Chapter 10 #2
That last question makes my blood boil. How dare he ask something so personal?
Before I can even open my mouth to respond, Hunter turns around and pulls me away from the photographer.
His arm slides around my waist, yanking me close against his side.
His body shields mine as we’re pushed back toward the doors of the venue.
Someone tries to step into our path; Hunter lets out a loud growl that makes the guy think twice.
It’s not just acting anymore. There’s something protective and fierce in the way he positions himself between me and the cameras.
I try to keep my head down, my hand flying up before my face, and focus on. But my stupid heel catches on a crack in the sidewalk. For a second, I wobble, unable to move without losing a Louboutin heel.
I flail. My heels are from college, a time in my life when my parents still paid for designer things. If anything happens to them, they are irreplaceable. I stumble, arms flinging wide as I try to catch my balance.
Hunter immediately catches me, one arm sliding under my thighs and the other around my back, lifting me clean off the ground in one smooth motion.
The flashbulbs go absolutely wild. Oh god. I’m having a The Bodyguard moment right now in front of frenzied, frothing paparazzi. There will be photos of this moment everywhere.
Someone yells, “That’s love, baby!”
My reaction is to hide my face, turning away from the photographers and burying my nose against Hunter’s shoulder. The cedarwood and tobacco scent of his cologne hits me like a ton of bricks.
No man should smell this good. Especially not someone so grumpy.
My face flushes hot with embarrassment as I breathe him in for a moment. Then I writhe, protesting. Carefully of course, because I’m wearing a very short skirt. “Huxley, put me down.”
He looks down at me, storm-gray eyes taking me in. “You tripped.”
I push against his chest.
“I’m wearing five-inch heels. Of course I tripped. I didn’t need a fireman’s carry.”
“Looked like you did from where I was standing.”
I mutter, “You’re a walking PR crisis.”
He sets me down gently, but his hand lingers at my waist for a moment longer than necessary. I hate how steady he feels. How safe.
I must be hormonal or something, because I feel like his pheromones follow me. For all his rough edges, he settles me. He makes the noise in my head vanish.
God, I’m really on something today.
As we make our escape to the parking garage, the photographers are still shouting questions and snapping pictures. By the time we reach my car, my hands are shaking slightly from the adrenaline.
Back in the car, I stare out at the Seattle skyline, my arms crossed over my chest. The city looks pretty from here, all glass and steel and possibility. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in way over my head.
Hunter smells good. Too good. That cologne he wears, smoky cedar mixed with something dangerous, lingers in the enclosed space of my car. It’s distracting in ways I absolutely don’t need right now.
I’m going to throw that cologne in the trash when we get home. Or maybe just hide it somewhere he’ll never find it.
Because the truth is, I don’t hate the way he smells. I don’t hate the way he automatically moved to protect me from those photographers. I don’t hate the way he caught me when I fell, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And that’s a problem.
The drive home is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts.
With the announcement in the papers that Hunter and I are engaged, there has been an explosion of gossip about our supposed relationship online.
It seems like fans have all but forgotten about Hunter punching that fan in the face.
I haven’t heard about the fan being paid off, but I’m almost positive that someone cut him a check for his silence.
Otherwise, Hunter’s grumpy face would be everywhere.
Instead, there are just a lot of photos of the two of us looking at each other in what the media assumes is a loving way. Barf. At least it seems to work to draw the heat off of Hunter.
The league has either forgotten him completely or Jimbo Greene has dealt with them.
Hunter’s phone keeps buzzing with what I assume are notifications about the most recent photos of us at the wedding venue that are probably already being posted online. My phone is mercifully silent, but I know that won’t last long.
By tonight, those pictures will be everywhere. Hunter carrying me like some kind of romance novel hero. Me looking flustered and breathless in his arms. The perfect shot to sell our fake love story to the world.
“That went well,” Hunter says finally, breaking the silence.
“You think?” I give him an irritated look.
He shrugs. “The photographers got their money shot. Julien will be thrilled. Your ring was visible in at least half of those pictures.”
He’s right. From a PR perspective, today was a complete success. We gave them exactly the content they wanted. Star-crossed lovers shopping for their dream wedding venue. The big, protective hockey player and his tiny fiancée.
Too bad none of it’s real.
“Patrick’s going to love this,” I mutter.
“Fuck Patrick.”
The vehemence in his voice surprises me. “That’s a lot of hate for someone you haven’t even seen in years.”
“I know everything I need to know. I know he’s trying to make you look bad because he can’t handle that you’re better off without him.”
I glance over at Hunter, surprised by the certainty in his voice. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know you, Monroe. You’re sweet and supportive, smart and sexy. You’re pretty much perfect wifey material. He’s probably kicking himself for letting you go.”
The compliment hits me unexpectedly hard. Coming from Hunter, who’s never been one to hand out praise, it means more than it should.
“Umm… thanks,” I whisper.
“Don’t thank me for stating facts.”
We pull into the parking garage of our building.
“Hunter,” I start, then stop. I’m not sure what I was going to say.
He looks at me expectantly, those gray-blue eyes focused on my face.
“Nothing,” I finish lamely. “Never mind.”
But as we ride the elevator up to our floor, I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when those cameras were flashing. Like I was something worth protecting.
I want my eventual husband, whoever he might be, to look at me that way.