Page 47 of One Night Bride
“What?” I asked again, needing to know what it was so I could talk her off the ledge. Nothing was that bad. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d find a way to make everything work out for her business and mine.
She swallowed hard, and when she turned the phone around to show me what had her so freaked out, I saw her eyes had filled with tears.
Fuck.
My gaze dropped to the phone to see a picture of us half dressed and making out on that blanket at the horse farm. It was from pretty far away and super grainy. Honestly, it could have been anyone. Then her finger swiped across the screen and I saw a picture of us walking out of the hotel in Tahoe, my arm around Esme’s waist as she looked back with a smug grin at whoever took the photo. The strap of her dress was hanging off her arm, her lipstick smeared and hair tangled in the back. Quite frankly, she looked freshly fucked.
Esme’s finger trembled when she flicked it across the screen yet again. The next photo had me scraping a hand over my face. Oh fuck was right. This was bad.
There in all its glory was a copy of our marriage license.
Esme snatched the phone back and frantically started swiping and typing, her shoulders hunched in on herself. I could only see the top of her head, but I just knew she’d gone into crisis mode, shutting me out so she could address the online world that mattered to her so much.
I laid a hand on her knee. “I know this looks bad, but we can still fix this.”
Her face flew up, thick eyebrows drawn together in a severe frown. “We can’t fix this, Remington. We’re fucked. I’m fucked.”
“Now hold on there. Let’s see how we can use this. The truth is out there now, thanks to someone I’d like to punch in the face.”
“Fucking Ashley,” Esme snapped, her head bent over her phone.
I stroked my chin, absentmindedly thinking I needed to shave. “Probably. Who else would have that Tahoe picture? Damn, that girl is a viper. Her cornbread ain’t quite done in the middle if that’s how she treats her bridesmaids. Aren’t you supposed to be friends?”
Esme’s face was a mask of condescension. “Cornbread? Seriously, Remington? Can you drop the cowboy schtick and help me?”
My hand dropped from my face. I was getting a little hot under the collar myself, but it was about Esme’s attitude, not this little speed bump of pictures being online.
“Cowboy schtick? You do realize I am an actual Wyoming rancher, right?” I may have a bit of a drawl occasionally, but I didn’t appreciate my wife pushing the dumb cowboy persona. We should be coming together in times of stress, not lashing out.
“Whatever,” she muttered, already back on her phone.
“What are you doing?” With all the thumb action, she could have written the goddamn constitution by now. I tried to see over her shoulder, but she stood up and paced the bedroom. I didn’t think she noticed she was naked, but I sure did. I was a bastard. Instead of mapping out a way to spin this, all I could think about was how fucking hot she was, even as she was having a meltdown.
“Oh my God, I already have, like, a hundred comments on my last video about all this shit.” Her voice trembled, and even though I was a little put out by how she was treating me right now, I didn’t want to see her so fearful she lost her composure. Time to stop staring at her naked body and actually help.
I stood up and pulled some sweatpants on. Both of us couldn’t be naked or all the blood flow would leave my brain and I wouldn’t be able to string a single sentence together.
“Okay. What’s the only thing that works in these situations?”
Her head popped up, and she stared at me wide eyed. “What?”
“Honesty, Esme.” I walked to her and put a hand on her arm. “We be honest about what happened and what we are to each other. Get out ahead of the story with the real scoop.”
She started nodding rapidly. “Yeah. You’re right. Okay.”
Then her thumbs started flying again, and I figured I’d make us some coffee. This wouldn’t be over with just one social media post. She’d need to release a formal statement while also updating her clients.
“I’ll be right back with coffee, okay?”
She didn’t lift her head, so I walked out and made my way to the kitchen. Damn, that girl needed to realize she didn’t owe her following anything. Sure, she owed a certain level of honesty and transparency to her paying clients, but she didn’t owe social media anything. Speaking of, I should probably put out a statement too, so I covered my ass with the nonprofit. Coffee first, though.
By the time I got the dang coffee maker big enough to be a vehicle to spit out a regular black coffee for me and a frothed latte for her, I was hungry. So I went upstairs to hand her the coffee, to which I received not even a head nod in acknowledgement, before going back downstairs to make us breakfast.
I cracked ten eggs into the pan and turned the heat down a bit. I liked mine over easy, mostly because that was the only way I knew how to make eggs. My own phone dinged and I picked it up while I waited the perfect amount of time for the egg white portion to be cooked just right.
Mom:What the heck is going on with you two? The internet says your marriage isn’t real? You better explain yourself real fast, young man. CALL ME.
I nearly bobbled the phone. Damn. When Mom calls you young man, even in a text, you instantly revert back to the ten-year-old boy bracing for a whack on the backside of the head.
