Page 17 of Bright Lights and Summer Nights

“You’re saying that because last year was hard. That was a tough loss in the Super Bowl. What if you get back out this year and realize you still have more years left in you?”

“Even if we won last year—or we win this year—I think I’m done, Ryan. You can keep putting off telling them that, but I don’t see my decision changing.”

I can feel him rolling his eyes on the other end of the line. I’ve had so many tough conversations with him over the years that I’ve memorized the way he reacts when he doesn’t like my answer. I’m sure he’s sitting in his office, facing the windows with his knuckles pressed to his lips.

Finally, he speaks up again. “Okay. I’ll tell them you need more time. Have you made new arrangements for a place to stay this week? Somewhere more private—and secure,” he adds at the end. “I don’t need Savannah calling me worrying about a PR nightmare.”

I’d called both Ryan and Savannah, my publicist, first thing this morning to tell them I’d be staying somewhere different. The small bed-and-breakfast my family rented out for the wedding party was too public. Before things got out of control and too many people were told where I’m staying, I opted to find somewhere a bit more private. I didn’t want people trying to get to me to overshadow Peyton’s big day.

“Preston?” Ryan pushes.

“Yes,” I answer, sitting up in the driver’s seat. I lean forward, looking at the large, pristine house in front of me. “I’ve found somewhere far more private.”

“And secure?” Ryan prods.

I laugh. I don’t know if the house would necessarily count as secure, but no one will find me here. So in that case, I guess we could call it secure. “Yes, Ryan. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need anything,” he tells me before hanging up the phone.

I slide it into my pocket before getting out of the car. My bags are stuffed in the trunk, but I want to check out the place before bringing them in. I tell myself the reason I’m hurriedly walking to the front door of the main house has nothing to do with Emma and everything to do with me wanting to make sure she’s okay with me staying in the guesthouse.

I knock, my hands finding my pockets as I wait for her to answer. I stare at the wood door that seems to be freshly painted a deep navy blue. Music pours from inside the house, making me wonder if Emma would even hear me knocking. I knock again, this time louder in hopes that she’ll hear me.

The music doesn’t stop. I’m about to knock for a third time when the door swings open. Emma stands in the opening, a T-shirt way too big for her hanging down to her thighs as she stares at me with a small wrinkle across her forehead.

“If you’re here to take me to some kind of wedding event, I need at least an hour to get ready. I’m still recovering from last night.”

I lift a shoulder. “I did try and get you to drink water. You kept telling me you didn’t need it.”

She groans, her fingers clutching the door to keep her upright. “It’s all your fault. You could’ve pushed a little harder for your girlfriend to drink water.” The way she says the word girlfriend makes my pulse spike.

I swallow. “I did push for you to drink water. You called me the hydration police.”

She nods in understanding. “Because of your delivery. You shoved water in my face and basically growled the word drink.”

I don’t argue with her, knowing it’ll get me nowhere. Instead, I opt to straighten my spine a little and look into the house behind her. “You going to let me in?”

Her face scrunches up. “No. You can come in when you pick me up for our fake date of the day. What time do we need to be there?”

“In about an hour,” I answer, taking one small step closer.

“A simple text or phone call to give me more of a heads-up would’ve been nice.”

“I didn’t get your number.” If I wanted to get it from Archer, I probably could have. But that takes the fun out of it. If—or more like when—I get her number, I want it to be because she decided to give it to me. Besides, if Archer finds out about us, it wouldn’t make sense for me not to have my girlfriend’s phone number.

“So you showed up where I’m staying? Very old-school of you.”

“How are you feeling today?” I ask, counting the number of drinks she had last night in my head. Maybe I should’ve tried a little harder to get her to drink water and eat something.

“I feel hungover. But I’ll be fine. Come back in an hour, and I’ll be ready for…” She pauses, her gaze traveling to the sky in thought. “Could you remind me what we’re doing today?”

“We’ve got a garden party,” I inform her.

She purses her lips as she nods in understanding. It’s quiet for a moment as she repeats the movement over and over until eventually her eyes meet mine. “And what exactly is a garden party?”

We both burst out in laughter. I can’t help it. Not many people have made me clutch my stomach with laughter, but she’s managed to do it.

“Ugh,” Emma says, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Don’t make me laugh. My head hurts.”

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