Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Hudson

I'd been right—Richard had been furious when I'd informed him I'd gotten married without clearing it with him first. But he'd settled down when he investigated Whitney and her background. But I didn't need his approval. I knew Whitney was a kind woman with a generous heart, and I wanted to help her.

Whitney and I met again at my apartment after we'd both changed into more comfortable clothing. The first thing I learned when she came over was that she loved fast food. I'd offered to order Greek, Chinese, or Italian food, but she'd opted for Taco Bell.

"You came up with our wedding story pretty quickly." I crunched a bite of taco, the Diablo sauce exploding on my tongue, the lettuce cooling the burn.

She hooked a thumb at herself. "Uh, writer here. I make up stories for a living." She smirked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

I swallowed. "Touché. Why did you start writing books?"

She dipped a chip into something gooey and bright orange that was supposed to be cheese. "I've always been an avid reader, and my mother encouraged me—she still had boxes of books from when she was a kid, so I devoured those growing up. We went to the library every week, and I checked out as many as they allowed—and I read them all. When I was older, I inhaled the books of my mother's favorite author, Jane Austen."

I chuckled. "And she named you after her."

She rolled her eyes. "It was humiliating when I was a child. But now I think it was prescient. Anyway, as a teen and young adult, I fell in love with historical romance novels—the clothing, the language, the social expectations. The Regency time period in particular. And my own stories ran around in my head when I was trying to fall asleep at night."

"So you began writing them down?"

"Not at first. I kept my stories in my mind. I got my degree in creative writing. But most of the writing for my degree was literature or poetry. Not genre fiction, like the stories in my head." She tapped her temple. "After I graduated, I worked as a copy editor for a tech company. God, that was a boring job," she groaned, rolling her eyes.

" Then you started writing?" I picked up my second taco. She still hadn't eaten her chip.

"Sort of. I lived with my parents and wrote in the evenings. I self-published my books and I…uh…had some success." She finally popped the chip into her mouth.

"What do you mean?"

A blush stole up her neck and into her cheeks. "After four years, I could quit my day job, and I've been writing full time ever since." She shrugged, as if her achievement was effortless, when I doubted that was the case.

"Impressive." I'd looked up Whitney St. James on Amazon, and her books were more popular and best-selling than I'd realized. "You talk about your mother in the past tense…"

She paled and dropped her gaze. "Both of my parents are gone," she whispered.

A pang of empathy knifed through my chest. "Did your mother live to see your success?" I wished that for her.

Whitney met my gaze. "She did. She was very proud of me." A small smile teased her lips.

"What happened to your parents?" I kept my voice smooth and calming.

"They died nine months ago in a small plane crash." She pushed aside her chips and cheese. "My father was an excellent pilot, but the engine failed." Her eyes grew shiny.

The unshed tears punched me in the gut. "No siblings?"

She shook her head. "Just my maternal grandmother."

"Same here. Only child."

She wiped her eyes. "Let's talk about you. Tell me something that I haven't learned on Wikipedia."

I raised an eyebrow. "I've got a Wikipedia article?"

"Born in New Hampshire, started in the USHL at age sixteen. Played for Notre Dame and drafted by Toronto. Traded to the Blazers this season."

"That about covers it." I unwrapped another taco. Maybe she'd let the subject drop.

She waggled a finger. "Uh-uh. I need to know about your family." Her voice gentled. "I sense it's not a happy story."

I shrugged with nonchalance I didn't feel. "My mother died of an aneurysm when I was five. My father couldn't handle his grief and being a single parent. He started drinking and lost his job." It was such a short, dry summary covering the long days and nights he'd passed out and I'd had to fend for myself. I'd been so young, I barely remembered that time in my life. I only knew that both of my parents had abandoned me .

"My mother's parents, who lived in Vermont, found out and picked me up. I haven't seen my father since." Though I often heard from him when he needed money. My fingers tightened on the taco in my hand and broke the shell to pieces. I didn't owe him anything. "My grandparents loved and raised me, and Gramps got me back into a hockey program."

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I can see why you want to make him happy."

I swallowed, my throat thick. "I owe him everything."

She sipped her soda. "Okay, now we get to the hard question."

There was something more difficult to talk about than our traumatic pasts? I held my breath.

"Do you read? Because if not, we're getting this marriage annulled tomorrow." Her dancing eyes betrayed her teasing.

I let out my breath and chuckled. "I read nonfiction. Mostly military history. But I hear Whitney St. James is a good author. I think I'll try her books." I winked.

"I'll hook you up with some books, if you'll get me a signed Talbott jersey."

"Deal." As we finished our dinner, we discovered we liked the same Star Wars movies and spin-off shows, agreed that steaks were best cooked medium rare, and enjoyed hiking in the redwoods.

"What do we tell people about how we met and how long we've been seeing each other?" I stuffed my trash into the take-out bag.

"Let's keep it simple. I ran into you while we were evacuating during a fire alarm. They don't have to know that happened recently."

"When did we begin dating?"

"Well, it has to have been in the past four months, after your…" She squirmed in her seat. "Indiscretion. "

"So, write our story, Whitney St. James." I waved my hand.

She tapped her lips and looked at the ceiling. After a moment, her gaze dropped to mine. "Shortly after…the incident, we ran into each other in the hall during the fire alarm. You swooped in and rescued me and Mr. Darcy, and it…" Her cheeks colored. "It was love at first sight. You explained your mistake and were remorseful, and I was forgiving. We dated on the sly and hid our relationship because we didn't want Gramps to get his hopes up. But the closer we grew and…" She cleared her throat. "The deeper we fell in love, the more convinced we became we couldn't hide any longer. You sent me to the hockey games to allow Gramps and me to get to know each other."

She continued weaving the story, hardly taking a breath. "Once we knew Gramps approved, you dropped to one knee after a game and blurted out, ‘Marry me!' You didn't have a ring because the proposal was spontaneous." She paused, cocked her head, and nodded. "We couldn't wait to get married, and planned a lovely but simple wedding for Gramps to attend. But we couldn't work out the logistics because of the playoffs. We followed through with the ceremony and surprised him with the news instead."

She took a deep breath. "Did I forget anything?"

"Wow. I think that covers it. It makes sense, and it's easy to remember."

I threw away our trash when Whitney finished her dinner, and I retrieved my laptop. "I'll add you to my health insurance policy." I signed on and navigated through the site, finally printing out a temporary insurance card for her. A call the next day would expedite her way through the system.

"Thank you," she choked through a tight throat. "Since you have an HMO, I'll have to jump through a few hoops to switch my neurologist and get a new prescription written. But I'll tackle that right away."

I'd held up my end of the bargain, and Whitney could afford her medicine. There would be no more traumatic seizures.

I sat at my cubby, leaning my elbows on my knees. I twisted my wedding band around and around on my finger. Our marriage might have been fake, but the ring had been a heavy reminder of our commitment ever since Whitney slid it onto my finger the previous day. Sure, Whitney benefitted from our marriage of convenience. But getting married to fix my reputation was a selfless act, especially since she had to put off her own plans to move to Virginia to be with her grandmother. Who did that? I admired her kindness, her teasing smile, her—best not to go there. This was a fake marriage. Nothing more.

I was loath to take off the ring, but I couldn't wear it during practice or games. My left hand swelled from the abuse of catching pucks. I'd have to get a chain so I could wear it around my neck.

Sneakers clomped past, halted, and returned. "What the hell?" Beck leaned down for a closer look. "Is that what I think it is?"

I raised my gaze. Under the circumstances, my gut should probably have been churning from our farce. But my mouth spread in a smile that warmed my chest. "Whitney and I got married yesterday."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "You sneaky bastard! Congrats!" A grin broke out across his face. "This is a surprise. I didn't even know you were dating."

I took a deep breath and recited our story. "We'd been keeping it a secret. We didn't want to get my grandfather's hopes up until we knew we wanted to get married."

Beck nodded. "Makes sense."

Whew. With Beck's support, I had the team's.

He jabbed a finger at me. "Scrimmage's after the game. Bring Whitney and we'll celebrate, win or lose."

"Will do." I slipped my ring off, reluctantly dropped it into a pocket of my duffel, and geared up.

After a light game-day practice, meetings, and a team lunch, I stopped at the Blazers team shop on the concourse between the practice facility and Blazers' headquarters. I lucked out—they had my jersey in stock in her size.

I raced home, my heart pounding with anticipation, eager to sign and deliver it. But if all we were to each other was a fake arrangement, then why was I dying to seeing her again?