Chapter 11
NATE
“Can you punch any harder?” Grayson heaves as he shuffles around the black-and-white boxing ring.
Sweat trickles down his forehead and onto his already soaked gray shirt. I take a controlled breath in, smiling mischievously at the sight and at his words.
If he’s asking for a harder punch, who am I to deny him?
I pivot, circling the canvas to gather my strength. When I feel ready, my fist rises, his brow furrows, and as I’m about to swing in his direction, Grayson leaps back, raising his hands in surrender.
“That was sarcasm. I was being sarcastic.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell?” I back down with a bounce.
I pivot with one thought in mind—water and a towel.
His glare burns into my back as I reach the stool with my belongings. I sit my tired ass down, pat my face dry, and grab my water bottle. I’m seconds away from feeling the ice-cold liquid hit my tongue when it’s snatched right out of my hands.
“What was that all about?” Grayson waves frantically in front of my face.
The air, a byproduct of his quick movements, cools down the heat emanating from my skin. It’s a nice breeze. Light. Airy. I close my eyes, enjoying the free air-conditioning, when a hard sting emerges across my cheek.
My eyes fly open, facing the culprit behind the source of my pain. “I could ask you the same!” I palm the ache, the imprint of his slap still searing.
“I am not your personal fan,” he declares as his gaze hardens.
“That’s right, you’re my biggest fan.” I correct him. “Only a true fan ships two strangers and plays matchmaker at a fake engagement party.”
Grayson deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me you’re still not hung up on that.”
I look off to the side, not wanting to answer that question.
It’s been five days, twelve hours, and thirty seconds since that kiss. Not that I’m counting. And five days, twelve hours, and fifty-five seconds since I last talked to the woman who’s made herself the star of my dreams.
The only person I have to blame? Grayson. Hence, why I came into our weekly Wednesday boxing session with the intent of making it hell on earth for him. A little sweat was just what he needed as payback, and honestly, I don’t think he has the right to complain.
Grayson knew the promises I made to that woman. He knew I couldn’t touch her if we weren’t in public—and somehow, he pulled a situation out of his ass where it would be appropriate for me to do so.
Since then, what-if after what-if keep twirling in my head at what could have happened between us if we weren't in this stupid arrangement.
The teasing, the flirting, the everything. That kiss proved one thing—we’ve got chemistry. And if it weren’t for our circumstances, I’d be chasing that girl.
Unfortunately, I’m bound by honor and my word.
Instead of going into these details with Grayson, I take a greater interest in the spider crawling up the gray-painted brick. Its tiny legs are barely visible from where I’m sitting.
Its sauntering eventually comes to a stop, then she turns, until her eyes meet my own.
Tiny little red dots, so small I can barely see them.
She didn’t come across as malicious, menacing, or the kind of person who’d pressure you into doing something against your will.
She was living her best life and letting me live my own.
“She’s kind of cute, isn’t she?”
“Are we talking about Vivienne?”
“No, you idiot, I’m talking about the spider on the wall!”
His gaze shifts to where I was looking at moments ago, surprised that I’m telling the truth. The slight nod of his head proves my point. Madame Spidey—as I’ve decided to call her—is one cute thing.
“You’re deflecting,” he states the obvious.
“Does it matter when my best friend has betrayed me?”
When Grayson hesitates to answer, I let out a long, frustrated sigh, duck under the ropes of the ring, and make my way to the punching bags lining the opposite wall.
One. Two. Three hard punches. I let out my anger over this situation as best as I can.
On the fourth, the bag freezes midair despite the strength I’ve put into it.
I glance to the side to see Grayson holding it with two hands, ceasing my satisfaction of watching the silly thing swing from brute force.
“I thought it might be good for you.”
I snort. “What part of that did you think was good for me?”
“I thought that if you took care of your fixation with her lips, and she was a really bad kisser, your next six months would be easier. You wouldn’t catch feelings, and you’d leave the engagement intact.”
I roll my eyes in disbelief. “Well, congratulations, buddy, you made it worse!”
And that’s putting it mildly.
The news that broke out following the engagement party was anything but good, thanks to a video of our uncalled-for PDA. According to the mass media, “people in real relationships don’t kiss like that.” Whatever the fuck that even means.
I assure you—that kiss felt real.
If the past two weeks have taught me anything, it’s that social media never makes much sense.
It operates on two extremes—heaven and hell, with no in-between.
When you’re in their good graces, all is fine, but the second they decide to switch their perception of you, it’s game over.
You can kiss your career and business goodbye.
So far, no part of this charade is actually working.
I’ve tried contacting Everett Staines to explain my side of the story, but nothing. His team won’t respond to me either. Investors are continuously emailing to back out, and as it stands, that electric plane deal is slipping through my fingers.
I’m losing hope in Melanie. I’m losing faith in myself and this company. And it’s only amplified by the stress of not doing the things I love.
Visiting my family. Cooking. Actual engineering—not this administrative bullshit. It doesn’t seem like any part of this is looking up in the near future.
“Look, things might be complicated now, but it’ll settle down later.” Grayson’s voice softens. “They always do. Don’t worry about it too much.”
I huff in annoyance. “And how do you know this?”
My best friend shrugs. “That’s how these plot lines usually go.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
If I hear my life being compared to a book one more time, I might lose it. That man is out here spewing words like he’s Shakespeare himself, and if he doesn’t let go of that punching bag right this second, I’ll gladly choose the next best thing as a replacement.
Him.
Whatever look crosses my face forces him to step away.
“Fine. I’ll drop it. All I’m saying is that your reputation won’t fix itself overnight. It might take months at best and years at worst. I thought I was making it better for you in the short-term.”
“The more you talk, the more I realize I should use you as my human punching bag. Put yourself in my shoes, Grayson. How would you feel if your reputation was crumbling before your eyes?”
“You’re being dramatic. The stuff they’re saying about you isn’t all that bad. It’s lessened significantly.”
I deadpan—we’re clearly living in different worlds.
“Seriously, I haven’t heard anything major recently,” he reassures, crouching to search through his bag. He settles on a black device that I recognize as his pager. Poor thing has forced him out of bed countless times.
“Is it because you’ve been living under the hospital roof for three days in a row or because they’ve truly stopped talking?” I say, ripping off a boxing glove and aiming straight for his crotch.
Unfortunately, he catches it.
“You willing to bet?” He walks to the other end of the modern gym to grab the TV remote.
With the click of a button, the black screen turns on. Grayson flips through a dozen channels, deliberately skipping those with blown-up pictures of my face, before settling on a suited man delivering the weather forecast.
“See, absolutely no one is talking about you.” I raise a brow at him as he takes a bow.
“You are very welcome. You can now sleep soundly at night. Maybe even remove the stick up your ass. If it’s still there in a week, don’t worry about it.
I’ll talk to my buddies at the hospital and squeeze you in for a rectal foreign object removal. Free of charge.”
I let out a loud and genuine laugh, forgetting about the problems that plague my mind.
Even with the decades we’ve been friends, Grayson’s sense of humor never gets old. He somehow always finds a way to make any situation better, and for that, I’m grateful.
That lighthearted feeling doesn’t last long, though, when the forecast reverts to its original broadcast. The one thing that immediately stands out? A picture of me on stage at the event where everything went to shit.
My smile falls as quickly as the TV turns black.
“Turn it back on.” I glance over at Grayson, who’s caught red-handed as he hides the remote behind his back.
“Would you look at that! I guess the power went out. Isn’t that so, so weird?”
“Turn. It. Back. On,” I grit out through my teeth.
“Not possible when the power is out. You should know that. You’re an engineer, after all,” he states like it’s obvious.
The only issue is that the lights across the gym were very much still on. So, unless someone specifically tampered with the ones hooked to the television, his lie wasn’t going to pass.
I take a step toward Grayson, determined to hear what new shit they’re saying about me, when he bolts across the training hub.
I’m on the move before I can think.
“Give me the damn remote,” I snarl when I find myself in the changing room, circling the long wooden bench that separates us.
We’re lucky that our good friend Griffin, owner of The Forge—one of the hottest gyms in the city—let us rent out the space in light of my newfound circumstances. I more than appreciate the privacy, and now, the lack of complaints and headlines that we’d get over our stupidly childish behavior.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Grayson replies.
“I need to know what they’re saying.”
“They’ve been teaching us to prioritize mental health at the hospital.
One key point they emphasize is recognizing when to step away from social media.
So far, you’re failing miserably. Do you want to be considered a disappointment?
” he taunts, eyes gleaming with rebellion as he bounces on his feet.
I roll my eyes at his efforts to provoke me, circling my way closer to him.
This time, I’m pleasantly surprised when he stays rooted in place. I’m inches away from grabbing the remote out of his hand when he leaps onto the bench.
I stare up at him in a daze—my look of surprise reflected on his face.
“Never let them know your next move.” Grayson winks before he runs across the bench, drops to the ground, and disappears behind a row of lockers.
A low grumble escapes my throat as I follow him.
I spot him talking to Griffin animatedly near the boxing ring, a smile on his face and the remote flying around in his hand. It’s only when his eyes meet mine that he freezes.
Grayson doesn’t get the chance to take a step forward before I tackle him to the ground, hearing the deep laughter of our friend who’s dealt with our shenanigans over the years.
“Nate and Grayson, always up to no good.” Griffin shakes his head, heading in the other direction.
I rip the remote from my best friend’s hand and click the power button. Two women dressed in their nicest blouses appear on the screen, sitting around a large circular table and acting more interested than they should be in whatever they’re discussing.
My name, along with its crazy headline, rolls across the bottom, and I groan at the absurdity of it all. Somehow, they’ve landed on Nate Archer Inspects Fiancée’s Mouth With Tongue During Engagement Party—Did He Miss His Calling as a Dentist?
Whoever came up with that one needs to be arrested for unhinged creativity. There were more important things in the world to report on. Not to mention, if they looked closely, they’d see there was no tongue in that kiss.
“Nate Archer has been the face of more than one controversy lately. From the spark at his firm’s most anticipated exposition to his association with a woman significantly more naive than he is. But do you know what I find to be the most fascinating?”
Pink Blouse takes a dramatic pause, glancing at White Blouse, who waits for an answer like they haven’t rehearsed this.
“The emergence of Crawford Aerospace following Nate’s most recent failures.”
Grayson stiffens under my arm, and my mind goes blank as I hear the name I haven’t heard in a little under a decade.
I turn the volume up a notch, needing to know what it is they’re saying about the man I once considered a friend.
“At a press conference earlier this week, Carter Crawford, CEO of Crawford Aerospace, announced they were coming out with a major advancement in the development of their electric airplanes—allegedly capable of exceeding the speed of sound. They have high hopes to have them approved by the FAA for commercial use in the next few months, something that he says, and I quote, ‘will not be sparking a significant amount of energy or controversy,’” Pink Blouse continues.
“Impossible,” Grayson mutters.
“What a great dig at Nate Archer, and I will say, very clever on his part,” White Blouse butts in.
“I could not agree more. Engineers around the world are calling this the greatest invention of the century, claiming that no advancements like this have been made before.”
Their lips move and move, spewing more information I don’t want to hear, but I hold on, hoping there’s something to look forward to.
“It’s worth noting that airlines are working toward a shift to renewable energy, which is why I'm wondering whether this would make Crawford Aerospace a contender for the SkyWay Airlines electric plane deal?”
“So far, there have been no comments from their CEO, Everett—”
The TV cuts off before the woman finishes her sentence. Only this time, I’m the source behind it. Not Grayson. Not the power outage. Me.
The last thing I want to hear is another second of their bullshit, or the name of the man I’m trying to get in contact with.
Carter motherfucking Crawford, on the other hand? He has no reason to speak of me that way, especially after all the grace I’ve given him.
I get off the ground, narrowing my eyes at Grayson. “Come on.” I put my hand out for him, nodding in the direction of the boxing ring. “We’re going again.”
My best friend’s eyes grow wide, his life literally flashing before them, but I couldn’t care less—I need to release my frustrations somehow.