Chapter 42 Spencer Nash

Nash Is Trash

A Few Weeks After the Wedding

The Lego closet was a hit, and I showed her our bedroom last, where we ended up spending a little quality time enjoying the view out the window naked from the bed together before we decided to head out for a walk.

But the walk turns into a bit of a clusterfuck when that same dude who was on the sidewalk when we walked in earlier stands there when we leave. It's as if he's been waiting this entire time for us.

"I heard your marriage is fake. Is that true?" he demands as we walk out of the building and take a left toward the bay.

"No," I tell him. "Please leave us alone."

He doesn't follow us, but as we walk toward the stoplight to cross at the crosswalk, we find more cameras poised at us.

I think back to her words about her quiet existence. I get it. It's all I want for myself, too.

I brought her here for a taste of my life, and this ain't it.

The paparazzi weren't hounding me when I moved here. They barely acknowledged my existence, to be honest.

Is this what marriage does? Puts celebrities and athletes into the spotlight? I think about former teammates of mine who got married. As I recall, it wasn't even a blip on the radar of these gossip mongers.

But those guys didn't hail from football royalty the way I do. Those guys didn't have a family of brothers who also play in the league.

I guess that makes my stake worth something more.

But I don't like it.

"Do you still want to walk?" I ask her quietly as I try to ignore the three men now tailing us down the sidewalk and across the street.

"Not with them following us," she says.

I nod, and we duck into the nearest restaurant, an upscale fine dining establishment that we're likely underdressed for, but the paparazzi won't follow us in here.

"Is this your life?" Grace asks as we approach the host stand.

She looks shell-shocked.

The hostess glances up at us, her eyes falling onto the jeans we're both wearing with a bit of disdain before returning to me. I spot the recognition in her eyes. "Mr. Nash, welcome. I heard you moved in locally."

I nod. "Thank you. My wife and I were being hounded by the paparazzi outside, so we ducked in here. While we're here, we'd love to check out a menu and maybe have a drink or two." I ignore the way she definitely twitches at the my wife line.

I don't, however, ignore the way my wife also twitches beside me at those same words. I snake an arm around her waist and pull her a little closer, and she leans into me.

"Of course. Would you like a table or a seat at our bar?" she asks.

"A private, quiet table would be great," I say.

My first thought isn't because a private, quiet table could lead to private, quiet activities, but when she shows us to a table in a quiet corner in the back, the thought certainly crosses my mind.

We each glance through the menu, and we decide on some sushi since we're here and we're both hungry. I pair mine with a Sapporo, while Grace opts for a Reisling.

We've just placed our orders and I'm debating when to start getting handsy under the table when her phone dings with a text message. "Oh, sorry. Excuse me. I just want to make sure nothing's wrong at the vineyard." She pulls her phone out of her pocket, and her brows knit together before the color drops completely from her face. "No," she whispers, drawing out the word.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She sets her phone on the table and scrolls through what looks to be a ton of photos of me . Only, I'm not alone. There's Amelia, there's a couple other women who are part of my history, and there are some photos that I don't even recall ever taking, which tells me they have to be photoshopped.

Each photo is accompanied by a caption telling the people viewing it when and where the photo was taken, and there are enough that could be corroborated in there that it makes the ones that can't be look realistic.

And the worst part of all of it is that each photo already has thousands of likes on it.

"What the hell is this?" I ask.

"I got a message from Jolene asking if we'd seen this," she says. "It's an Instagram account called NashIsTrash17. "

Seventeen for my number.

Who the fuck would make—

I interrupt my own train of thought.

Who's the one person who not only has access to these types of photos but is good with Photoshop to create the rest?

"Amelia," we both hiss at the same time.

"Why, though?" I ask. "Why would she do this?"

"Because she wants to win." She purses her lips.

"How was I ever with her?" I mutter. I don't ask my next question aloud, but I can't help wonder all the same. How will this help her win?

I try not to live my life with regrets, but being with someone as awful and manipulative as Amelia would top the list.

Grace doesn't say anything, but the way her face falls makes my chest feel heavy. I can't help but wonder at what point she'll start to feel like being with me isn't what she really wants at all.

We finish our sushi and drinks, the heaviness surrounding us at the table, and instead of walking by the bay like we'd planned, we head straight back home, followed by the paparazzi the entire way.

And every time we leave the apartment complex, we're greeted with the exact same treatment. I wouldn't put it past Amelia to have arranged this as well. If she put half as much effort into the vineyard as she does into making my life hell, she'd have no problems running the place.

We spend a quiet morning in, checking off Lego Build Battle from my thirty things list as we drink coffee and pretend like everything's fine.

Our cooking lesson is fun, but when we go out to dinner afterward, we're bombarded by still more photographers than before.

And then they start in on the thing that presses on my last nerve.

"We've all seen the Vegas wedding photos. Exactly how drunk were you to marry this chick?" The snide way he says it as if there's something wrong with her is vile.

The photographer beside him agrees. "Yeah, man. Those chicks you're being photographed with are way hotter."

I walk over toward him and get in his face without touching him—never touching him since I know better than that. I'm not about to risk getting in trouble, but that doesn't mean I can't scare this fucker. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"Spencer, don't. He's not worth it," Grace begs behind me.

I turn toward her. "He's not, but you are."

I tower over this little piece of shit, and I move in close to his face again. "Get the fuck out of my face, and don't you dare disrespect my wife. Ever." I'm about to shove him when I think better of it, and as I turn and walk away, I'm grateful for that little voice of logic in the back of my head—even though I very nearly ignored it in favor of fucking that guy up.

He had it coming.

And what the fuck does he mean, the other women I've been photographed with? That stupid fake account Amelia is running?

Something tells me there's more.

Far more .

And I intend to get to the bottom of it.

But first…we're celebrating Grace's birthday, and I'm sick to my stomach that she was just insulted the way she was. Whoever I've been pictured with doesn't matter. Whoever it is doesn't hold a fucking candle to Grace.

And that's the sign that tells me I'm not just falling. I'm fucking there. All the way.

I just hope whatever Amelia is planning isn't going to be the very thing that tears us apart.