Chapter 9
Anya
It took me two and a half days to crack. Not bad, if you think about it. Anyone can pretend to be on vacation for a couple of days, especially in a nice house with a sweet woman who shows up and cooks meals and mops the floors and talks to you when your husband is ninja-sneaking around to avoid you.
There was only so much deck yoga and napping and reading and sketching one could do before you had to admit you were hiding from all the bullshit in the outside world. Hiding from the paparazzi too, which I discovered earlier that morning when I decided to go for a run in Parker’s neighborhood.
“Anya! Anya, can we get a statement?”
“How’s married life?”
They snapped a few pictures while I cued up the music in my earbuds, and no matter how much I wanted to ignore them, the idea of these three jackals joining me on my run made me want to break something.
“Hey guys,” I said with as friendly of a smile as I could manage. “Mind letting me go for a run without the interview? Just trying to enjoy a quiet honeymoon at home.”
Oh, what a crock of shit. My husband dropped my ass into the guest room, and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since. If it wasn’t for the big, big shoes he’d kicked off by the garage door and the Voyagers hat on the dining room table, I would’ve thought he was staying elsewhere.
“When’s Parker coming home?”
What a good freaking question.
“Later,” I said vaguely. “You’re not coming with me, are you?”
The first one, with the big camera, snorted. “Not likely.”
“Excellent.” I set my hands on my hips and gave them a look, wheels turning in my head. “Tell you what, if you three give me some privacy, I’ll bring out a plate of the best blueberry muffins in the entire world. I can’t imagine you’ve left to get food since you showed up this morning.”
The guy with dreads narrowed his eyes. “They’re not the shitty box kind with the dinky little blueberries, are they?”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course not. Homemade. Fresh as of this morning, I think.”
I still hadn’t figured out how they were warm when I got up. Louise must’ve left the batter in the fridge before going home the night before, and I just missed it. The thought of Parker baking muffins scrambled something in my brain, so I tried very hard not to imagine it.
The three of them shared a look, and the first guy, with the giant camera bag strapped to his back, gave me a nod. “Fine.”
“No running pics,” I instructed firmly. “My face gets all red, and I look like I’m dying.”
They laughed. He held out a hand. “Deal.”
I let out a quiet sigh, feeling more like myself than I had in the past couple of days. While they took a seat in the back of the first truck, which they’d parked by the curb, I let myself back through the large gate in the middle of the black fence surrounding the front patio area.
When I returned, they were whispering, staring at their phones.
“As promised,” I said.
Like a pack of freaking vultures, they inhaled the muffins, moaning and groaning about how good they were. The third guy, who was quieter than the other two, watched me shrewdly. “Did you see?”
I sighed because honestly, I just wanted to go for my fucking run and get some of my restless energy out. “See what?”
“Max’s post in response to your marriage.”
My stomach dropped. “No, I didn’t.”
God, good for me. I sounded very unbothered. But inside? Inside me, instant, white-hot flames licked through my chest.
His eyes held mine, and the challenging flint made me want to slap him. “Says it’s a hoax. That you’re lying, likely paying Parker to see this out because you’re embarrassed after the two of you broke up, and you’re trying to save face.”
The other two traded glances.
“Well,” I said lightly, “he’s entitled to his opinion. Given his own history with lying, I’m not sure I’d put much weight to it. I’m not paying anyone, and if he’d been with us in Vegas that night, he’d know exactly how real this is.”
The words hung in the air, and the glint in his eye shifted to satisfaction real fucking quick.
“Off the record with that?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he watched me.
Yes. It hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t force the word out.
Instead, my chin rose an inch, and I held his gaze unflinchingly. “Enjoy the muffins, boys.”
I turned and marched back into the house, my chest sinking with the fallout from a vindictive moment that would probably come back to fucking haunt me.
Pride made us do some really stupid things, didn’t it?
There was going to be no clear-headed exercise after that. Tears pressed hot and thick at the back of my throat. I hadn’t cried in a couple of weeks, opting instead to keep myself so freaking busy that I wouldn’t remember grainy pictures of my fiancé making out with a porn star in her backyard. Security footage of him inviting two giggly fans back into our house when I was on a trip with Isabel and my sisters.
And the worst part, the very worst part, was how quickly my brain liked to shift to the night he proposed, when I happily said yes, and even if my future didn’t look passionate and wild, I’d found someone who made me feel safe and taken care of. Who told me all the time that I was the perfect woman.
I was in the kitchen before I could stop myself, yanking open the fridge door to look for wine. Chocolate. Anything.
Parker didn’t really keep alcohol in the house, which surprised me. Isn’t this what food delivery was created for? This very situation, right fucking here. I imagined a delivery person showing up to the house with a giant bottle of Pinot and decided not to give those vultures with the cameras the satisfaction of knowing they got to me. They probably already did when I ditched my run, but I couldn’t dredge up a single solitary fuck.
They were fresh out, reserved for feelings that I was desperately trying to stifle. Everything was so much easier when I could pretend this was simple. Pretend the biggest issue facing Parker and me was our families’ reactions.
It wasn’t, though, was it?
Panic had my hands balling up into fists, and I shook them out forcefully. The thought of more public embarrassment made me want to curl up under the blankets and pretend the outside world didn’t exist.
Or there was wine. And chocolate. Anything.
I pinched my eyes shut, damn well knowing they weren’t the best ways to deal with any of this. With a sharp pivot, I marched downstairs to the second family room that Parker had converted into a gym. My phone dinged, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at a single thing. I cleared the notifications from the home screen and pulled up my music app.
Now was not the time for fucking yoga. I didn’t need calming stretches and deep breathing. This was a time for healthy anger and the perfect kind of outlet to get it out. God bless the man I’d married because he had a heavy bag hanging in the corner.
Two pairs of gloves were on the ledge next to the bag, but I wanted a bite of pain. I wanted to feel this. He had rolls of tape, and I briskly slipped my thumb into the hook at the end, wrapping the black material between my fingers and around my wrist a few times. I stretched it tight across my palm and then banded it around my knuckles, over and over and over, until my hand was as protected as it could be.
No drinking.
No chocolate.
Crying might come later.
But for now, with the familiar cold slap of betrayal coursing through my veins, I did the next best thing. With angry music screaming in my earbuds, I curled my hands into fists, set my feet like I’d been taught to do my entire life, and I beat the shit out of that bag.
Parker
“Anya?” No response.
Her bright red Jeep was in the garage, so I knew she was home.
My phone buzzed again, and I pinched my eyes shut. “Shit, shit, shit,” I breathed. “Fucking nosy-ass sisters.”
A sound came from downstairs, then another. A sharp smack, followed by a slight grunt.
Curiosity piqued, I jogged down the stairs, stopping short at what I saw.
Anya was absolutely destroying the heavy bag in the corner. She rotated her body, letting out a grunt as she landed a vicious uppercut with her right hand. Then she grabbed it with both hands, driving her knee straight up.
Instinctively, I covered my balls with both hands.
She ducked back like she’d slid her upper body under an invisible wire, and when she popped back up, she snapped her left arm forward in a jab, then moved into the bag. Her elbow flew forward, landing with such force that I had a hard time breathing for a second.
Under the lights, the slight sheen of sweat made her skin glow, and the curve of her muscles had my eyes lingering in places that she’d probably kick my ass for.
“Anya,” I said again, but the small white earphones in her ears had me grimacing. “Anya,” I yelled.
Nothing.
She danced back, drew her right leg backward, then snapped it forward, pivoting on the ball of her left foot as it held her full body weight, and the smack of her shin on the bag had me slicking my tongue over my teeth.
What in God’s name did it say about me that this was the hottest thing I’d ever watched in my life? I was pretty fucking sure if she whirled in my direction, I’d sink to my knees and beg her to do whatever the hell she wanted, looking like she did. Hurt me. Hit me. Whatever. Let me lick the sweat off her chest.
I’d need seventeen cold showers now that that image was in my head. Her hair, all that glorious blond hair, was pulled back tight off her face, but a few strands had escaped, sticking to her sweat-slicked skin along her neck, and fuck if my mouth didn’t water at the sight of it.
My wobbly sense of self-preservation had me stepping closer, trying to ease into her peripheral vision without triggering her attack mode because I didn’t particularly want to be on the receiving end of that elbow in my face.
Willa’s lessons flashed through my head, and I couldn’t help but smile.
Finally, she paused, eyes closed with her hands on her hips. Her chest heaved, and she tilted her chin up to catch her breath.
I moved closer, gently touching her shoulder. “Anya,” I said again.
She yelled, whirling around with her fists up and a fierce light in her eye.
“It’s me,” I shouted. “Holy fuck, don’t hit me. It’s just me.”
Her whole body deflated, and she ripped at the earbuds in her ears. “You scared the shit out of me,” she panted.
“Why are you trying to murder my bag?”
“Are you kidding? You’re lucky that’s how I chose to release my stress today. It was either that or you come home to my drunk ass watching sad movies and crying.”
“So you saw the Max thing,” I said carefully.
“Yes, I saw the Max thing,” she replied, voice sharp and biting. “And I hate him. I hate him. He does not get to embarrass me and make me look stupid and then publicly say that I have to pay someone to be my husband.”
“You’re not stupid. He cheated on you.”
“I said I looked stupid. I know I’m not. It’s just … it’s such a mind fuck when you think you’re a good judge of character, and someone can lie to you so thoroughly for so many years.” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, and it pushed her cleavage up higher. Somebody better have a fucking medal for me because I didn’t look. “I hate that he’s trying to make me look like the bad guy now.”
“Right? It’s obvious why you’d want to marry me.” I gestured at my body, and she didn’t even give me the courtesy of an eye roll.
“What are you doing here anyway?”
My eyebrows shot up. “I live here.”
She gave me a stern look. “All evidence to the contrary. Can’t wait to meet your family in a few days when I tell them I haven’t seen you since our wedding .”
Oh yeah, she was wound tight.
Then again, so was I.
“Speaking of meeting my family, we have a problem.”
Anya snatched a towel off the stack next to her, sliding it across her neck and chest in a very distracting manner. Not intentionally distracting, of course. All the same, my eyes followed the motion, and she snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Focus, Parker. They’re tits, and I’m sweaty. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“Thank you for that reminder,” I said caustically. Like I hadn’t jerked off to it earlier that morning. And yesterday. The fantasy played out a little bit like this, actually, where we both stumbled sweaty and panting into the shower.
“What’s the problem?”
Right. That was an excellent mood killer. “My sister,” I said grimly.
Her brow furrowed. “Which one?”
“Greer. She’s on her way to Portland.”
“What ?”
“She wants to have dinner with us.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Believe me, if there were any way I could dissuade her, I would, but she’s like a dog with a fucking bone when she gets an idea in her head.”
Anya brushed past me, and I swear, I tried not to stare at her ass as she preceded me up the stairs.
I tried.
An idiot I might be, but I’d never claimed to be a saint.
Anya found her water bottle and tipped it back to take a long drink, and my eyes lingered on the strands of hair still clinging to her neck. I blinked my attention back to her face.
“Did she see the article too?” she asked, worry clear in her tone.
I sighed. “I don’t know. All I know is she’s on her way here, and with those cameras parked outside, it’s not like I can lock her ass out, though the thought of it brings me so much joy, you don’t even know.”
Anya pushed her tongue against the side of her cheek, mind racing. “Okay, fine. I’ll go hop in the shower. We can do this. I’ve met Greer, so it’s not like she’s a stranger.”
I nodded.
Anya’s phone buzzed, and she let out a weary exhale as she glanced at the screen. Her mouth fell open. Her eyes widened, then shot up to mine.
My head reared back. “What?”
“Greer’s not the only one on her way,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Emmett’s parents, Logan and Paige.” She muttered a curse under her breath. “They’re like grandparents, sort of. Paige has always been protective of me, but after the Max thing … it got a lot worse.”
I swiped a hand over my mouth, and my chest ratcheted tight with a quick pulse of anxiety. Logan Ward was the defensive coordinator for the Washington Wolves, and one of the most intimidating men I’d ever met, both on and off the field. And he had nothing on his wife, Paige.
A memory flashed into my head of her dressing down a journalist for asking her husband a question she felt was … over the line. He left crying and hadn’t shown his face at any Washington Wolves games since.
My hand dropped. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”
Anya’s eyes were huge in her face. “Quite possibly.”