Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

5. Sawyer

5

SAWYER

S neaking into the jeweler shop through the back-alley entrance isn’t how my younger self pictured ring shopping for my bride-to-be, but here we are.

My younger self would be appalled, actually, because there’s no element of surprise, no planning the perfect proposal—none of the usual things that come with an engagement. Then again if my younger self took one look at the crap-show of my life, he’d have freaked out a long time before today.

But my young, optimistic self died a sad, pitiful death exactly a year ago. Yeah, that guy was living in a fictional world and might still be in that same deranged dreamland if it weren’t for Dad and his greed.

If he hadn’t gone to prison.

But the deluge of hard truths is what hit the hardest. How me and my sister witnessed the disillusionment of every single thing we’d ever known. Our wholesome childhood. That white picket fence. The all-American picture-perfect family.

All lies.

It was like we’d lived inside pristine marble walls, then someone came over with a sledgehammer and broke them down, piece by piece, until the only thing standing was the ugly thing my parents hid from us our whole lives.

I suppose I don’t blame Mom for sheltering us from Dad’s lifestyle. But did she think we’d never find out?

Anyway, now Dad’s in prison for being stupid with someone else’s money, which I soon found out was not the worst crime he’d committed. In short, I came to the realization I could never bring another human being into this family. Yet, lo and behold, I find myself doing exactly that.

Married (as far as the media is concerned) to the one person I didn’t want to drag into my mess.

My sister, Siobhan, called me yesterday, demanding answers and basically chewed me out, having learned about my marriage online. Even though she’s a couple years younger, she’s so intense, she puts the fear of God in me. I panicked and didn’t tell her the marriage is fake.

Instead, I lied, telling her it was a crazy whirlwind decision, and I’d explain it the next time I saw her in person. Not my finest moment.

I check the time on my phone. She’s late.

I wouldn’t blame her if she doesn’t come, though. In fact, I’m surprised she changed her mind in the first place. She was one hundred percent against this, as was I. But a few hours later, I got a call from Owen. Maggie was on board. Emily already found her a dress. Hendrix secured a discreet judge. Griffin arranged a fake honeymoon photoshoot with Hannah. Everything was in motion, like a hurricane of wedding planning all around us. All we needed were rings, which Owen said he’d take care of. But I want to pick them out myself. If I have to wear something for a year, or however long this is going to last, I want a comfortable fit.

I know a couple of guys in the NHL who take off their wedding rings, saying they can’t play with them on. Especially at away games.

I’m not going to do that.

I’m trying to decide if I should be ‘that guy’ and call to see if she’s actually coming, when I hear Maggie’s distinct, sassy footsteps behind me.

She’s rounding the corner of the alley looking as stunning and bored as a runway model. She’s wearing hot pink lip gloss today, which further accentuates her intense frown. She’s all fierce and angular. The precise way she stands there. The bold femininity. The lazy contempt.

It’s a fashion statement with her. She’s a Paul Nagel painting in the flesh.

All I can muster upon seeing her is, “You came.”

She snorts, taking off her sunglasses to look me up and down. “Words I never thought I’d hear you say.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind.” She inclines her chin to the rusty back door to the jeweler. “Is this the place?”

I swallow hard as the crazy hits me.

We’re doing this.

“Mr. Sorokin is waiting inside,” I say, opening the door for her. She walks in casually, which is the opposite of how I feel right now with my heart pounding out of my chest.

“I still don’t know why we have to sneak in the back like you’re some celebrity,” she mutters.

“I have fans,” I say defensively as my eyes adjust to the dark hallway.

“Puhlease. Cereal boxes don’t count.”

“Anyway, we’re sneaking in because you’re supposed to already have the ring on your finger. What if someone posts photos of us going in the front door? The internet is going to wonder why we’re just now getting around to ring shopping.”

She stops at the end of the walkway and glares at me over her shoulder. “You are so paranoid.”

The jeweler, Mr. Sorokin, must have heard us come in and calls to us from the front of the shop with a strong Russian accent.

“Hello, hello O’Malleys. I’ll be right there. Just locking up shop. I’ll only be moment, all right?”

“He’s locking up the shop?”

“I was told he always locks up for an hour at lunch.”

When Mr. Sorokin gets to us, he claps his hands together and looks between us.

“Ah yes! Happy couple. Come this way.”

He leads us to a small sitting room comfortably fitted with wingback chairs and mahogany furnishings. He invites us to sit down in front of a table with black velvet lining the surface.

Before he takes the seat opposite us, he extends his hand in a formal greeting. “My name is Anton Sorokin. I’m very pleased to meet you both.”

Maggie shakes his hand and smiles. “I’m Maggie.”

“Indeed. Beautiful lady,” he replies and kisses the back of her hand.

As I accept his handshake, I say, “I’m Sawyer. We spoke on the phone.”

Our very brief conversation consisted of the logistics and time of the meeting, but I did express my interest in keeping it short. I was told he’d have a selection we could choose from so we’d be done quickly. (Mostly because I was worried Maggie would be a flight risk.) But I don’t see any inventory on the table.

“Yes, yes,” he says cheerfully. “The hockey star. I don’t follow the sport myself, but I’ve seen highlights when I watch evening news. The fans are quite lively.”

“I guess you could say that,” I agree.

“Well,” he slaps his hands on the table. “I have a few collections in mind, but I like to meet the bride to give you best match, no? The perfect ring to match her beauty.”

“I’m sure anything you have will be fine,” Maggie says.

He shakes his finger. “Ah, ah, ah. I know these things. Fifty years to learn it. When you find the One, you will see. Diamond will sing. That is, if you want diamond. We do have other gems but…”

“Don’t you have cubic zirconias?” Maggie asks.

This makes Mr. Sorokin laugh heartily. “My dear. A wedding ring, it is forever. If you want fake diamond, they have at Eaton Center. Little kiosk by food court. Turn your finger green.”

“A diamond will be fine,” I say.

He winks at me and turns to unlock a tall cabinet behind him.

When he opens it, I see tray stacked over countless tray of what I can only imagine are each filled with rings. Or maybe loose diamonds. All I can think of is how this guy better have a good security system in place.

He hums while running his finger down the trays until it lands on one that makes him light up. He slides it out and places it on the table. “Marquise cut very good for small hands. Petite. Very delicate. Solitaire probably best.” He picks one of the rings from the tray and sets in front of Maggie. “Go ahead. Try on.”

Maggie stares at the ring like it’s a bomb about to detonate.

“I…thought I was just here for you to measure my ring size.”

“We size the ring after. Too big, I can fix. I do wonders, believe me.”

“I believe you. I do. It’s just…”

“I get it. Maybe you like surprise. Some women, they don’t like. Want to choose themself. Everybody so progressive these days.” He shrugs. “Eh, I think that’s okay. You have to love it.”

“Maybe just try it on, and we’ll go from there,” I suggest to Maggie.

“This just first one,” Mr. Sorokin says casually. “First one hardly ever the right one. You just try. Maybe you come in thinking you like emerald cut, but finger too small. Radiant cut also very elegant.”

Maggie gives me the side eye and slips the ring on her finger. As expected, the band is too big on her, and the weight of the diamond setting makes it swing down. She quickly takes it off and places it back on the velvet.

Mr. Sorokin hums and puts the ring back in the tray. “Marquise cut all wrong for you. Too understated.”

He goes back to his cabinet for another tray. At first, I think he’s going for smaller stones, but when he places them on the table, I hold in a gasp. The diamonds are only getting bigger.

“Oval maybe more suited for you my dear. You have such dainty hands but like pianist. Very, very elegant.”

“Uh, thank you?”

Mr. Sorokin gives me a look. “You are lucky man.”

I honestly have no idea what he means by that.

He sets three different rings on the velvet side by side. They are similar in size and cut but have different embellishments. One has a circle of tiny diamonds around the big one. Maggie tries them all on, one after another, holding them in place so the setting doesn’t slide this time. Each one is more stunning on her finger than the last, but she doesn’t seem convinced. Her level of discomfort is making me feel itchy.

“These are probably really expensive. Are there any…less flashy?”

“You’re marrying a pro athlete,” I grunt. “There are expectations for my wife. The flashier the better.”

“These all beautiful, but they do not sing for you,” Mr. Sorokin says. “I have special collection for special lady.”

He gathers the two trays and slides them back inside the cabinet and locks it. Then he walks across the room and stops in front of a framed painting of tall ships. He slides his fingers under the frame, and it opens on hinges, toward us, so we can’t see what’s behind.

It’s a safe, of course, but the only thing he seems interested in is hiding the combination. He makes quick work of it and makes his way back to us with a small box in his hands. It’s about the size of a cigar box but looks like it’s made of titanium. Superman couldn’t get into that box.

He seems rather pleased with himself as he unlocks it, opening it gingerly and reverently. Then he takes out a single ring resting on its own little pedestal. It’s incredible but so large, I’m afraid Maggie’s left hand will drag on the floor everywhere she goes.

“Go ahead. Put it on.”

Maggie seriously looks like she’s about to bolt out of here. Like the ring is made out of Anthrax or something. She’s sitting erect, hands poised on the arm of her chair as if she’s ready to push off and fly for the door. I swear if she makes a move for the exit, I’m going to hold her down in a scissor hold. I wasn’t fully on board with this ridiculous scheme before, but we’re here now, and I’ll be damned if I have to go through another rejection.

Mr. Sorokin sets the ring down on the velvet, right in front of Maggie. She has an unreadable expression on her face, but there’s a distinct shift in her posture.

“What is the matter krasivaya ? Do you not like pink color? It is very classy, I tell you.”

She’s going to run, I just know it.

But then Mr. Sorokin’s phone chimes. He doesn’t check it at first but then gives in after it sounds again. He looks down through his bifocals at the notification. “These things. I can never figure out, you know?” He grumbles as he taps on the screen. “Ah, okay. I see now. Will you excuse me a moment? I have delivery. Very important.”

“Take your time,” I say. “We’ve got all afternoon. Right, honey?”

I reach to rub circles on Maggie’s back, and she gives me the slowest of slow side-eyes. There’s murder behind them, and frankly, I don’t blame her. She hates me. And that’s valid.

Mr. Sorokin leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and I sit back in my chair, ending the doting fiancé ruse.

She sighs and glowers at me.

After a minute of dreaded silence I say, “Why did you change your mind?”

I’m genuinely curious, but also, I just want to break the deadly silence.

“About the ring? I didn’t. A fake one will do. Just like this wedding.”

“Not the ring. I meant…us. The marriage. You were so against it. Why change your mind?”

She turns slightly in her seat and crosses her arms. “I could ask you the same thing. What was that you said? Oh yeah. ‘I’d rather lose endorsements than be married to Maggie.’”

And I stand by that. But not in the way she thinks.

“So? You tell me, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

“Why I changed my mind?” I say.

“Yes,” she says curtly.

Why I changed my mind…Maybe because the cat was out of the bag. Her name, her face was already out there. Because there was no better way to protect her than by keeping her close. She was already a target. If anyone wanted to get to me through her, it wouldn’t be difficult. The only way to keep her safe is to bring her into my home.

Under my protection.

But I can’t tell her that. She would run the other way and then be more exposed than ever.

So what answer can I give her other than…

“Maybe I like the idea of you belonging to me.” I scoot to the edge of my chair so I can crowd her space. I grab the arms of her chair and yank them toward me so she’s facing me. The floor is carpet, but I make the chair slide like it’s on ice.

She looks at me in shock. With one swift jerk of the chair, I drag her as close to me as I can, so that her legs are between mine. So that her body has nowhere to move. Then I lean into her, bringing my lips right against her cheek. So that my breath tickles her ears when I say, “YOU’RE MINE.”

Her eyes flash, but not before I get a little reaction from her shaky breath. “I don’t belong to anyone. The sooner you realize that, the easier it will be for you.”

She tries to wiggle away from me, but that just strengthens my resolve to hold on to the arm of the chair even tighter. She scowls at me, narrowing her dark eyes on me, pouting those hot pink lips.

She has no idea what that look does to me.

I should let go. But I can’t. Just like I can’t stand the thought of another man touching her. And if I’m being honest with myself, that’s the true reason I agreed to marry her. She can hate me all she wants. But she’ll be safe in my home. However unconventional this might be. I’ve written off a conventional marriage anyway.

“Once you put on my ring, Magpie, you’ll be all mine. So you might as well try it on that pretty finger so we can get to the fun stuff.”

“And what do you think is fun? Drinking yourself stupid and getting into fights?”

I take hold of her left hand and reach for the pink ring. It sparkles in her eyes as she takes it in.

Keeping my eyes on her, I slide it on her finger. It’s a perfect fit. No sizing required.

The snarl on her face momentarily softens when she looks down at her hand. Her lips part, and there’s a noticeable change on her face, as though the lighting in this little room has brightened by her expression. Or maybe it’s the way the diamond shines in her eyes.

For those fleeting moments, her guard is down. She’s the Maggie I knew a few months ago. Before Owen’s wedding. Before I became the subject of her ire. Back when she had flirty smiles for me. When her laughter was open and impulsive. Unencumbered.

This ring was made for her. The true her. The soft her.

But the moment is short lived. A door shuts at the other side of the shop, and Mr. Sorokin’s whistle gets louder as he approaches. Maggie yanks her hand from me and removes the ring from her finger, plunking it back down in the velvet case.

She clears her throat and I distance myself from her just as Mr. Sorokin enters the room.

“Well then,” he says. “Sorry I have to leave for a time. You like ring, enchanting lady?”

She does that thing where she curls into herself.

“I think the smaller one will do,” she says. “I’m sorry. I have a headache.”

“We can do another day. It’s okay. Anton make time for you. It’s all good.”

“No, it’s fine. The first one is great. Let’s go with that one.”

“Yes, yes,” he says with a forced smile. “Whatever woman likes, yes?” He looks to me for reassurance.

“Whatever she likes,” I repeat back.