Page 97 of Hook Up

“Only with you.”

Francine offers a smile, stretching her hand across the desk. “You must be Greer. A pleasure to meet you.” She glances at the clock, clearing her throat. “Ryder, we need to get going. The press release is in an hour.”

Ryder nods, helping me to my feet. “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Isn’t she coming?” Francine questions, her eyes wide. “You said you were announcing your marriage today.”

A cloud crosses Ryder’s features at his publicist’s words. “Not today. That’s too much information. We can save our announcement for another time.” Turning to me, he shoots me a rueful smile. “Are you okay with that, Gigi?”

My honest answer? No, but I refuse to dissolve into a puddle of tears in front of him, even though the sympathetic glances Francine is shooting my way aren’t helping matters.

Slipping on the emotional mask I’ve worn since childhood, I force a bright smile. “Sure. This is far more important.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

Averting my gaze, I feel the overwhelming emotions threatening to overtake me. I expected him to negate my statement. It is a big deal that he regained his sight, but so is our marriage. At least to me. “Should I postpone our dinner plans for tonight?”

Dropping a kiss on my forehead, he shakes his head as his phone buzzes for the umpteenth time today. “I’ll be back way before dinner. Besides, no one can cook as well as you. I’ll be here by six. Not a minute later.” With that, he’s out the door, leaving me to feel a bit of nowhere.

Again.

“You did a really amazing thing, taking care of him like that. Few women would have done what you did, or put up with what you did.”

Glancing up, I catch Francine’s gentle smile. “I was happy to help him.”

“Men,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Let him get over his giddiness, and he’ll come back to rights. I’ll remind him about your dinner and make sure his ass is here before six.”

So much for reminders.

I shoot a quick glance at the clock when the house alarm sounds. It’s almost three in the morning. Not only did Ryder miss the dinner, he never called me, either. The food I spent three hours preparing as a tasty treat before telling him about our baby now sits in the refrigerator.

My own hopes and dreams are just about as cold at this point.

Ryder leans over me, his lips caressing my cheek. The smell of alcohol is overwhelming, and I turn my head away. “You missed dinner.”

“I know. I’m sorry. The guys wanted to celebrate and time got away from me.”

Blinking back tears, I pull the sheet tight around my body in a futile effort to stave off the chill in my heart. “I hope none of you drove drunk.” Now I sound like a parent. Come to think of it, I feel a bit like one at the moment.

I imagine this is how my mother felt when my father crept into bed at ungodly hours of the night, claiming he’d lost track of time.

“A car service dropped us all home.”

How nice. A car service requires planning, meaning there was time to arrange transportation but not enough minutes to send his wife a text message.

My temper flares, but I talk myself down. It’s the middle of the night, and Ryder is drunk. No good can come out of a fight now.

“Hey, you okay?” Ryder slides his hand under the cover, cupping my breast, but I’m in no mood for playtime.

“I’m tired. I was asleep.”

“Can I wake you up?”

“You already did.”

His hand halts its movements, no doubt attributable to my flat tone. “Are you angry?”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

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