Page 43 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“I’m wearing five-inch heels. Of course I tripped. I didn’t need a fireman’s carry.”
“Looked like you did from where I was standing.”
I mutter, “You’re a walking PR crisis.”
He sets me down gently, but his hand lingers at my waist for a moment longer than necessary. I hate how steady he feels. How safe.
I must be hormonal or something, because I feel like his pheromones follow me. For all his rough edges, he settles me. He makes the noise in my head vanish.
God, I’m really on something today.
As we make our escape to the parking garage, the photographers are still shouting questions and snapping pictures. By the time we reach my car, my hands are shaking slightly from the adrenaline.
Back in the car, I stare out at the Seattle skyline, my arms crossed over my chest. The city looks pretty from here, all glass and steel and possibility. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in way over my head.
Hunter smells good. Too good. That cologne he wears, smoky cedar mixed with something dangerous, lingers in the enclosed space of my car. It’s distracting in ways I absolutely don’t need right now.
I’m going to throw that cologne in the trash when we get home. Or maybe just hide it somewhere he’ll never find it.
Because the truth is, I don’t hate the way he smells. I don’t hate the way he automatically moved to protect me from those photographers. I don’t hate the way he caught me when I fell, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And that’s a problem.
The drive home is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. With the announcement in the papers that Hunter and I are engaged, there has been an explosion of gossip about our supposed relationship online. It seems like fans have all but forgotten about Hunter punching that fan in the face. I haven’t heard about the fan being paid off, but I’m almost positive that someone cut him a check for his silence. Otherwise, Hunter’s grumpy face would be everywhere.
Instead, there are just a lot of photos of the two of us looking at each other in what the media assumes is a loving way. Barf. At least it seems to work to draw the heat off of Hunter.
The league has either forgotten him completely or Jimbo Greene has dealt with them.
Hunter’s phone keeps buzzing with what I assume are notifications about the most recent photos of us at the wedding venue that are probably already being posted online. My phone is mercifully silent, but I know that won’t last long.
By tonight, those pictures will be everywhere. Hunter carrying me like some kind of romance novel hero. Me looking flustered and breathless in his arms. The perfect shot to sell our fake love story to the world.
“That went well,” Hunter says finally, breaking the silence.
“You think?” I give him an irritated look.
He shrugs. “The photographers got their money shot. Julien will be thrilled. Your ring was visible in at least half of those pictures.”
He’s right. From a PR perspective, today was a complete success. We gave them exactly the content they wanted. Star-crossed lovers shopping for their dream wedding venue. The big, protective hockey player and his tiny fiancée.
Too bad none of it’s real.
“Patrick’s going to love this,” I mutter.
“Fuck Patrick.”
The vehemence in his voice surprises me. “That’s a lot of hate for someone you haven’t even seen in years.”
“I know everything I need to know. I know he’s trying to make you look bad because he can’t handle that you’re better off without him.”
I glance over at Hunter, surprised by the certainty in his voice. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know you, Monroe. You’re sweet and supportive, smart and sexy. You’re pretty much perfect wifey material. He’s probably kicking himself for letting you go.”
The compliment hits me unexpectedly hard. Coming from Hunter, who’s never been one to hand out praise, it means more than it should.
“Umm… thanks,” I whisper.
