“I told you you’re loud,” he chuckles. “But I like him too. A lot.”
My fingers bolt to the empty spot on my left hand where my wedding band would be. There’s nothing there. And we definitely never told my dad anything. He must just be confused. “What makes you think Bridger’s is my husband?”
“Iknowhe is.”
“How?” I draw in a gust of air.
“My mind may be unreliable,” he taps his temple, “but some stuff sticks with you. And Joanna had to tell the receptionist Bridger’s your husband when he forgot his ID yesterday.”
Yesterday.
I exhale.
Okay, my dad’s just got his facts confused, which is completely normal. He and Bridger saw each other once, the night they met; a second time, when we made plans for my dad to move to Havenwood; then a third time, the day Bridger and I moved him in here. Frankly, I’m impressed my dad even remembers Bridger’s name.
Which, honestly, says a lot about the kind of impact that man can make in a short period of time.
“So you like Bridger a lot, huh?”
He beams at me. “I sure do.”
“Even though you’ve only met him a few times?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Bridger stops by most afternoons, when you’re at …” He squints. “Is it dance class?”
My heart throbs in my ears.
“Tutoring,” I say with what’s left of the air in my lungs.
“That’s right!” He smacks his forehead. “But I’m notsupposed to tell anyone he visits. So maybe let’s just keep that secret between us.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bridger
“ARRRRGH!”
Another growl rips out of me as the barbell crashes to the mat. Again. Four-hundred-pound deadlifts have my quads burning. My forearms are rubber, and my glutes surrendered to the enemy ten minutes ago.
That’s me, to clarify.
I’m the enemy.
“Yo.” Dex sends a smirk my direction and unfolds himself from the rowing machine. “Why do you hate my mats?”
I cross to my water bottle and take a long pull, both my hands shaking. “Hate’s a pretty strong word.” I swipe at my brow, then gulp more water.
“Maybe.” Dexter’s smirk shifts into a grin. “Remember when Sayla was convinced she hated me?”
“That was less than a year ago, so, yeah. I haven’t forgotten.”
Sweat rolls down the side of my face, and Dex tosses me aworkout towel from the freshly washed pile. It smells like laundry detergent and bleach. “Might do another fifteen on the treadmill,” I tell him.
He frowns. “You’ve been punishing yourself for almost two hours, man. Keep up this pace, and our equipment won’t last through football season.” He nods to indicate the room full of gleaming machines.
Weight plates and benches and racks. Oh, my.
“Which would be pretty short-sighted,” he says, “considering your money paid for all this stuff.”