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E aston is due to come home from the Bears’ three-game road trip very late tonight. I’m kind of excited. No, I am excited. I can’t help it—I always miss him when he’s away.

I probably won’t wait up, though. I’ll just see him tomorrow.

But today should fly by, seeing as Madison is coming over to spend the afternoon.

In fact, the doorbell just rang.

I rush to the entry hall to let her in, greeting her with a big smile. But she doesn’t look too happy.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my grin faltering.

“We have to talk,” she replies as I step back and she walks in. Holding up her phone, she adds, “I need to show you something.”

“Okay.” I place my hand over my heart. “Good God, you’re scaring me.”

Madison blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. It’s not life-and-death, so don’t be scared. But it is bad. I mean, maybe it looks worse than it is. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “In any case, it’s something I think you should see. And it’s better if I show it to you as opposed to you seeing it online or something.”

“Okay, this is weird,” I mutter.

“It is,” she agrees. “You’ll see.”

I suggest we head into the living room. I want to be sitting down when I view this something “weird” that has my friend so concerned.

Once we’re seated on the sofa, Madison says, “So, it’s about Easton.”

What could she know about him that I don’t? We’ve texted and talked several times while he’s been away, and he’s not once mentioned anything out of the ordinary.

I reply with a level “Okay.”

“Um, did he tell you he and some teammates went out to a club in Los Angeles?”

“Yes,” I reply. “It was right after their first game on the road. He said he played cards and won a little bit of cash.” I laugh. “Of course, he lost it the next day.”

Madison, twisting to face me more fully, questions in a serious tone, “He didn’t mention anything else about that night?”

I shake my head. “No, nothing.”

“Shit. What I was hoping was nothing now seems like it’s something.”

“Good God.” I roll my eyes, losing patience. “Would you just tell me already?”

“All right.” My friend, who’s been holding her phone in her lap, lifts it and types in her password. Turning the device to me, she says softly, “This was posted on some kid’s private Instagram. I guess he was working the door in the back room at that club and took some pictures of the guys.”

When I glance down at the phone, I can’t believe my eyes. But what I see is all too clear—my freaking husband is kissing some floozy chick.

But he’s not really my husband.

He married me as a favor.

Easton has every right to kiss whomever he wants.

I have to remind myself of all these things, because what I feel right now is what I would be feeling if we were married for real—anger, sadness, betrayal.

I think about how I have to act upset for Madison’s sake, since she thinks our marriage is genuine.

But then I realize I don’t have to act.

I am hurt.

“What the fuck?” I grind out.

“Aww, Claire.” Madison slides her phone onto the coffee table, shakes her head, and throws her arms around me. “I’m sorry,” she says into my hair. “I am truly so, so sorry.”

She thinks Easton was cheating on me, and really he wasn’t. Still, I hope he didn’t do anything else with that girl. With the way I feel about the kiss alone, if I were to find out he did something more with her that night, it might very well kill me.

As Madison pats me on the back, I murmur, “There has to be a logical explanation. There just must be.”

Pulling back and holding my forearms, she says, “Yeah, there is. He’s a big lying, cheating asshole.”

“Madison!” I exclaim.

“I’m sorry.” She lets go and sits back. “But it’s true.”

To her, it is.

Oh fuck, to the rest of the world it is too. If she found this picture, then surely others have seen it as well.

“Where did you get that image?” I ask. “You said it was on a private Instagram of someone you don’t even know.”

“It was,” she says. “But supposedly a friend of that guy screenshotted it, as well as a bunch of other pics he took that night. That person then sent it to a hockey blog, which happens to be one I check every few days or so, because…and I’m sorry about this”—she winces—“they get the dirt. Anyway, I saw the pics and the accompanying story of where they came from this morning.”

“Great,” I state, my tone full of sarcasm.

My friend sighs. “If it’s any solace, it’s not a very well-known blog. Plus, I bet that kid lost his job for taking those photos.”

Grimacing, I tell her, “Neither of those things makes me feel any better.”

“I know,” she says softly. And then she asks, “What are you going to do? I mean, after you kick Easton’s ass and all.”

That last one makes me laugh.

And I need a laugh right about now.

The idea of me kicking Easton’s ass is funny.

“I don’t know,” I tell Madison.

But really, what am I going to do?

I can’t expect Easton to live his life as a monk. This was bound to happen at some point.

But did he have to kiss someone in freaking public?

He should have known better.

“Do you think you’ll leave him?” Madison asks quietly.

Of course I’m not going to leave him; it’s not like what he did isn’t “allowed” in our crazy arrangement. Not that we’ve ever talked about it. Though, considering what’s happening now, maybe we should.

Whatever .

Shaking my head, I say to my friend, “No, I’m not going to leave him. It was just a kiss, Madison.”

Her brow furrowing, she says, “That’s still bad, Claire.”

“It is.”

She bites her lip, then asks, “And what if it was more?”

Again, I have no leg to stand on.

But she doesn’t know that, so I wave my hand around dismissively and say, “I don’t think he’d go that far.”

She looks doubtful as she mutters, “I hope you’re right.”

I sigh. “Yeah, I do too.”

I don’t tell her this, but I plan to stay up tonight to talk to Easton about the situation we’re now in. I don’t care how late he comes in. I don’t think I could sleep anyway. No matter how bad it may be, I need to know what happened.

Madison and I talk a little more. At one point, she checks the blog again and finds the incriminating photo is gone.

After scrolling through the other pics to double-check, she confirms, “Yeah, it’s definitely been deleted.”

I blow out a relieved breath, as that tells me Easton knows about the photo and has somehow addressed it.

“That’s good that it’s gone,” I say.

“It is,” Madison agrees. “But just in case he tries to deny it, I took a screenshot of the photo. Here, let me text it to you.”

Oh great, now I’ll have a picture of my husband kissing some other girl forever on my phone.

I’ll have it forever because I have no plans to ever delete it.

No, I need it as a reminder that Easton is not really my husband.

I have to accept that and live with it, no matter how painful it has become.