Page 53 of Easton

I shake my head. “No, nothing.”

“Shit. What I was hoping was nothing now seems like it’s something.”

“Good God.” I roll my eyes, losing patience. “Would you just tell me already?”

“All right.” My friend, who’s been holding her phone in her lap, lifts it and types in her password. Turning the device to me, she says softly, “This was posted on some kid’s private Instagram. I guess he was working the door in the back room at that club and took some pictures of the guys.”

When I glance down at the phone, I can’t believe my eyes. But what I see is all too clear—my freaking husband is kissing some floozy chick.

But he’s not really my husband.

He married me as a favor.

Easton has every right to kiss whomever he wants.

I have to remind myself of all these things, because what I feel right now is what I would be feeling if we were married for real—anger, sadness, betrayal.

I think about how I have to act upset for Madison’s sake, since she thinks our marriage is genuine.

But then I realize I don’t have to act.

I am hurt.

“What the fuck?” I grind out.

“Aww, Claire.” Madison slides her phone onto the coffee table, shakes her head, and throws her arms around me. “I’m sorry,” she says into my hair. “I am truly so, so sorry.”

She thinks Easton was cheating on me, and really he wasn’t. Still, I hope he didn’t do anything else with that girl. With the way I feel about the kiss alone, if I were to find out he did something more with her that night, it might very well kill me.

As Madison pats me on the back, I murmur, “There has to be a logical explanation. There just must be.”

Pulling back and holding my forearms, she says, “Yeah, there is. He’s a big lying, cheating asshole.”

“Madison!” I exclaim.

“I’m sorry.” She lets go and sits back. “But it’s true.”

To her, it is.

Oh fuck, to the rest of the world it is too. If she found this picture, then surely others have seen it as well.

“Where did you get that image?” I ask. “You said it was on a private Instagram of someone you don’t even know.”

“It was,” she says. “But supposedly a friend of that guy screenshotted it, as well as a bunch of other pics he took that night. That person then sent it to a hockey blog, which happens to be one I check every few days or so, because…and I’m sorry about this”—she winces—“they get the dirt. Anyway, I saw the pics and the accompanying story of where they came from this morning.”

“Great,” I state, my tone full of sarcasm.

My friend sighs. “If it’s any solace, it’s not a very well-known blog. Plus, I bet that kid lost his job for taking those photos.”

Grimacing, I tell her, “Neither of those things makes me feel any better.”

“I know,” she says softly. And then she asks, “What are you going to do? I mean, after you kick Easton’s ass and all.”

That last one makes me laugh.

And I need a laugh right about now.

The idea of me kicking Easton’s ass is funny.

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