The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

35. Sweet Nothings

35

SWEET NOTHINGS

Hunter

I haven’t seen Ian Granger much since I left his show. His parting words when I quit were You’re a fool to give up a gig on the most successful primetime soap in decades.

The show loosely inspired by all his affairs. All his little sweet nothings. The ones he conducted when Harlow and I were growing up, asking us to cover up for him.

Just a few months ago my gutsy sister told him she wanted him to go to rehab for his sex addiction. He didn’t go.

Why the hell is my father here?

“Does that sound good?”

Oh, shit. Ilene is asking me something. But my head is swimming, and I don’t know what she said. I can’t think straight so I say, “Yeah, it does. Really appreciate that.”

“Oh good.” She pats my shoulder. “I need to chat with Robby again. But this was terrific.”

“It was,” I say, meaning it, but already feeling like I’m on the other side of the room, demanding, What are you doing here? from my father.

I cut through the crowd, headed for the two men. My palms are sweaty, but my skin feels cold. Emotions whip through me—anger, frustration, and curiosity.

“Hi, handsome,” I tell Nate when I reach him. I’ve never called him that in public but an affectionate name feels right.

“Hey,” he says, sounding wary.

I turn to the man who looks far too much like me. Coldly, I say, “Hello, Ian. How are you?”

He laughs, that winning laugh that’s charmed millions of fans. “How about a hug for your dad?”

“No thanks,” I say, but he takes it anyway, clapping me on the back. He’s wearing a new cologne. He always switches scents when he meets a new woman. I wonder where his wife is and whether he’s started lying to her yet.

“What are you doing here?” I’m not in the mood for niceties.

“I flew back home for some work on the show. A new deal with one of my longtime partners. So good to be in London. And I met your husband,” he says. “I hear he’s a fan.”

Nate coughs, then says, “I was just making conversation.”

And the thing is—I know Nate. If he’s said he’s a fan, it’s not because he’s a fanboy. It’s because he was trying to cover up the awkwardness of meeting this man.

My dad beams at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anyway, you look sharp, Hunter. Good to see you here. I presume you landed an invitation as a plus one?”

Seriously? He came over here to put me down? “No,” I begin.

“Mr. Granger, Hunter’s not here as my plus one,” Nate cuts in firmly. “Webflix wanted him here.” My father’s brown eyes widen in genuine surprise. The prick. “Oh! Well, how lovely that this little job is working out for now. I didn’t think junior producers came to these things,” he says.

He comes into my event and insults me? No, that’s not how this works, Dad . “I didn’t think so either, Ian, until my boss invited me,” I bite out. “She’s been asking me to do more projects. She values my input and what I bring to documentaries and sports.”

“Fascinating. If this little job doesn’t work out, there’s always a home for you on Sweet Nothings ,” he says, then slugs my shoulder. “Shall we get a cuppa tomorrow? Chat about life as married chaps?”

Is he for real? But then, I have never understood my father, not in my entire life.

I part my lips to answer, but I’m too shocked to speak.

Nate reaches for my hand. “The answer is no, Mr. Granger. Hunter is going to be working all day. And then he’ll be producing on Sunday,” Nate says. “He doesn’t have the time. Now if you’ll excuse us.”

Nate sets a hand on my back and escorts me far, far away.

This is not how I expected to end up in the men’s room at this venue with Nate Chandler.

The door is locked, and we stand by the row of marble sinks, his hands on my shoulders. “You okay? You want to leave?”

I take one breath then another.

“I don’t know,” I admit. I don’t know where to go next, what to do, what to say.

“We can hang here until you figure it out,” he says.

He would stay here with me while I sorted out my feelings. He’s that kind of person—the kind who stays.

“He’s not going to change,” I say, resigned. “He’s always going to put me down. But his insults don’t hurt the way they used to.”

“You stood up to him. I’m really fucking proud of you,” he says, gripping the collar of my shirt fiercely.

“You stood up to him too,” I point out.

“No one talks to my husband that way,” Nate says.

And just like that, I know what’s next. “I want to go. I want to leave with you. I want to spend this last night with you,” I say with all the certainty of that answer.

Nate flashes me a cocky grin like he did the day we met. “Let’s escape, you and me.”

Him and me.

Thoughts of the last week swirl past me in a storm. But it blows over quickly, and my emotions clear away.

The anger, the annoyance, the frustration have vanished.

In their place is confidence. Resolution.

I’m not my father’s son. I’m my own man. And tonight, I want my man. “Let’s go home,” I say.

“Let’s go home,” he echoes.

Neither one of us calls it the hotel anymore. Home seems to be where we are when we’re together.

Twenty minutes later, I push open the door to our place, leaving everything else behind.

I want this night, this man.

And I deserve all the good things, like him.

The instant the door shuts, I grab Nate’s face and crush my lips to his. We kiss ferociously, unbuttoning shirts as we devour each other’s lips.

We’re a tangle of hard planes and edges, of muscles and limbs, of fabric falling to the floor.

We tumble onto the bed and push off the last layers between us. We make out for a good long time, panting and groaning, using fingers and lube until Nate moves up the bed, flops onto his back, and pulls me on top of him.

His possessive gaze locks onto mine. “You ready to fuck your husband?”

I heat up everywhere. “So ready.”

I’ve never done this before, but I feel like I know exactly what I’m doing.

I know because of him.