’s Sunday morning now, thanks to a ten-hour flight and an eight-hour time difference.
While we hurtle toward London, we don’t talk about our annulment. Instead, after we eat, he tells me about the book he’s reading on storytelling styles in films. Then he asks me what I’m reading. I grab my phone, showing him the Axel Huxley thriller on my audiobook app. “I’m addicted to his books. My buddy Jason’s boyfriend is too. Beck’s the QB for?—”
“For the Renegades,” Hunter supplies.
I bump my shoulder against his. “Show-off.”
“Well, I had to take a crash course on the rosters in the last few days to get up to speed,” he says, then returns to the subject. “Anyway, so you and Beck like this author…”
“Yeah, he writes these wild thrillers that take place across Europe. But he’s also kind of become known for his bonkers sex scenes.”
“In a thriller? You don’t encounter that often.”
“Right? Much more common for something like—” I hunt through my pop culture files for a comp, then snap my fingers. “ Sweet Nothings .” Hunter sits up straighter, flinching at the mention of the popular racy soap. “That’s my favorite show,” I explain. “It’s based on a book series that’s mega popular. Ian Granger is the show creator. My sister hooked me on it.”
Maybe he hasn’t heard of it? “It’s on LGO if you ever want to watch it,” I say, trying to be helpful.
“I’m familiar with it,” he says, in that same clipped tone he used back at the hotel.
Okayyyy. Maybe Hunter just doesn’t like the show? Or…shit. Is he a snob? I’m blabbing about thrillers and soaps, but maybe he’s all highbrow and reads Foucault and watches Masterpiece.
“Anyway, his books are good. Huxley, that is,” I say, ending the convo.
Hunter’s hand comes down on my arm. “Play the Huxley for me. The bonkers sex scene.”
I grin. “Yeah?”
“Sure,” he says, and whatever irked him seems to have passed.
Guess he’s not a snob after all. I cue up the last sex scene, then give him one of my earbuds. Together, we listen as the hero puts the heroine on all fours, then bangs her on a hotel rug. In a performance worthy of an Olympic medal in sex gymnastics, the hero moves through five sex positions in thirty minutes.
The best part?
When the hero and heroine go out to dinner after at a bistro in Madrid and discover they’re covered in rug burn. Her knees, his back, and somehow, his elbows too.
Hunter cracks up at the payoff, then takes out his earbud. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says.
The loudspeaker crackles, and the pilot announces it’s time to prepare for landing. Then Grace says we need to shut off electronics.
I turn off my phone, catching another glimpse of my ring. My gaze strays to Hunter’s, and my stomach churns. We’re about to deplane, and soon he’ll be sliding back into his life here in London with friends and colleagues. I’ll be joining my teammates and talking to the press.
Probably time to jettison these. I draw a fueling breath, then speak in a low voice. “We should probably ditch these rings. No need to draw attention to them, right?”
He nods immediately. “Brilliant idea. Best that no one knows.”
As surreptitiously as we can, we both remove our rings, then tuck them into our pockets. There. The evidence of our one wild night is gone.
When we land, I turn my phone back on, but there’s no signal on the tarmac. I’ll deal with messages soon enough.
As we shuffle off the plane, I thank Grace. “Appreciate you doing that upgrade,” I say.
“Yes, that was lovely,” Hunter says, equally heartfelt. “Thank you again.”
“My pleasure,” she says, lifting her hand to her heart. “Hope you two gentlemen enjoy your honeymoon in London.”
I stop.
Blink.
Honeymoon?