The Proposal, page 15
“I’ve never said I’m not into marriage,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “I said I was keeping my options open.”
True. “But I got the impression you were just being polite.”
“Okay, I probably was just being polite. But I’m allowed to change my mind, aren’t I?” He shifts his weight around me. “I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t been against it. I’ve just never found myself in a situation where I thought—what if? You know?”
“And I’ve spent my whole life wondering about it. I watched my mother struggle with being a single mom and the loneliness that came with the title. I remember lying in bed as a child, hearing her up in the middle of the night sweeping the floors or making lunches for the next day because two in the morning was the only time she had to do it.”
Renn rests his chin on the top of my head. “That had to be hard.”
“It was hard for her, I’m sure. And the older I get, the more I fear being in that same boat. Lonely. I will be a single mother because I never found a guy who I thought was worth building a life with, and I wouldn’t settle for less.”
His hands run up and down my arms.
I smile softly—not sadly, but not happily, either. I’m in an uncertain space between both emotions. I’m incredibly happy and content at this moment, but I know this bubble of ease is so very temporary.
I sigh.
What is one to do in this situation? Do you lean into the happy and enjoy all life has to offer? Or do you protect yourself from the heartbreak that’s inevitably right around the corner?
We’re treading carefully between flings and feelings. “I’ve just never found myself in a situation where I thought—what if?” But I know forever is out of the question.
I blow out a breath and study the ink etched into his skin. Each piece is deliberate—an intentional piece of artwork. They’re a story that I’d love to know more about.
“Tell me about your tattoos,” I say, tracing a line up his arm.
He pulls his left arm away from me and stretches it before us. Water drips off his fingers and into the tub.
“I got most of them when I was younger,” he says. “Let’s see … Okay, this one.” He points at a patch of skin in the middle of his forearm. “The seven is for my position on the pitch. I’m the openside flanker.”
“That’s a forward, right?”
“Yeah. Very good.”
“I’ve learned a little over the years.”
He chuckles. “The pineapple was a bet that went terribly wrong one New Year’s Eve. The B is for Brewer. All my brothers have it somewhere on their body.” He twists his wrist. “This is the outline of Australia, obviously, with a ball inside it. This one says mom—self-explanatory.”
My heart warms at the sight of the small ode to his mother just below the crook of his arm.
“What about you?” he asks, returning his arm around me. “I didn’t see any tattoos on your hot little body.”
“That’s because I don’t have any. I’ve always wanted one. I’ve even looked at designs to see what I would get, but I haven’t gone through with it.”
“Why?”
“I’m scared I won’t want it forever, and I’ll be stuck with it.”
“That’s how I feel about Brock,” he says, chuckling. “I befriended him, but now I don’t want him forever, and I’m stuck with him.”
I smile, taking a handful of water and dropping it on my chest. “Have you heard from him since we left Vegas?”
“No. Have you had a chance to call him yet?”
I shake my head. “Something is going on with Brock, I think. Ella said they aren’t talking either. It’s not like him to just shut down like this. I’m starting to get worried.”
He hums. I don’t know what that means, so I leave it.
We sit quietly. The peace is only broken by the occasional ripple of the water. The room is warm, the moonlight adding a touch of ambiance to the low-lit room. It’s lovely and romantic … and I’m sitting here with Renn.
“There’s a difference between flings, feelings, and forever.”
Ella’s words echo through my mind, reminding me once again to keep a solid perspective on what’s transpiring. Things might be amazing and working out better than I ever imagined. But we are in a bubble, isolated from the real world that will be ready to attack us once we return home.
Renn pulls me against him, nestling his head against mine. My chest fills with a warmth that I’m afraid to name.
“When do you think we should go back home?” I ask, hesitation in my voice. I don’t want to go back. I want to stay cocooned in our little beach bubble for as long as possible.
He sighs. “I talked to the Royals today while you napped. They want a meeting with me as soon as I get back. They’re pushing for midweek.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. They heard the news, obviously, and said they have concerns. I told them I married the only woman I could ever love and was happy, but I don’t think they bought it.”
I still.
“I told them I’d get back with them tomorrow and let them know if I could return that quickly,” he says. “I feel like a dick cutting your honeymoon short.”
My spirits fall. Don’t be disappointed. Keep a healthy perspective. “Yeah, well, this isn’t a real honeymoon anyway, remember?”
He clears his throat, shifting his weight again. “Bianca told me that the headlines aren’t as bad as we feared. Naturally, there are some nasty ones, but she thinks our statement changed the narrative. She suggested we post something on our Social accounts to bolster our stance. I’m sure Frances would agree with that if I answered her calls.”
My brow furrows. “Your publicist?”
“Yeah.”
“Why aren’t you answering her calls?”
He chuckles. “I don’t know.”
“Renn, talk to me.”
“I really don’t know. I’m pissed at her for taking my dad’s calls. I’m tired of hearing the same shit.” He blows out a hasty breath. “I get that I have a reputation for being a troublemaker, and God knows I perpetuate that. But everyone seems to think that means I’m incapable of making my own decisions, and it eats away at me after a while.”
There’s a vulnerability in his voice, a rawness that eats away at my heart.
“I’d like to tear my father a new asshole,” he says. “That’s what I’d like to do. The man doesn’t care about me, anyway. He’s only concerned about how I impact his public persona. And Frances—she cares about the paycheck. There’s no loyalty to me. Sometimes, that bothers me more than it should.”
“I think it should bother you,” I say carefully. “No one likes to be surrounded by people who don’t value them for who they are, Renn. This isn’t a you problem. You’re not wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m stuck in this role of being the bad boy. It sells tickets. It pays bills. Even if the league reprimands me for my behavior, they win. They’re in the papers. There are new eyes on the sport.”
I squeeze his thighs. Oh, Renn. “You feel like everyone uses you.”
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
My chest constricts at the hollowness of his voice. It’s a sound I can’t take—not from a man who I know doesn’t deserve it.
“Let’s post something on Social,” I say, hoping he takes my suggestion correctly.
“Like what?”
I hold my hand out and inspect my beyond-beautiful wedding ring. “Please keep it. I bought it for you. I hoped you’d like it.”
The pride on his face, the tentative hopefulness in his words that I would appreciate his efforts, sweep through my mind. And I do.
Let’s show the world I’m on your side, Renn Brewer.
I wiggle my fingers. “Well, a picture of this gorgeous ring with the bubbles in the background would be nice.”
“True. I wouldn’t have bought that if our marriage wasn’t real, right?”
A sad smile slips over my lips. “Right.”
He leans over the edge of the tub and grabs his phone.
He takes my hand and moves it around until he finds an angle he likes. It has the bubble bath, wineglasses, and the moon in the background. Click!
“Let me see,” I say, peering at the screen. “Oh, that’s a good one. Look at how pretty it is. The light is hitting the ring perfectly.”
He holds his phone in front of me and opens his Social app. He clicks the search bar, types my name in, and follows me.
“Ooh,” I say, teasing him. “I get a follow and don’t even have to pay you.”
“I’m taking it out of your ass later.”
“Why wait?”
He shakes his head, his chuckle making me smile, as he returns to his profile. The picture is uploaded. His fingers fly across the keyboard. The biggest win of all time. He tags me, hits post, and then closes the app.
I nestle against him, pressing a kiss to his chest. “That was a nice caption.”
“I’ve been thinking about it all evening.”
A giggle escapes my lips. “You’ve been thinking about a social media caption all evening?”
“No. I’ve been thinking about how true that statement really is.”
I lean up and turn to look at him. His eyes sparkle.
“If we have to cut this honeymoon short, I only have one request,” I say.
“What is it?”
“I want to come in every room of this house.”
He palms the back of my head and brings my mouth to his, grinning. “Your request is granted.”
And it was … over and over again.
CHAPTER 17
Renn
Blakely’s soft breathing fills the air.
I stopped being able to feel my left arm an hour ago, but I can’t force myself to move. Her head is curled in the bend of my arm with her face against my chest. An arm is draped over me and one of her legs is thrown over mine like she’s afraid I might get up.
Little does she know that if I could press pause on this night and stay here forever, I would.
My affection for this woman has only grown since we’ve been here—since we got married. I expected to grow frustrated or bored with her like I typically do after being with someone for more than a day or two. But with Blakely, it’s the opposite.
She’s kind and sweet. Funny as hell. Every time I’m inside her, it’s better than the time before. And that, in and of itself, is unsettling.
It kills me a little to leave Australia early. Here, we’re perfect. Once we go home, all hell could break loose, and life has a chance to wedge itself between us.
I quite like where we are. Glancing down, I brush a strand of hair off her cheek. I like it here a whole hell of a lot.
“You’re setting yourself up for failure,” I whisper into the night.
My chest pulls so hard that I wince.
Call it jet lag, but a strange surge of energy bleeds through me. I carefully untangle myself from Blakely, pressing a kiss to her cheek and tucking her back beneath the blanket before I get up. As quietly as I can, I grab my phone and sneak out of the room.
The house is eerily quiet. The only sound comes from the waves through the open door in the living room.
Restless, I find myself on the patio overlooking the water below. The bright moon hangs high in the sky, casting its glow on everything below.
I grip the railing and hang my head—reality hitting me like a player on the pitch.
“If either of us starts to develop real feelings for each other … Then we walk away immediately. No questions asked.”
She said that for a reason.
I get it. I understand why Blakely wouldn’t want to be with a guy like me. I’m problematic and unreliable—at least, according to the world. I’m foolish, according to my father. I’m selfish and crave independence, if you listen to me.
So why in the world would she be interested in me?
I grit my teeth.
A week ago, I had a best friend, a solid working contract, and a lull in my never-ending war with my father. Tonight, I have none of that. But I have her. And when I think about it, I really only want her.
“You’re getting fucked up,” I mutter, taking out my phone and checking the time. I do some quick math and realize Brock will be awake.
It rings three times before he answers. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say back, leaning against the railing. “We haven’t heard from you. Blakely is getting worried.”
“Oh, but you’re not?”
I laugh. “Well, I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“Renn? Don’t. That’s my little sister.”
I laugh anyway. “All joking aside, are you okay? I know you’re still pissed—or I would be, anyway. But that’s all it is, right?”
He exhales harshly through the line. “You’d be pissed?”
I shove off the railing and wander aimlessly around the patio.
My admission probably opened a door to a new argument with Brock, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I would be madder than hell if Brock married Bianca in a drunken haze. There’s no doubt about it. She deserves better than that … and so does Blakely.
I suck in a breath. “I’m sorry for all of this. It was careless and irresponsible—and I should’ve kept my head together that night and taken care of your sister like I said I would. My life is a shit show at all times, and it was shitty of me to put her in a position to be in the middle of it.”
He stills and says nothing.
“But, dammit, Brock …” I run a hand through my hair. “You have to know that I wouldn’t hurt her, right? Tell me that you know that I will do everything I can to protect her from any fallout. I mean that.”
I stop at the loveseat and stare off into the night. It takes him a long, tense couple of minutes to reply.
“I appreciate the apology,” he says. “I know you mean it.”
A sigh of relief leaves me.
“You know,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about this—and other things—a lot since I’ve been home. I was so fucking angry with you both for getting into this situation … and I was mad that you added another load of stress on me.”
My brows pull together. “Another load of stress on you?”
He sighs heavily. “I had my physical a week ago for the upcoming season. The doctor told me that I’m fine, first of all. I’m not dying or anything.”
I release a breath. “Fuck you for that.”
He chuckles. “You’re welcome.”
“So what did he say?”
“Doc had me participate in this study about white matter in the brain of athletes. I go in every six months or so and have some testing done. It’s supposed to help gather data so they can learn how to identify brain injuries in people with repetitive head impacts—like us.”
My stomach drops to the ground.
“And apparently I show signs of neurological damage.” His words hang in the air. “He can’t say that for sure because this technology isn’t perfect. But he highly suggests that I retire.”
Oh fuck. I sit on the loveseat.
I try to process what he’s telling me without panicking or jumping to conclusions. How long has he known this? Has he told anyone or is he dealing with this on his own? Is there more to the story that he’s not telling me?
Damn you, Brock.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “You’re all right, though, aren’t you?”
“I’m fine. I mean, I feel fine. But now I have to make this decision about whether I want to believe him and walk away from the game, or risk it and play out my contract.”
I gulp. “What does your gut say?”
“My gut says to say screw it and keep playing. I only have two more years until my contract runs out. I can play safe and get out of there before I’m thirty-five. I’ll be fine.”
“Have you talked to your sister about this?”
“No. And you won’t either. Hear me?”
I bury my head in my hand.
My brain reels with this information—and an underlying concern that maybe I’m in the same boat. But either way, Brock is facing this decision, and I know what Blakely would say. It will kill her if she loses her only family member left. She’s had enough suffering. Enough pain.
“Walk away,” I say, my voice dead.
“It’s two more years—”
“But it could cost you fifty.” I stand, adrenaline building in my blood. “You can’t risk it, man. Think about it. Think about your health. Your sister. Ella. Fuck, think about me.”
He chuckles. “Of course, you would make this about you.”
“Well, yeah. You’re about the only person in this world I like. You can’t get all fucked up. Think about the bigger picture here.”
“I’m honored.” He sighs. “I’ve been an asshole to everyone—to you, to Blakely. Ella won’t talk to me. I feel like I’m losing everything in my life all at once, and I have a small opening here to try to catch it.”
“Good thing you can catch shit, then, isn’t it?”
“What do I do, Renn? Do I tell everyone this and scare the shit out of them? Do I ignore it? What happens if this is a sign of what’s to come? Would I even want to saddle Ella with that? Do I let her go? Do I walk away from my contract? What do I do with the rest of my life? I don’t fucking know, and I’m stressed out.”
The call goes quiet as we process the last few minutes.
For the first time since we got here, I wish I was home.
“We leave here tomorrow night. If you want to sit down and go over it, I’ll be there—post jet lag. Tell me when.”
“Thanks, Renn.”
“Of course.” I look at the night sky. “You don’t have to tell her, but please call your sister. She knows something is wrong and just needs to hear your voice.”
“Do me a favor. Don’t fuck this up with Blakely,” he says.
“Shut up. You’re not dying, asshole.”
He laughs. “No, I’m not. But I can hear something in your voice that tells me that things between you are probably exactly what I fear.”
“Hot?”
“Fuck off.”
I laugh, grateful for the change in tone of the conversation.
