Chapter 10
Juliet
I wake up early, already dreading the day. A message from my mother pings on my phone.
Mom: Juliet Eloise Monroe! I just read a news article that says you are engaged?? Is this true??
Mom: ????????????????
I sigh. My mom knows. She’s a corporate lawyer, spending every spare hour at the office.
My entire childhood consisted of being told to sit in her office and do my homework while she attended a very important client meeting.
Even at home, she was always fielding calls and sending texts.
She is always neck-deep in her latest case.
Like my dad, she’s a serious workaholic.
I guess part of me hoped that Melissa and Tom Monroe would just not notice. After all, they didn’t know about my breakup with Patrick until two months later, when I called to let them know my plans to move back to Seattle. Only then did my mom even think to ask about my boyfriend of five years.
Mom: Tell me you didn’t let your family find out on the internet. Your grandparents will kill me, Juliet.
Ah, so that’s what she’s worried about. Not me, but how my uptight grandparents will react.
Yes, it was probably inevitable that my mom would find out about Hunter and me being ‘engaged’.
We appeared in public together often enough, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes, which led to countless sports news articles about us.
That, plus Patrick’s mud-slinging contribution to the news cycle.
So what lie am I going to tell my mom? I think for a second before I type out my answer.
Juliet: Sorry. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.
Mom: I think we should meet and talk about the engagement.
Juliet: We’re talking right now.
Mom: I’ll make us dinner reservations somewhere nice. I wanted to catch up with you, anyway. You know, your LSAT scores are still valid for another two years. It’s not too late to pursue a law degree.
I roll my eyes. It wouldn’t be a conversation with Melissa Monroe if she didn’t bring up law school, how I’m running out of time, and how I just need to apply to Stanford, her Juris Doctorate alma mater.
Juliet:
That’s it. No congratulations on my engagement, fake or otherwise. No mention of the fact that I’m currently the most talked-about woman in Pacific Northwest sports news. Just a reminder that Mom still doesn’t think this path is good enough for me.
I stare at the text for a long moment. Then I slowly flip my phone face-down on the nightstand and try to breathe.
This isn’t the future she wants for me. Not PR work.
Not the sports industry. She wants me in law school, following the path she’s laid out since I was in high school.
But this is what I want, even if it means fake engagement schemes and damage control meetings.
I’m building something real here, something that matters to me. Even if no one else sees it that way.
I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen, already bracing for whatever mood Hunter’s in this morning.
He’s leaning against the counter, shirtless and smirking, holding two mugs of coffee. His hair is still messy from sleep. There’s something almost boyish about his expression that catches me off guard. He offers me one mug as though he’s being charming.
“Sleep well, future Mrs. Chainsaw?”
I snatch the coffee mug. I’m not in the mood for his jokes this morning.
“Why are you so fucking cheerful?”
Hunter blinks, caught completely off guard by my tone. His smile fades as he takes in my expression.
“Damn. Who spit in your kale smoothie?”
I set the coffee down harder than necessary. He watches me closely now, all traces of humor gone.
“What’s going on?”
I exhale, feeling all the tension from this morning bubbling up. “My mom texted. I guess she found out about our engagement.”
Hunter’s jaw tightens immediately. “Yeah? Is that… bad?”
I shake my head, not wanting to repeat the exact words. “It’s just another thing for mom to pick on me about.”
Hunter’s eyes go dark in a way that would probably terrify most people. “You need me to straighten her out?”
Despite myself, I laugh. It’s a little choked sound that surprises both of us. “Wow. Tempting offer. But the point of this whole PR stunt is to make you look less like a rage monster, remember?”
He grunts. “Might be worth the hit to my reputation. Your mom can’t just bully you.”
“She’s just doing what moms do, I think.” I screw up my face.
Hunter takes a beat before answering. “I don’t have a very good frame of reference for how normal moms behave. But for what it’s worth, I think your mom making you feel bad about anything at all is bullshit. Moms are supposed to be… supportive and shit.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now. Not because I’m over my mom’s latest text, but because, God help me, it feels good to have someone on my side. Even if it’s just fake. Even if it’s just for show.
“You’re a menace,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but I’m your menace. And your fiancé.”
The words hang in the air between us and I pretend they don’t make my chest feel tight.
What would it be like to have a guy who says that for real? Heavenly, I imagine.
A few hours later, we’re in my car driving to a luxury wedding venue in downtown Seattle. I insisted on driving because Hunter treats every red light like a personal insult. I need to arrive at this thing with my nerves intact.
There’s something infuriating about how casually he takes everything.
I watch him in the passenger seat out of the corner of my eye.
His long legs splay out, and he drapes one hand casually on the center console as if we are just two people on an actual date.
He makes me feel completely off balance, like there’s a tide inside me pulling me toward him.
It’s too bad that he’s equal parts hot and terrible. Falling for someone like Hunter would be the most irresponsible thing I’ve ever done. I know exactly how that story ends. With my reputation in pieces and my heart as the punchline.
The venue is right on the water, all glass railings and driftwood accents and curated elegance. The place that charges five figures just to look at their brochure. It’s beautiful in that effortless way that actually takes enormous effort to achieve.
Julien, the team’s PR executive, meets us at the entrance with a clipboard and forced cheer that makes my teeth ache.
“Try to act smitten,” he whispers. Like we’re children who need basic direction.
Hunter mutters under his breath, “Can’t wait.” I catch his eye and repress a smile. He holds out his hand to me and I lace my fingers through his. His hand is too warm. It’s almost comical seeing how giant his hand is holding mine.
My thoughts wander off for a second, wondering at the difference in our sizes. Hunter is so much taller than I am. He’s a great bear of a person who slams through his opponents on the ice without ever slowing down.
I wonder if he’s big… everywhere. My ex was a 6’ hockey player and I know he had a surprisingly small dick. But something about Hunter’s growly don’t-come-near-me persona hints at him having a massive one.
I mean, he has to. Just look at him.
Sensing my gaze, Hunter arches a brow. “Are you checking me out, Monroe?”
“What?” I avert my eyes, my cheeks growing hot. “God, in your dreams.”
“So you’ve said.” He tugs on my hand, pulling me against his body. “You’re supposed to be deeply in love with me, remember?”
“I remember.” I pinch my lips shut and look away. “Let’s just get this over with, huh?”
We’re ushered through a tour of the grand venue that feels more like a performance than actual venue shopping.
I have to take the lead, pointing out floral arrangements and asking questions about catering for the content we’re supposed to be creating.
Hunter grumbles every time I pull out my phone to take pictures, but he cooperates. Barely.
“Could you smile a little? At least try to look like you’re having fun?” I complain.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not having fun. I wouldn’t be having fun even if we were really engaged. This shit is boring.”
“You’re the surliest guy in every room,” I tell him as we pause by a wall of windows overlooking Elliott Bay. “It’s exhausting. You know you can just not pick a fight every five minutes, right?”
“I didn’t pick a fight. I didn’t say fuck-all.”
“I know, but you’re over my shoulder in every picture, just glowering. Can’t you behave for one measly hour?”
He arches an eyebrow, and I can’t read his expression. “Where’s the fun in that?”
As we are walking out, I line up a shot of us with the Seattle skyline in the background, the Space Needle visible in the distance. “Smile like you’re not heading to your own funeral.”
He bares his teeth in what could generously be called a grin. “Is this close enough?”
I snap the photo. “Perfect. You look exactly like someone who’s planning to murder me on our wedding day.”
“Murder your pussy, maybe.” He says it so casually, like it’s something he’s thought about. I inhale so sharply that I suck a teeny bit of saliva down my windpipe, then cough violently.
All I can think while I’m pounding my chest and trying to recover is that Hunter just talked about my… my pussy. I’m one part repulsed, one part shocked, and part deeply curious if I’m living with some kind of pervert.
If so, I should know. I’m supposed to be his fiancée, after all. While I’m wheezing, Hunter claps me on the back, looking pretty amused.
“You okay there, Ace?”
“I’m fine,” I rasp. I cough into my fist, eyeing him. “And don’t call me that.”
“Was it what I said about your–” he starts.
A photographer pops out from behind a row of manicured hedges like a paparazzi jack-in-the-box. Hunter stiffens and pushes me behind him, a growl bursting from deep in his chest. Then another paparazzo appears. And another. Camera lenses glinting in the afternoon sun.
“Hunter! Juliet! Over here!” one yells.
Another demands, “How long have you two been together?”
“Is the wedding next month?”
“Are you pregnant?”