13. Hadley
Chapter thirteen
Hadley
Shit. Shit. Shit. All I wanted to do was make Weston a nice meal to thank him for, well, everything, and I went and burned the chicken. I’m usually a fine cook. I can’t make anything fancy, but everything tastes good and isn’t burnt. But not today, apparently.
I glare at the oven, although it’s not the oven’s fault.
It’s mine. I forgot to set a timer and then got caught up tweaking my portfolio and resume.
What was supposed to take ten minutes took over an hour, which meant burning dinner because I was so focused on my task and forgot I had something cooking.
It also had me second-guessing every photo I’ve ever taken and thought was good, because maybe they’re not that great.
Maybe I can’t land a job because I’m not a good photographer.
I should probably go to the grocery store and grab something else for dinner, but at that moment, the front door opens.
“Honey, I’m home,” Weston yells.
Fuck.
“Hi, fiancée,” he greets me when he walks into the kitchen. “What is … oh.” He steps closer to me, peering down at the burnt chicken and vegetables on the pan. “I’ll eat pretty much anything, but I think that’s a little much.”
“Sorry,” I huff out. “I fucked up and forgot to set a timer.” Tears well in the corner of my eyes, and I roughly run my hand over my face to get rid of them.
I whirl around and pull the garbage can out so I can scrape the burnt food into it.
“I’ll run to Publix and grab a rotisserie chicken and a bag or two of frozen vegetables. ”
“Hadley?”
“I fucking ruined dinner,” I snap, scraping at the pan with the spatula so aggressively that pieces of burnt carrots and broccoli go flying onto the floor. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Hey. Hey.” He grabs the spatula and gently yanks on it until I let go. Then he takes the pan from my other hand. I hear a clatter as he sets them in the sink. “Hadley. Talk to me.”
“It’s nothing, Weston,” I say, gazing down at the floor and wrapping my arms around myself. “I’m having a bad day.”
Can this conversation please be over? I want to go to my room so I can cry in peace about not only the ruined dinner but my inadequacies as a photographer. I’m not even hungry anymore. I take a step away from him, moving toward the hallway.
“Hadley,” he says, stepping in front of me, his tone softening. “Look at me.”
“No, Weston.” I shake my head.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, bending almost in half so he’s peering up at me. “What happened?” His eyes dart around, and as if it dawns on him how close he is to me, he quickly steps back.
“Nothing. I’m tired is all. I think I’ll call it an early night,” I mumble as I push past him into the hallway.
When I’m safely in my room, I sag against the door, tears streaming down my face. Thank you, period hormones, for making everything feel even worse. I take a few breaths, trying to calm down.
“Hadley.” He knocks a few minutes later, startling me, and I jump back, staring at the door.
I should have locked it, although I know he won’t come in without permission.
“Hadley Jane,” he says, knocking again. “Can I do anything? Do you want me to call someone for you? Becca? Madison? Sutton?” I hear noises outside, and I picture him pulling out his phone and dialing one of them.
Why does he have to be so sweet on top of being sexy?
With a sigh, I pull the door open, praying it’s been long enough that my eyes and nose aren’t red from crying anymore.
“I’m fine. No need to worry.”
“But I am worried.” He scans me from head to toe before grimacing and taking a tentative step forward. “What happened? The last thing I want to do is make you cry. I’m not mad that dinner was burnt. We can order takeout, or I can run to the store.”
“I overreacted.” I hang my head. “I was pissed I burned dinner. I cry when I get mad.” I throw up my arms. “It’s embarrassing. I hate it.” I leave out the whole spiraling about my portfolio part because it feels silly in hindsight.
“It’s okay. Did something else happen?”
I shake my head even though part of me wonders if I should tell him. But I feel like a broken record. I’ve already told him how worried I am about my career. How I don’t know if I’m good enough. What good would telling him again do?
“Nope. Just female things.” I wince. I shouldn’t be embarrassed admitting that to him, but I am.
“Do you want a hug?” He holds out his arms.
I hesitate. I kind of do, but I’m also afraid that if I hug him, we’ll start down a path we can’t come back from.
“Never mind.” He starts to move away.
“Wait,” I all but shout, my need for comfort outweighing my nervousness about crossing a line. “Yes, hug, please.”
I step into his embrace and immediately relax as he slowly strokes my back. My eyes flutter shut as a feeling of being home settles in my chest. That’s not possible. How can it be? I push the feeling away and give him one final squeeze before pulling out of his arms.
“Thanks.”
“Of course.” He takes a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Can I do anything for you? I probably have a bar or two of milk chocolate in the fridge. There’s a half-eaten bag of gummy bears in the pantry.
I need to go to the store to replenish my sweets drawer now that I’m back in town.
” He pauses, glancing around. “I can draw you a bath. I don’t have bubble bath, but I do have Epsom salts.
I can run to the store and get you some bubble bath. ”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble …”
“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. Plus, I’m your guest. I don’t want to put you out. I’m sure you’re exhausted, and now we don’t even have anything for dinner.”
“How about we order takeout and watch a movie?” My stomach chooses that moment to grumble, answering his question. He stares pointedly at it. “What do you want to eat?”
“Whatever is fine.”
“What. Are. You. In. The. Mood. For. Hadley Jane?” He levels me a look that says I better give him an answer, or else. Part of me wants to know what the or else is, but that’s never happening because we’re just faking it.
“Pizza.”
“What kind of pizza? Do you want dessert or anything? I’ll swing by Publix on the way home. Wine? Beer? I don’t know what you drink.”
“Meat lovers.” I lick my lips involuntarily, and I swear I see something flash over his face as he watches me. I cringe, realizing the double entendre. I clear my throat. “I’m not in the mood for alcohol, so water’s fine, or maybe some tea, if you have any.”
“I don’t, but I’ll stop at the store. What kind do you want? I know peppermint is good for an upset stomach. Not sure if it will help with …” He waves his hand at me as if he’s not sure how to phrase it.
“You don’t have to stop by the store. I’ll drink water.”
“Hadley, let me take care of you. You’re my fiancée.”
“Fake fiancée.”
“We want to sell this relationship, right? This is how we do it.”
I sigh, feeling the start of cramps. “I don’t know about that since no one else is here to know, but if you insist, peppermint tea would be good and a bar of dark chocolate with almonds too. Oh, and chocolate peanut butter ice cream while you’re at it.”
“Got it. Anything else?”
I shake my head.
“I’m gonna go change, and then I’ll go. If you want to take a bath, you can use my bathroom. The tub is bigger. There’s Epsom salts under the sink. Text me if you think of anything else.”
“I need your number to be able to text you.”
“Right. Give me your phone, and I’ll put my number in.”
I unlock my phone and hand it to him.
He types on it for a few seconds. “Done. I sent myself a text.” He gives it back to me before heading toward his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
I laugh when I see how he put his name in my phone—Number One Fiancé.
Weston Reynolds surprises me each and every day I spend with him.
Although I shouldn’t be so shocked. I knew he was a good man based on how he is with his teammates, what he’s done for Holt, for all of the guys, and how he is with Hazel.
I just didn’t expect to have that attention and care directed at me.
I cannot fall for my fake fiancé.
I cannot.
In a few months, this will all be over. He’ll move on with his life, and I’ll move on with mine.
Because this is all fake.
The best we can be is friends.