The remainder of the show had focused on our whirlwind romance, our tumultuous relationship, and Night Owl, Matt’s tell-all novel about us. Somehow, the news of our engagement eclipsed even Matt’s phony death. We excused everything with love. Women in the audience dabbed their eyes—and the cameras ate it up—as Matt described his loneliness at the cabin. He was animated, gorgeous, and powerfully persuasive. “I realized that no amount of freedom was worth a life without Hannah,” he told Gail, and a sigh rippled through the studio.
As Matt wove a tale for our rapt spectators, even I envisioned him storming off the mountain and back into my arms—all for love! We laughed and shared longing glances. I lowered my head when the story darkened. My hand played on his thigh.
After the last segment, Matt had dragged me off the set. My heart kicked into doubletime as we navigated the corridors backstage, stepping over wires and around video equipment. He hauled me into a dressing room. My phone began to ring.
I remembered thinking it was probably my boss and Matt’s agent, Pamela Wing, and she was probably having an aneurysm. Or maybe she was cracking open a bottle of champagne. Impossible to say. Pam had arranged the talk show appearance and prepped Matt and me exhaustively, and we had proceeded to stray from every line in the script.
Matt’s phone had started ringing, too. He ignored it. He slammed the dressing room door shut and pressed me against it. In the dark, I couldn’t make out his expression.
“Hannah, what the hell was that?” His chest touched mine and I felt his wild pulse. “God, you’re going to drive me to an early grave.”
“I’m sorry. Are you angry? I—”
“Angry?” His breath fanned through my hair. His hands roamed down my body.
The scene is engraved on my memory: the way our cell phones rang relentlessly, the ringtone for my sister and then my mom sounding loudly, the way Matt kissed me and started to laugh, and the high fluttering happiness I felt because we had just announced our spontaneous engagement to the entire nation.
And then the way Matt had said, “You’re a genius, Hannah. You’re brilliant.”
In the days following our TV appearance, Matt managed to put off everyone who asked about the engagement. He said it wasn’t “a sure thing.” He said that we planned to “continue living together” and were “keeping our options open.” To Pam, he passed off the stunt as “Hannah’s last-minute stroke of genius.”
And with one another … we maintained a stilted silence on the matter.
I moved back into the condo with Matt. We returned to our routines. Three weeks passed, and I began to wonder if I had even asked. Marry me. Did I say those words? We’re getting married. Did he believe those words?
The sweet smell of rain brought me back to the present moment. I perched on the windowsill and listened as Denver’s dry pavement sighed beneath the downpour. The wind carried a spray of moisture that misted my face and legs.
You’re a genius, Hannah.
I shut the window and walked to the office.
The door stood open, which meant Matt wasn’t writing. I leaned against the frame and watched him. Something on the computer screen captivated him. He sat hunched forward, frowning and rubbing his jaw.
I giggled and his eyes shot up.
God … I loved to watch that smile dawning on his face.
“Little bird,” he said. He pushed away from the keyboard and patted his thigh.
“I’m invited into the inner sanctum?” I moved around the desk and sat on his lap, and his arms tightened about me. He grinned at me. His hair was growing in blond, light roots clashing with black dye on the fringes. I ran my fingers through it and he nuzzled my chest. “Baby, we gotta do something about your hair.”
“Mm.” With his face between my boobs, Matt might agree to anything.
I rubbed his shoulders and he planted idle kisses along the neckline of my nightie. I stole a glance at the computer.
“Are you … on Twitter?”
“Mm.” He got a handful of my rump and squeezed. “Interacting.”
“Interacting?” I smiled. “That’s kind of cute.”
“With my readers. I’m on Facebook, too.” His mouth drifted across my chest. “It was my editor’s idea.”
My eyes flickered to the Firefox browser. I rarely got a look at Matt’s computer. The browser tabs read Gmail, Twitter, and … Colo Real Estate?