Between Commitment and Betrayal (Hardy Billionaire Brothers, #1)(81)

“Mrs. Johnson now knows you’re off birth control,” he’d say in passing. And when I’d try to reply, he’d cut me off. “We can discuss later.”

“Mrs. Johnson knows you didn’t pick up birth control,” he reported a different day. “We have another few months to discuss next steps.”

That was it. Efficient. Precise. And Committed to the will.

Piper handled the paparazzi because she seemed to know how to twist them into exactly what she wanted them to say. Nothing about my past was brought up. It was disappearing just like Carl had planned.

The only problem was Anastasia had their own ideas about where the story should go. She wrote social media posts about how Declan was doing it all for the family, for the HEAT empire, and even maybe for her. Magazines ate it up and became obsessed what could have been for her and Declan. It had me starting to think that Piper might be helping her, that they hadn’t kept their word on being discreet about what Declan and I were really doing.

He seemed to know that too because he handed me a magazine one day in the car and pointed to it. “We need to be seen together more because the media is focusing on something we don’t want them to.”

I cleared my throat and tried to start the discussion we should have been having the day of the reading with Mrs. Johnson. “Declan, maybe we should talk about—”

“We can discuss that later. Give yourself time.” That was it. He refused to open it up for discussion because he dialed a number on his phone and immediately jumped out of the car once we were parked at work. Of course, that didn’t stop him from coming around to open my door for me even while on the phone.

All day, I worked out and considered my options, but nothing stuck, nothing made sense, nothing felt right.

I snuck away from the gym to grab a snack at Clara’s after Juna grilled me again about my situation. Clara was humming in the back of her bakery with a delicious scent of cinnamon and chocolate wafting out. She wore an apron with hydrangeas of all different colors flowing over it. The color completely clashed with some of the blown glass she had on the counter of the bakery. And the tables. And the walls.

Yet, Clara’s charm was that she could smile and everything worked well together around her immediately somehow. “Evie! Did you come for lunch?”

“Just stopping in. I’d love a snack if you have time to whip up a sandwich.”

She nodded and pushed her wavy red hair from her face, smudging some flour on her cheek in the process. Clara in the kitchen was something very different than Clara with her sister. “You got it. Turkey with bacon, lettuce, and mayo work?”

“You know it.” I pulled a barstool over to the counter where she had a gold espresso machine and smoothie mixer. Behind it, she housed a few essentials for drinks and had a window into the kitchen.

She rushed around, peeking over her shoulder to ask, “How’s the gym?”

“Great. Just got done with a yoga class.” I frowned at a magazine near her tablet that had her sister on the cover. The article title screamed at me—“Anastasia Should Have Been His Wife.”

“Ignore the magazine!” She clattered around and buzzed up to the front to snatch it from my view and throw it in the trash. “It’s nonsense.”

“It really isn’t.” I sighed, although I’d already silenced the alerts that had been chiming on my watch with news. “The world knows it. And so do I.”

“The world doesn’t know anything, and they definitely don’t know you.” She stuck her finger out at me.

“And yet we let them define us every day,” I muttered.

“You ever look up Declan’s Super Bowl story? The last one?” Clara asked as she let the bacon sizzle. “He never let the media define him.”

“No. He told me some and I figured I’d let him define himself for me when he was ready.”

“Yes, you would do that.” Clara chuckled and came around the counter to pull her phone from her apron. “Just watch.”

“Okay.” I gave in, wanting to bond with Clara and wanting to find out anything about Declan at this point.

The newscaster was going over the game highlights and announced that Declan had done what no other man could by carrying that ball in for a touchdown after breaking his wrist earlier that season. They’d given him one shot to prove he still could handle the ball, and even with the press betting against him, he went in and proved everyone wrong.

Then the newscaster went on to condemn Wes as a clip of him played. “The quarterback of the Cobras instructed his linemen to crush Hardy’s hand in the first game of the season, putting Hardy at a huge disadvantage for the year.” A clip of Wes yelling “Crush his hand” to his linemen was replayed.

I clicked the phone off as my jaw and heart dropped. Shock and anger flew through me fast. He might not have done it himself, but Wes had encouraged the fight on the field, encouraged his team to mess with another athlete’s body. “Was this his last season?”

She nodded as she grabbed the bacon for my sandwich and then brought it out on a bright-pink plate. “Yes, well, the season before that now. He rehabbed and came back to run a record number of touchdowns in a single Super Bowl to clinch the team’s victory. And he did that all when everyone said he couldn’t.”

He’d told me we could get to a place where the fucked-up wasn’t bad anymore, that we could make good from it. He honestly believed it. “I don’t think he will let anyone define what he can and can’t do.”