Chapter 7
The alarm on my phone is a scream out of hell, slicing into the nightmare that I married Kit fucking Watson in front of friends and family. When I fall off the couch, smacking the coffee table in a desperate attempt to turn the damn thing off, I know it’s all real.
I mutter a curse as I untangle my legs from the blanket I found in the closet last night. My phone isn’t where I left it. Instead, it’s screeching from the desk across the room. Just as I push off the floor, Kit wanders out of the bedroom.
My brain screeches to a halt. He’s in a towel, fresh out of the shower. My mouth goes dry as he reaches for my phone to turn the alarm off.
When did he turn into such a … specimen? In college he’d been tall and thin. Gangly. The man in front of me clearly spends some time at the gym. He isn’t perfectly cut like some kind of unrealistic fitness model either. His muscles swell under his skin in a perfect display of strength and nonchalance. Like he actually cares about being fit instead of how he looks.
Well.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
My eyes fall to his chest. That’s new—the smattering of hair over his pecs, the line marching down his toned stomach until it disappears below the too-tiny hotel towel. With effort, I avoid gaping at the glimpse of toned thigh making itself known where the towel edges don’t quite meet up.
By the time my gaze makes it back to his, I realize too late he’s been perusing my body too. I feel naked despite my tank top and satin shorts. I haven’t been to the gym in ages, and I’ve been surviving off coffee and takeout. I know I don’t look like I did when I was younger.
I clear my throat as I remember I don’t give a shit what he thinks of my body, because we are one hundred percent not going to go there. Ever. “Did you move my phone?”
He shrugs, running his left hand through his still-damp hair. He’s still wearing his wedding ring. Somehow, I thought he’d have chucked it out the window by now. “I was up early, and it wasn’t plugged in when I left. Figured you’d want a full charge.”
“When you left?” I narrow my eyes. I didn’t hear him come through here at all. I cross my arms over my chest when I realize that means he saw me sleeping. Something about it feels too damn intimate when I can’t say the same about him.
He doesn’t answer right away, instead plucking a to-go cup from the coffee shop downstairs off the mini-fridge and offering it to me. “I hope you still take it with cream, no sugar.”
I can’t help but curl the warm cup against my chest, trying to shield my sucker of a heart that wants to swoon. He remembers how I take my coffee.
And he let you sleep on the couch.
“Where’d you go this morning?” I take a swig of the liquid gold inside the cup. My hair must look like a rat’s nest after tossing and turning all night; I tuck a stray strand behind my ear.
He turns back to the bedroom and waves off my question. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a run.”
I follow him into the bedroom, my brow furrowed. It’s been a decade, so I’m a little rusty when it comes to his intonation, but that didn’t sound like the whole truth. Before I have the chance to push him for more—we’re married now, after all, I deserve the truth—I stop in my tracks, staring at the door to the closet.
“You hung up my dress,” I say so softly I doubt he hears it.
But he does hear it. He gives me a sheepish smile as he lifts a hand to grip the back of his neck. “It’s … a nice dress. I saw it on the floor this morning and …”
He trails off, looking at the garment in question, hanger hooked over the closet door. I slid out of it before making myself comfortable on the couch and left it in a heap on the carpet. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a dress, right? My world is made of tulle and lace and chiffon. One dress doesn’t mean anything.
Especially not when I picked it out of a preselected lineup of dresses, presented to me in a slide show. Just like my ring and the bouquet. This entire marriage is one giant business transaction, for fuck’s sake.
And yet here I am, sliding the hem of the chiffon skirt through my fingers. There’s a grass stain from when we took our wedding photos on the lawn, and the bright green smudge is an imperfection that tells a whole story.
A story of how I loved Kit years ago, before we fell apart. A story of how I built myself back up without him, piece by precarious piece. A tale of how we somehow stumbled into each other’s lives by sheer accident. Or maybe fate. The little stain is the visible reminder of how he dipped me low for a photo, his arms around me like he won’t let me go this time. Not now that he’s found me again.
It’s an empty promise, I know.
“Maybe there’s something more interesting on a different channel.” His voice is right behind me.
I spin around, surprised he’s so close. Quickly, I set my lips into a line. “Like another reality show where you can ruin someone else’s life?”
The sparkle in Kit’s eyes dulls and his teasing grin falls flat. He clears his throat and states, matter-of-fact, “The producers will be here soon. Bathroom’s all yours.”
I wince when I think about what the producers will think if they find out I slept on the couch. That’ll make a fun segment in an episode, huh? And while I know they’ll spin a story no matter what we do, I do not want them finding out the truth.
Nobody needs to know how broken this man left me all those years ago. Least of all Kit.
“Right,” I say, pulling myself together. “They’ll probably want some shots of us eating breakfast in bed. Talking or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” he repeats. Humor twinkles in his eyes again, and his voice is all gravel and sin. He didn’t even have to try to make those two words sound absolutely filthy.
I roll my eyes, if only to keep from staring at him.
He sighs, shifting on his feet. “Andie, before the cameras get here, can we … talk about what happened? Before?”
I have not had enough coffee for this. My hand curls into a fist at my side and I take a deep breath before saying as calmly as I can, “We dated. It ended. We were young and stupid and it doesn’t … it doesn’t matter.”
He frowns, deep lines appearing between his brows. “Of course it matters. You never gave me a chance to—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I repeat, too loudly in the hotel room. My words ricochet off the drywall and fall softly on the plush carpet between our bare feet.
Kit watches me, his gaze intense. I feel like an ant underneath a magnifying glass. I tug at the hem of my tank top and try to keep my hands from shaking. He left. When he came back, I said we were done. End of story. Why won’t change anything, and I’m not looking to fix the pieces of me he broke. I patched them together myself, with my bare hands, and I can’t risk ripping old wounds open. Not when I have so much to do.
He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by a knock on the door. I clear my throat. “That’ll be the producers. I’m going to shower.” Before Kit can stop me, I lock myself in the bathroom, and I climb into the shower before I can determine where the wetness on my cheeks is coming from.
The airport is unbelievably busy. Or maybe it’s not. I wouldn’t know.
Despite my dreams of traveling far and wide when I was younger, I’ve never even made it onto a plane. My heart kicks up a few beats per minute as I walk up to the ticket counter with Kit. The attendant takes one look at us and beams.
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. The producers made all the couples wear matching T-shirts. Jamie and Leslie are the next counter over in white ones that simply say, We’re on our honeymoon! Somehow, Kit and I got stuck with bright orange ones. His says She’s my sweet potato. Mine reads I yam. Both are hashtagged with Just Married, and we haven’t been able to have a single normal interaction since we left our room this morning.
I picked at breakfast in bed on camera. It was a delicious spread of Belgian waffles, eggs Benedict, and enough fruit to make an extravagant centerpiece, but trying to fake a smile as producers prompted conversation from Kit and me made me lose my appetite. I’m paying for it now—my stomach is a gnawing pit in the center of my abdomen, and based on what the producers told us, we won’t have time to eat before we get on the plane.
Kit smiles as he hands over his passport. It’s in decent shape, but the pages have clearly been used and used well. And it’s one of the thicker ones, with more pages that I read about when I was applying for my first-ever passport mere weeks ago. I’m embarrassed to hand over my little book, so crisp and new.
Kit eyes it with a frown as the attendant opens it to check my name and the spine actually cracks. “First international trip?” he asks me, an eyebrow raised.
I give him a smile that feels more like a grimace. “You didn’t know I was a virgin?”
Kit nearly chokes, turning a shade of red that clashes with the orange of our shirts. He smooths his hair back and accepts his passport from the attendant as she says, “Have a nice trip to Costa Rica, and congratulations on your marriage.”
He offers a weak smile, handing over his bag so she can tag it and toss it on the conveyor belt behind her. The attendant turns her attention to me, handing over my documents with a bright smile. “There you go, Mrs. Watson. Hope you enjoy your flight!”
I open my mouth to correct her—my passport clearly says my name is still Andrea Dresser—but Kit cups my elbow and steers me away, saying a polite goodbye to the attendant. Fuming, I wrench my arm from his grip and follow the crowd to security.
Steve and Cassidy are smack dab in the middle of the line that’s about three miles long. Cassidy leans into Steve, his arm thrown over her shoulders while they watch a video on her phone to endure the wait. I bite my lip to hold in a wistful sigh. My life is filled with grand displays of love in glittering gowns under fairy lights, but it’s these small ones I crave. They’re sacred in their secrecy; something only these two people know.
When I stop at the end of the line, lost in my thoughts, Kit shakes his head, literally tsking me.
Hungry and tired and aching from a night spent sleeping on a creaky couch, I curl my hands into fists and demand, “What?”
“Come on.” He nods his head toward another line—much shorter—that’s roped off with a sign declaring First Class, Diamond and Platinum Members. When I hesitate, he gives me an amused smile. “If we wait here, you’ll either murder someone or eat me for brunch.”
I bite my tongue. My body is very interested in the idea of having him for brunch, just maybe not in the way he meant. I sigh, muttering a “fine” as I follow him into the other line.
The security guard at the podium takes Kit’s passport and some sort of silver credit card. I hand over my brand-spanking-new passport and plane ticket. While the guard examines my plane ticket that clearly has us flying coach, Kit tells him, “Her reward card hasn’t arrived in the mail yet because we decided to elope—just couldn’t wait another moment, you know?—but we’re excited to be on our honeymoon. Aren’t we, sweet potato?”
I look up at him, stunned into silence. The guard glances between us for a moment before his gaze falls to our shirts. A smile stretches across his face. Biting back a curse, I tell Kit through gritted teeth, “I sure yam, honey.”
Kit’s eyes light up with laughter. My stomach growls. The security guard beams as he hands over our documents. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Have a safe trip.”
Goddammit.
Once we’re through the metal detectors, I shove past Kit, muttering something under my breath I’m glad the cameras aren’t here to catch. “Our gate is over there,” Kit nudges me in the correct direction. “Sit. I’ll get you something to eat.”