Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

SCOTTIE

My new phone is nice.

Too nice.

I pretended to be asleep when Emory woke up this morning and messed around in the kitchen, likely making one of his "meals" that smelled inedible. But whatever, I'm not going to put on an apron and pretend I'm some dutiful wife and make him home-cooked meals. That isn't in the contract, and I'm not going to act like this is something it isn't.

I blow a big breath out, and my loose hair flies back. I clench my eyes when I hit "post" and inhale all the air in the living room. Emory walked into the arena for practice as the Chicago Blue Devils' hotheaded goalie with a bad reputation and rumors surrounding him, but he's going to walk out with new rumors that just so happen to be true—like being married to little ol' me.

The photos turned out beautifully. I spent hours editing them and staring at the pure bliss of what I captured, knowing very well that photos don't always show the true picture. That's the one thing I love about photography. It can be so subjective. The photos I have of my dad are all of him smiling, but it doesn't show the pain and suffering he was enduring. I prefer to remember him as the smiling man, watching a hockey game with me perched on his shoulders, instead of the frail man he became that later led to his death.

The vibrating of my phone pulls my attention, and I'm shocked to see how many comments have accumulated on the photo of Emory and me in such a short time. One after another, they continue to pile in. Women are disappointed that Emory is married, some stating that it can't be true. There are questions about his mystery girl, and our story, and even some congratulations thrown in there too.

I kept it nice and simple. One single photo of his hand wrapped around my cheek while he held my face steady. His wedding ring is the center of the photo, and you can see a slight angle of mine.

Dizziness sweeps through me the longer I stare at the screen. Opinions and rumors flood the comment section, and I quickly shut the screen off, standing from the couch to head into the kitchen. My stomach growls, and I know I told Emory that I'd find something to eat last night, but I was too focused on editing to scrounge around in the kitchen. My eyes fall to the black credit card on the counter with a handwritten note.

For food. Don't eat my meals.

I snort. One thing is for certain: Emory Olson is not a romantic.

Or maybe he is with a woman he's actually in love with.

Either way, I grab the credit card with a pit in my stomach, hating that I'm using his money to buy groceries. I had no issue attempting blackmail, yet my hand shakes with his credit card. I feel like a thief, but this is what I signed up for, so I swallow my pride, grab my new phone, and head for the door.

The bag of cat food crinkles in my hand as I climb out of my car and search the parking lot. I leave my phone in the center console, knowing that William won't be calling this time of the evening, and walk toward the dumpster. The usual crowd is at the Cat House, and it's nice to be here without having the stress of working the stage for once. Being married to Emory and sharing a house with him isn't for the faint of heart, but it's ten times better than stripping and pretending like the men that watch my every move are a boost to my confidence instead of an attack on it.

"Shutter?" I creep behind the building and shake the bag of food. "I know you think I've forgotten about you, but I haven't."

I haven't been here for several days, and if Shutter is still around, he'll be hungry. Russ kept asking who was feeding the stray cat, and we all denied it, though the girls knew it was me. I may be married to a pro hockey player now, but that doesn't mean I'm too good to feed the homeless. That includes homeless cats too.

I've avoided the house since I dropped off the small amount of groceries I got from the store, leaving Emory's credit card in the spot he left it. God forbid he thinks I ran off with it. He'd probably call the police.

And fine, I'll admit it to myself…I'm being a chicken.

We both know our marriage is a sham, but with it out in the world, even if only on social media for the time being, it feels different.

I don't want to face him.

Avoidance is key.

I sigh and crinkle the bag again. The music from inside the club thumps through the cracks of the back door as I pour some cat food onto the rocks and hope that Shutter will come out later when things are quiet and less scary.

The gravel crunches with the weight of tires, and I stare into the parking lot, wondering which man will show up tonight. It's a fancy car, sleek and polished with dark-tinted windows that blend in with the evening sky. Their lights flick off, and when my eyes adjust, I press against the brick wall to hide.

I'd never forget his face.

You'd think these very wealthy, attractive men would be able to find a woman for the night instead of coming to the Cat House to watch strippers, but apparently Mr. Handsy gets off on touching us inappropriately and getting angry when we don't play along.

Hence why my phone was cracked before Emory replaced it.

I stay pressed to the side of the building until he's out of sight. Part of me wants to go inside to warn the girls, but after a hush works itself through the lobby, they'll know who showed up.

I glance back at the entrance once more before making a beeline to my car. When I turn the corner, I put on the brakes. The loose asphalt is slippery beneath my shoes, and I skid backward, letting go of the cat food in the process. Little pebbles of fish-shaped Meow Mix pelt my skin as I land with a thud on the hard ground.

"Why is my life a joke?" I groan.

"For fuck's sake." Emory stands over me with his hands on his hips and a dark hoodie pulled up over his head like he's trying to be incognito. "I'm going to start calling you Clumsy instead of Rogue."

I sit up quickly, even though my back aches. "Clumsy?" I exclaim. "You scared me! What did you expect?"

He gets down to my level. "I didn't expect you to be here, that's for sure. Don't you remember signing the contract that said you are no longer employed here, Mrs. Olson?"

My name comes from his lips with distaste, and I'm offended right away.

"Of course I remember." I bypass his outstretched hand and climb to my feet all on my own.

His head drops with a chuckle. When he stands and towers over me, he places his hands on his hips, and I'm pretty sure he's about to berate me.

"I'm not working," I explain, putting a little extra emphasis in my tone. "Obviously," I mumble under my breath.

"Then what are you doing here?"

I mimic his stance and put my hands on my hips too. "What are you doing here?"

Emory's eye twitches, and heavy silence passes between us. At this point, I'm not sure if our little arrangement is going to work out, because it's clear that we're both irritated with one another, and bickering occurs within every conversation we have.

"You weren't at home," he states. "And you weren't answering your phone." I open my mouth to explain, but he cuts me off. "I knew you'd be here." He shakes his head with disappointment, and I'm instantly defensive.

I stomp my foot, and he looks amused.

"Nowhere in that contract does it state that I can't come here. All it says is that I can't work here." Before he argues with me, I step forward and glare up at his half smile. "And just because we're playing make-believe and considered husband and wife to the world now, doesn't mean I have to give you an itinerary on how I spend my time. You don't have a game tonight, so as far as I'm concerned, my whereabouts are irrelevant."

"You're my wife. Your whereabouts are absolutely relevant." He pauses, and I swear he enjoys our little tiff. "Which is exactly why I shared your location with myself before giving you that new phone."

I gape at him. How dare he?

A line of profanity threatens to explode from my mouth, but then I see his lips twitch, and I glare harder.

"Are you laughing at me?" Heat coats my skin, and I want to stomp on his annoyingly large foot.

His smile takes me by surprise. The bright-white color of his teeth stands out in the dark, and I have every intention of scoffing, but then he begins to laugh, and I'm at a loss for words.

"I'm sorry, but—" He chuckles again. "You're standing here in a strip club parking lot, yelling at me and acting so self-righteous, but the only thing I can focus on is what looks to be…" Emory's hand stretches toward my hair, and instead of moving, I stay completely still. He grabs something and inspects it. "Cat food? In your hair."

I zero in on the tiny piece of Meow Mix in between Emory's fingers and feel the urge to laugh too.

I don't, though.

Because there's no way we're going to be on the same page.

"Don't tell me…" Emory clicks his tongue. "You're a crazy cat lady, aren't you?"

My scowl begs to flip into a smile. I look away and down the alley that Shutter likes to frequent. I blink to steady my vision and can't help the relief that spreads along my face from his little shadow.

"God, you are, aren't you?"

I snap at Emory. "Shh!"

He throws his hands out in front of himself in disbelief but shuts up.

Shutter stops dead in his tracks and eyes Emory like he's a predator, but when he shifts his yellow eyes back to me, he lets out a tiny meow.

"Hey, you." My resolve falls, and I forget all about my sparring match with my archnemesis. I walk toward Shutter as he slowly creeps around the side of the building. When I get close enough, he meows one more time and falls to his back, waiting for me to rub his belly.

My fingers sweep over his black fur, and I lower my voice. "You thought I forgot about you, didn't you?"

He gives me a little love bite before popping to all fours. He scurries on quiet paws to the food I left behind and starts to gobble it up like he hasn't eaten in days.

I sigh wistfully and watch him eat a few more bites before turning around to head back to my car.

Emory is leaning against my door, and I'm half-afraid a piece of rust will fall to the ground when he pushes off of it. "We're not taking that cat back to my place."

I roll my eyes. "As if I'd ever suggest that."

I shove my key into the lock the old school way and open my door to head back to his place. Emory grips my door tightly when I try to pull it closed. I peer up at him to wait for his next demand.

"I don't want you to come back here."

Seriously?

"I'm feeding a stray cat, Emory. I'm not putting on a skimpy bra and panties to strip like before."

"The cat will find food somewhere else."

The nerve.

"You're not seriously trying to tell me that I can't come back to feed a stray cat, are you?"

Emory gives me a look like he's angry but offended at the same time.

"You're not used to a woman talking back to you, are you?"

His laugh is loud, and I can't tell if it's sarcastic or not. "Actually, I am. My sister talks back to me all the time, but it doesn't usually stop me from getting what I want."

I take that as a challenge.

A devious smile slides onto my face. "Well, consider me your first, because I'm coming back to feed Shutter whether you like it or not."

"Shutter?" His head falls in disbelief. "Of course you named him."

"See you at your place. " I taunt, pulling on my door with all my might.

My car pops with a loud noise when I turn it on, and Emory scoots backward like it's a gunshot.

To his benefit, it resembles the sound.

I speed off in the direction of his house but not before I catch him looking at Shutter and all the spilled cat food I just wasted.