Declan strolls up behind me and slaps me on the ass. “Where would be the fun in that, how do you say in American? Buttercup?”
He knew. That smug, manipulative bastard knew about the clause the whole time. That’s why he dragged his feet. Why he played all those ridiculous games. None of it was random. This was his plan from the beginning.
Back me into a corner. Leave me no clean way out. Force my hand until going through with this ridiculous charade became the only option I had left—even if it meant risking my reputation, my position, my entire damn career.
I step down on his foot with full intent. He drops like a sack of flour, pretending he’s tying his shoe.
“Fuck!” I hear him hiss.
“So, funny story, Chelsea,” I say through clenched teeth as she eyes us like we’re two feral cats. “Tomorrow, Declan and I were actually going to—”
“Move in together!” he cuts in brightly, bouncing back up like nothing happened. “If we’d known you were coming, we would’ve had you bring cameras for the big move-in.”
“What?!” I yell. “No. He’s—”
“My wife is simply being cautious,” he says smoothly, placing a hand over mine like this is some kind of press conference and not a hostage situation. “We haven’t revealed our nuptials to the team yet. You know how it is—her father being who he is, her being who she is. The optics. They’re…complicated.”
Chelsea nods thoughtfully. “I see. Totally understandable.”
“So naturally,” Declan continues, as if he’s not making this up as he goes, “Any TV or media coverage of us must be held off until…”
He looks at me, waiting for a save.
“After Christmas. New Year,” I blurt out, because at this point, my body is no longer responding to my brain. It’s running purely on survival instinct.
“Completely fine!” Chelsea agrees, beaming.
I look at Declan like he just negotiated my ransom.
“These won’t air until the Spring so we can make sure your interviews are later in the schedule.”
“So kind of you,” Declan says warmly.
“I’m sorry. Would you excuse us for a moment? I need to have a word with my…Declan.”
I grab Declan by the arm and yank him into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us.
“What are you doing? What the hell is wrong with you?” I whisper-shout.
He just shrugs, infuriatingly calm. “Saving your ass. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Saving my ass? How is this saving anything?”
“You heard her! If we backed out now, the network would air everything. You’d get sued. Do I need to spell it out? Your dad, the team—it would all blow up. You want that mess just to prove a point?”
I grit my teeth. Damn it. He’s not wrong. I hate that he’s not wrong.
“Fine,” I hiss. “So we’re doing this.”
“We’re doing this, Americana.”
“Don’t say it like that. Don’t look so smug. You’re still the enemy.”
Thisabsoluteasshole takes the hand he just had inside me and brings it to his mouth like he’s tasting wine.
He licks. Sucks. Moans like I’m the best thing he’s ever put on his tongue.
“And God,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine, “do I love crossing enemy lines.”