I shoot up, and Parker’s hand falls. “Nick, you need to take it down a notch or twelve, man.”

Parker’s stare bores into the side of my head like she’s annoyed I’m stepping in, but I ignore it because I can only deal with one person going off on me at a time. They have me outnumbered even if for different reasons.

“Oh.” Nick pops his lips. “Sorry. You know what, let me give you two lovebirds some advice, alright? And take this with a grain of salt because my wife sends me to the couch three nights a week, but it’s a good idea to not enter a marriage—let alone a fake one—without knowing the whole story. And I’ve got dozens of people calling me to get it.”

A phone shrills, and Parker sighs, hopping off the barstool. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her grab her bag on the table in the entry and go into her room, closing the door.

“You’re really out of line here,” I hiss, leaving the kitchen and walking toward the den.

Nick is fast on my tail. “I’m out of line? You just signed up to fraudulently marry the goddamn president’s daughter without batting an eye and without even bothering to text me, and I’m out of line?” He follows me into the den and shuts the door. “Was this Foller’s idea?”

“What?” I exclaim. “God no. Why would he have anything to do with it?”

Nick scowls. “I don’t know. Maybe this is all part of some bigger scheme. Damnit, Fitz. I know you’ve been in your head a lot, but this is the kind of decision it would be wise to let people in on. People like me, who have your best interest in mind.”

I spin around. “You told me to get a girlfriend! At the Super Bowl party. I got that, plus a bonus. And besides, what’s the big deal anyway?”

“The big deal is that her dad is the president!”

“I’m aware of that.”

Nick rubs his temples. “Do you remember how I didn’t want you tied to Foller in case things with him end up going south?”

I can’t talk about Coach with Nick for another second. It’s going in circles. “That investigation concluded, and they found nothing. Can we drop it? You don’t like the guy? Fine. That’s business. But Parker, this is different.” I lower my voice. “It’s personal, Nick.”

Nick’s eyes ping-pong around me, as if he’s putting the pieces together. Slowly, he reaches behind him, producing his inhaler.

“This is the rebel tattoo girl you told me about in Cancun?” He takes a puff of albuterol, which I think is all he needs, but quickly pushes the inhaler again.

I contemplate offering him a shot of whiskey. Maybe something stronger would help.