“Nah. I’ll deal with their bullshit when I get back.”
“Has he done anything else?” I hear myself ask. “Will he really try to punish you just for marrying me?”
“He might, sugarpop,” Neil says calmly. “But I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of playing his games.”
“Well, that’s a drag. I was kind of hoping the packet was from our new lawyer. How’s that coming along?”
“I interviewed two lawyers,” Neil says. “Didn’t like either one. But I promise this is at the top of my list. What we really need is a recommendation. Do you know anyone who’s divorced?”
I snort. “Sure. Every member of my extended family who ever got married. But those guys use the kind of lawyer that hangs billboards on the highway. Not exactly the smart, discreet person you’re looking for.”
Neil laughs like I’m joking.
“Hey, you didn’t text me your shopping list,” I point out.
“You’re right. You want me to just have some stuff delivered?”
“No, I’ll handle it.” If I’m going to mooch off this man for a while, the least I can do is fetch the groceries. And I’m definitely mooching off of him, because I am broke as fuck. “Just tell me what to buy. As far as I can tell, your diet is brown rice, avocados, veggies, and steak.”
“That’s fairly close, but I’ll send you a list. Oh, and don’t forget about your appointment with Vera on Friday. She’s bringing over some dresses for the benefit.”
“Oh,” I say in a flat voice. I’d managed to forget about the damn benefit. “Right. Vera.”
“I’ll text you the details again.”
We hang up. He texts me back right away, but it’s not a calendar notification.
Night, pumpkin.
Night, sugar face.
Night, kitten.
Ooh! The last one works right? I think I found it!
I send back a gif of a roaring tiger.
See? he replies. It’s a keeper.
I’m smiling when I put my phone down on his bedside table. Then I roll onto my side and try not to think about how the bed smells like him.
It won’t lead me to a restful night of sleep, that’s for damn sure.
FIFTEEN
A BAD BOY LIKE NEIL
Charli
The next day I do Neil’s shopping after work. Sure enough, his list is all lean proteins and whole grains. He specifies brand names, and I try not to look at the prices.
But nobody should pay $22.99 for a piece of fish. That’s just wrong.
When the three-digit total comes up at the checkout, I hand over Neil’s credit card. There’s no way I would shop here for myself.
That evening when I go to practice, the girls are still clucking around me like hens. None of them is satisfied with the vague things I’d told them about me and Neil.
“So,” Samantha says as I’m drying off after my shower. “Are you still married to the hottest billionaire hockey player in the world?”
I sigh. “Yup.”
They all titter.
“Do you have to run off now?” Fiona asks. “We’re heading over to the Colorbox for manicures.”
I hesitate. The Colorbox is a nail salon that Rebecca Rowley Kattenberger owns. That’s right—she owns two major league hockey teams and a nail salon. She is a study in contrasts.
“Well, the Bruisers are traveling,” I admit. “I’m staying at Neil’s place alone.”
Fiona hoots, and everyone else in the room is staring at me with hearts in their eyes.
“No kidding?” Sylvie squeals. “You moved in with him?”
“Don’t get excited. It’s just temporary,” I say quickly. And I suppose I can’t avoid explaining the situation. At least partly. “I’m having some trouble with my apartment. Neil thinks I should find a better one. He’s offered to help me. And in return, I’m attending a couple of functions with him.”
Sylvie’s eyelashes flutter. “As his date?”
“Yes.”
“As his wife?” Fiona presses.
“Sort of. Didn’t I tell you it’s complicated?”
“You don’t tell us shit,” Samantha says. “It’s why we keep asking you questions. And we won’t stop until you spill.”
I was afraid of that.
“Come get your nails done with us,” Fiona says. “The Colorbox is a goddamn confessional. You won’t even feel a thing.”
“She’s right,” Sylvie adds. “When you’re getting a hand massage and a chocolate-covered strawberry, it’s easier to tell the truth.”
“Wait. Chocolate-covered strawberries?” I ask.
“Get it, girl!” calls Samantha from across the room. “This is what you’ve been missing.”
“I’ll be there,” I promise. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
First, I have a quick meeting with Dr. Herberts, which was my idea, because if Neil ever has trouble in the night—with his diabetes, not his erection—I need to know what to do.
Doc gives me a quick rundown on how the monitoring app works, and then I’m on my way out the door with my gym bag slung over my shoulder.
But as soon as I step outside, a bulky form looms in my peripheral vision. Luckily, I have street smarts and an athlete’s reflexes, and I leap out of the way before he can block my path.
“Jesus. Calm down. It’s just me,” says my cousin Robert gruffly.
That is not a comfort. Anger rises through my chest as I glare up at him. “You are literally the last person I need to see right now,” I growl. “You stole from me!”
“Simmer down. You and I are due for a talk.” He crosses his arms and leans against the side of the brick building. “And you’re gonna wanna hear what I have to say.”
“Unlikely. Unless you’ve come to give me back my cash and the extra blank check you lifted. Where’s Dennis?”
He shrugs. “Went back to Philly like a pussy when his sister told him to scram.”
“But you didn’t,” I hiss. “Better get gone, or the cops will toss you from that apartment. I’m out of there.” Not that I’ve actually made the call to my landlord yet. But Robert doesn’t know that.
“Dennis said that,” he says mildly. “But you and I are not done with that place. Don’t give it up.”
“Too late. It’s a hole, anyway.”
“It’s trashy,” he agrees with a dark-eyed smirk. “Then again, so are you.”
My stomach plummets, even though I’ve been called worse. In fact, I’ve been called worse by people more closely related to me. Nothing Robert says should matter, but it does. His branch of the family tree is the worst of the bunch. I hold my breath as he pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, and hands it to me.
It’s a paystub. My paystub. As soon as I see it, I go cold inside. The name of the business is listed up top—Bad Boy Enterprises. It’s the parent company of the strip club where I’d worked for a few weeks. Anyone with a Google search bar could make the connection.