Page 118 of The Publicity Stunt
He helps me stand straight and flips me around, pushing my back against the uneven surface of the wall. I remove my underwear from my mouth, letting it fall, and Parker’s hand finds the side of my face, running through my sweaty hair. “Was that a lot?”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Whatever that was, I want to do it again. Exactly like that.”
Smiling, he presses his mouth firmly into mine. “Perfect answer.”
* * *
We have sex two more times.
After which I decide I need a shower and he insists on making us dinner.
As soon as I enter Parker’s room, I question my life choices.
My own room is a pile of clothes on a chair that I have never used for sitting even once. Clean laundry stays in my hamper for days on end, and if there aren’t at least three empty cups lying on my window sill, it’s probably because I’m out of town or dead.
His room, on the other hand, is a pristine contrast to mine. The sort of room that would show up on Pinterest if you entered “clean room aesthetic” in the search bar. Oozing with responsibility and navy-blue sheets.
And not a single empty cup in sight. Now, that’s impressive.
I make my way toward the bathroom door, my legs still aching from our sex marathon on his balcony, his couch, and on top of his dining table.
I stop in my tracks. I don’t have a towel. I was using the hotel towel all this while, and no matter how good the sex is, using another man’s damp towel is where I draw the line.
I call out his name, but he doesn’t respond. He probably has them in his closet. I throw my clean clothes on his bed and open the closet door. It doesn’t take long for me to spot one, since he keeps his closet as organized as I don’t.
I reach out for the one on top of the stack of three, and as I do, a couple of papers fall to the floor. Shit. I bend down to pick them up, and that’s when it happens.
The kiss in the rain, the blue sweatshirt, the matching helmets—all of it, thrown on a pyre and lit on fire. Instant obliteration.
My heart sinks in my chest and all the remaining butterflies drop dead.
Unsigned divorce papers. Name of spouse: Shara Kendricks.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Eight Years Ago
HAYDEN
“What the hell are you wearing?”
Logan doesn’t respond. He just stares back at me, hands shoved inside the pocket of his baseball jacket and his brown hair disheveled.
April snickers and gives me a look, to which I nod back.Yeah, I know, right?We walk down the stairs and toward her truck. The heat from the parking lot hits me with a heavy, wet slap.
“What?” Logan finally asks.
“Your girlfriend’s going to kill you,” I tell him.
He doesn’t look fazed in the slightest. “Nothing new with that,” he responds with a shrug. “That’s just Shara for ‘I love you.’”
I scoff. April steps in front of me and adjusts my tie for the tenth time. I place my chin on her head. “I don’t think she’s gonna be very loving when you walk in looking like you just got back from a Yankees game.”
Shara couldn’t care less about Logan’s fashion sense, but she was very clear—and by that, I mean hellbent—that the three of us show up at her work event in upscale casual. She works for a big fashion line, so the pressure is really on. I couldn’t tell you the name of the company even if I wanted to. It’s some big French word. Or at least, that’s what I think.
“It’s okay, Logan,” April says, turning to him. “You can always sleep on our couch.”
“Hey!” Logan says with more apprehension in his voice this time. “It’s not my fault that you two are dressed like we’re going to the fucking Oscars tonight.” His eyes flick down at April and he points at her blue dress. “You look ridiculous.”
