Page 3 of Trust Me With Forever

Then my world had come crashing down.

I’d spent years trying to assuage my guilt over my parents’ death. Mostly, I’d wanted to keep people at a distance so no one could ever get close to me again.

Because I seemed to hurt anyone who loved me.

So to never have close relationships, I’d continued to act like the playboy the media made me out to be. That way, women never expected something serious, and I could keep friendships superficial.

And even though I’d tried to improve my public image and partying behavior in recent years, if what had happened with Abby leaked, it would undo everything. All the plans I’d made for me post-injury would go out the window.

No one wanted a scandal-riddled man to run a children’s sports training facility.

Because while most of my life in the UK hadn’t filtered over to the US—soccer wasn’t as popular here as in the rest of the world—everything from my past would come out. Everything.

I’d be doomed before I even opened the doors.

I rubbed my hands over my face. How the fuck had this happened? Abby and I argued most of the time. Yes, it usually resulted in us breathing hard and me wanting to pull her close and kiss her. But marriage? No way. I’d never wanted that.

I tried racking my brain, but I couldn’t remember anything about yesterday beyond driving toward Starry Hills from my house on the outskirts, sometime around noon the day before.

Lowering my hands, my eyes landed on my phone on the nightstand. Had our marriage already leaked out? How long until I needed to shift into damage-control mode?

As I wondered about hiring a PR firm to help me, my gaze moved to the wedding band on my hand and an idea sparked. Maybe I’d seen too many movies with my mom growing up, but there had been more than one which had people staying married for a short time, for whatever reason, as only friends. And while I sure as hell didn’t want the end result of those movies—the couple fell in love, blah, blah, blah, happy ending—a fake marriage to Abby could help with my PR problem.

If we were together, for say a year, the press would probably barely mention us splitting up. After all, sports stars married and divorced all the time.

And by the end of the year, my training facility would be up and running and already earning a reputation on its own.

The more I thought about it, the more the illusion of marriage started to seem like the solution to my problems.

But there was a catch—what would Abby get out of it?

Then I remembered her ex and the bits and pieces I’d heard since returning to Starry Hills. Did she want to get revenge on the bastard? Ruin him? Merely stand up to him and give him a piece of her mind?

I could help with that. Plus, I had money, lots of money, and maybe she’d agree to stay married in exchange for me granting her whatever she wanted.

As I tried to form a plan, Abby walked out of the bathroom, all dressed and cleaned up. Rational thought left my brain, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her. The dress was tight across her chest before flaring out around her hips. And then there were her long, long legs. Abby hated being tall, but to me, she was just the right height for kissing.

What the fuck?No, no kissing. If she agreed to my crazy plan, then it’d be for a platonic year of marriage. Nothing more.

“Abby…”

She put up a hand to stop me. “Rafe, please, not now. I just want to go home.” She bit her bottom lip and looked off to the side. “I remembered a little about last night, about how we drove here together, although I still don’t know why.” She paused and added, “I can’t afford to hire a car to take me back. So, can you drive us to Starry Hills and agree to say nothing the whole time?”

“Abby, we can’t not talk about this. I’m pretty sure we’re married, and we need to think about the next steps.”

She finally met my gaze again, and irritation flashed in her eyes. “Next steps? There is only one step, Rafael, and that’s getting an annulment. We certainly aren’t the first couple to drunkenly get married and regret it in the morning.”

Her words shouldn’t sting. After all, we weren’t even really friends.

And yet, they did. Part of me wanted to cross the room, haul her against me, and say maybe it wasn’t a complete mistake.

But that would be confusing lust with more, and I could always find another woman to fuck later.

Think of that. You’ll be going back to England soon for a few weeks. Find some discreet pussy there. Your teammates can hook you up with women who know how to keep a secret.

And yet, the thought of meaningless sex with a woman who saw me merely as a trophy left a sour taste in my mouth.

“Rafe?”

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