Wrong again, but he wasn’t about to set him straight. Maybe Griffin would get tired of rambling on and drop the subject.
“Their guys are supposed to be all nurturing and romantic, then let the women go run the world. So here’s something to think about.” Griffin stabbed a fry in David’s direction. “How many times do you think old Brett has seen his wife cry?”
At least one. Fuck. Griffin had it so wrong.
“Bro. You look like you’re gonna barf.”
Felt like it, too. “Look. Let’s just drop it.” Fuck, he’d walked away from them. What more did Griffin want?
Griffin sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Totally ignoring the food he’d been dying for. “She cried when you left?”
He’d never see another set of green eyes without thinking about hers overflowing, the tears running through her fresh makeup. Fuck. He’d managed to hurt the unhurtable, the all-controlling, cool, calm, and collected Victoria West-Grant.
And yet, that press conference was visual proof she’d recovered almost immediately after he was out of sight. Or had she? Was she that good at keeping her cool, covering her personal life for the sake of her professional one?
One thing he knew for sure: Her tears had been real. She didn’t have a fake bone in her body. So he’d definitely hurt her. And whether she’d recovered, or merely covered up, he owed her and Britt an apology.
“I need to see her.” He grabbed his phone and opened the browser.
“Whoa, whoa.” Griffin put his hand over the phone’s screen. “You can’t just call her up.” His phone chimed, and he glanced at it, then glared. “Goddamn. Bitch. Shit.”
“What?” David picked his favorite airline from his saved bookmarks.
“Trish. Meddling bitch. She went over to the apartment to pick up the rest of her shit this morning–coincidence that I’d said I’d be back by now? Not–and found something with my travel itinerary. She knows I went on the sex cruise.” His phone chimed again. “Apparently so does my very appalled mom. Fuck my life.”
“Won’t be long ’til they see you on TV with me, and decide you’ve gone homo.” Two tickets, to…where? Salt Lake City. “When’re you due back at work?”
“Um.” Griff rubbed his eyes. “Like…Sunday.”
“Perfect.” They could be on a flight leaving by five that night. “Maybe it’s time for you to explore other career options.”
“Such as?” Griff sighed and picked up his burger.
“We’re going to Fantasy Mountain. Sounds to me like the Grants like you and would pay you good money to go work for them.” Taking Griffin along would be good cover. It’d allow him to see if Vic and Britt really were fine without him, or if they were a mess like he was.
“That’ll look even cuter on the tabloid show. ‘David Roman and his boytoy, off for a fantasy retreat at Fantasy Mountain.’ How’ll that go over?”
“Screw the tabloids.” Not that he thought they’d find out, but if they did, well, he had bigger fish to fry right now. “I’m not spending the rest of my swimming career hiding out from cameras and those no-life-having losers who run them. Anyway, what makes you the boytoy? I’m the barely-legal one here.”
“Nah, man. I really can’t. Better get home and try to clean up the mess.” The words were right, but didn’t sound like Griffin’s heart was in them.
“I’m buying two tickets to Salt Lake City. If you choose to go home instead, then I guess on your way, you can think about the wasted ticket. And the wasted opportunity you never checked out.”
Chapter 26
Where was she going to get sixty-five Harley Davidsons for a weekend? Victoria stared at her laptop screen. Her head hurt. She’d organized a Harder On Harley weekend last year as well, but it had grown in popularity. By leaps and bounds. Britt would scowl so hard his face would stick that way, if she suggested they invest and buy the bikes. But not many Harley owners were willing to rent out their hogs for amateurs to ride–let alone do all the other wild things that had happened last year on them.
Her Skype window popped open. Carmyn had sent her a link.
Because she’d been getting little else done, she’d allow the interruption. The link took her to a “news” story. Gold Medalist Out on the Town, the headline read. And Also Out of the Closet? A grainy photo showed David and–was that Griffin the bartender-slash-fireman?–going into a hotel. Good grief. He’d gotten nabbed by the paps anyway.
Her phone chimed. Britt had texted. Maybe he was done with his walk-through over at Fantasy Spacestation. Probably wanted to tell her what it felt like being weightless.