Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
He averts his gaze as he mutters, “What did Damon sign me up for?”
Chapter Two
Noah
Free cruise, he said. Pretend to be Matt Jackson’s boyfriend, he said. It’ll be fun, he said. You know what Damon didn’t say? That Matt Jackson is a miserable asshole.
A hot, miserable asshole with his muscles, tanned skin, and tattoo sleeve. Don’t even get me started on the beard he’s growing out. But all of that aside, he’s still miserable.
Damon owes me big time. I’d text him and complain, but apparently my phone is evil—if the way Matt glares at it is any indication.
These next few months are going to be fun. Why did I agree to this again?
Oh, right. I want to take my father’s Don’t do anything to ruin my political image warning and shove it up his—
The elevator opens to the glass alcove of the basement garage. “Fuck a duck,” Matt says out of nowhere.
“What?”
He tips his head in the direction of the doors. There await two paparazzi for him to make his exit.
“How did they get in the garage?” I ask.
“Who knows.” Matt hangs his head. “How they knew I was at this hotel is the bigger question.” He stares at my pocket where my phone is as if that holds an answer.
“Paranoid much? I didn’t rat you out. This fake relationship thing is going to get plenty of publicity without me adding to it.” Talk about trust issues.
His eyes dart to the guys outside the door and back to me. “Let’s get this over with.” Matt grabs my hand and pulls me through the garage. His grip is deathly and not at all loving or romantic-looking. It looks like we’re trying too hard.
“Ease up, would you?” I make sure the reporters can’t hear. “They’ll think you’re kidnapping me or forcing me if you hold on any tighter.”
Matt’s hold on me loosens but not by much. I fix it by prying my hand free and throwing my arm around him casually. His stiff shoulders give me nothing to work with, and my arm slides right off. Forcing it to stay on his shoulder would photograph even more awkward than the death grip he had on my hand. Improvising, I pretend I’m trying to shield him from the cameras as we rush to the car.
“Give me the keys and you get in the passenger side,” I say.
“Nobody drives my Lambo but me.”
Great, a car nut. “Fine. Get in the driver’s seat but pop the trunk for me.”
Quicker than humanly possible, I put my suitcase and his duffel bag in the trunk and climb in the passenger seat.
The two photographers shove their cameras in my face, and if they’re good at their jobs, I’ll be identified before we get to the docks. The story will hit the media sites before the ship departs, which means I’ll be in cell range when Dad finds out. His people no doubt have a Google alert set up for me.
I was hoping to be halfway to Bermuda before he found out. The fallout will be so much more spectacular if he can’t get a hold of me for seven days.
Matt’s hesitant on the accelerator.
“Just run them over,” I say.
“Yeah, that’ll clean up my image. I can see the headlines now. Matt Jackson in Altercation with Paparazzi.”
Damn it. Something in my gut churns. I think it might be sympathy, but that can’t be right. It has to be hard being Matt Jackson, but Noah Huntington usually doesn’t care about other people’s lives.
Maybe it’s empathy. Being the son of a prominent senator who’s got future presidential candidate written all over him, I’ve had my share of being in the media, so I’ve had a taste of what he’s going through. When I was a teenager, papers liked to print lame stories about the mayor’s son being caught at an illegal, underage bonfire in the Hamptons and other harmless articles that weren’t seen as reckless to anyone but my father and his precious image. But this? This is a bloodbath.
Matt’s been dubbed the bad boy of football—gay edition. Random hookups in nightclubs, drunken antics, and a drug problem probably. Damon tells me the drug addiction is fabricated, but the media doesn’t care about facts.
“You know where you’re going?” I ask when we finally crawl out of the underground garage.
“No idea.”
“There’s a reason OTS booked you a room here. The cruise terminal is a few blocks that way.” I point.
I get a nod in response. Why do I get the feeling this is what I’m going to have to endure for the foreseeable future?
I take out my phone, much to Matt’s disgust.
“Can’t you go two minutes without that thing?” he asks. If he’s going to give me attitude, I’ll give it right back.
“Nope.”
Noah: You owe me. I thought I was a fake boyfriend. Not a fake husband.