Page 121 of Married to the Scottish Player
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to!” Her cheeks flush with color. “I get it, okay? Your image matters. You’re thinking long term. Protecting your brand.”
I wish she wasn’t getting herself so worked up.
“Annabelle,youare part of the long term,” I tell her. “Don’t you see that? This isn’t about damage control—it’s about setting the tone. About telling the world thatyoumatter to me. That I’m not hiding you.”
Her eyes flash. “Then maybe don’t act like I’m a PR problem.”
That lands like a punch to the gut. I flinch, because she’s not totally wrong. The point of a statement is to get ahead of any stories ...
She folds her arms tightly. “Do you want to know whatIneed? I need time to breathe. To feel normal. To feel like this is stilloursbefore it belongs to everyone else.”
I stare at her, chest heaving. “I’m scared too.”
She blinks. “You don’t act like it.”
“I’ve had a few more years of practice at pretending.”
And with that, the room goes still again. Her arms loosen, her shoulders drop an inch. And mine do too.
It’s not resolved. Not even close.
She sighs, brushing past me to the kitchen. “I want to go home.”
I don’t follow her, but I do call out after her. “One second you’re fine and the next you want to leave?”
She doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway.
The clatter of a cabinet slamming is answer enough.
I walk to the edge of the kitchen but stop short of going in. She’s standing at the counter, hands braced on either side of the sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“I’m not your enemy,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t move.
I keep going. “This thing between us? It’s not a PR problem. It’s the best damn surprise of my life. I’m just trying to protect it.”
“Too late. I’m pissed, and I want my privacy.”
But she has had privacy; we’ve been living in a bubble since we arrived, holed up in this luxury condo at the top of the world. Food delivered, getting to know each other. Having sex, getting intimate.
And now she’s talking to me like I’m the reason it’s fucked.
“I’m not the paparazzi,” I snap, instantly regretting the bite in my tone. “I’m the guy who rubs your back in the middle of the night without even being asked because I know it’s bothering you.”
Annabelle whirls around, eyes flashing. “And I didn’t ask you to go public with us either!”
“I haven’t!” I haven’t said shit!
“But youwantto.”
“Because it’s going to come out anyway,” I argue. “At least let me help shape the narrative before someone else twists it into something it’s not.”
She throws up her hands. “You’re talking like this is some sports scandal to manage instead of a relationship that’s barely had time to breathe!”
My chest tightens. “Itisa relationship. And I’m trying to keep it safe.”
