Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

15. Maggie

15

MAGGIE

T he next morning, I spot Sawyer at the breakfast nook eating his usual yogurt. His broad back is to me, hunched over his bowl. My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, urging me to bolt before he notices me.

But just as I’m about to make my stealthy escape, his voice stops me in my tracks.

“Maggie, wait.” I swear he has eyes in the back of his head.

I hesitate, my mind flooded with memories of last night—his lips on mine, his hands…GAH! I clear my throat. “Um, yeah?”

“I want to apologize,” he says, still not turning around.

I should say something snarky, but my brain’s not caffeinated enough for witty comebacks. Instead, I mumble, “I should be the one apologizing.” A traitorous part of my mind adds, ‘For not jumping your bones right there on the kitchen table.’ I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought.

Sawyer sighs. “I’m ashamed to say I let my attraction to you get the better of me.”

“Same,” I blurt out, then immediately want to smack myself.

Sawyer finally turns to face me, his expression unreadable. “I want you to know you’re so much more to me than…whatever last night was. Fling isn’t the right word to use when you’re married, is it?” He runs his meaty hand through that glorious mess of hair. “You’re so much more, you’re almost too much. Does that make sense?”

“Not really, no,” I say. I’m not really prepared for this conversation.

He sighs, smiling at me gently. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. I guess.” This whole thing is a little ridiculous, and something in me cracks, making me chuckle at our situation. I pad over to the island and look through the fruit basket. Otto’s mess is mostly cleaned up. I choose a banana and peel it.

Sawyer watches me intently and says, “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met, Maggie. And it scares the hell out of me.”

Wow. That is such a cliche thing to say, but I’m eating it all up, anyway. Why am I like this?

Sawyer almost sounds like…Wait a minute.

“That’s a line from my book! You cad!” I pick up an orange from the fruit basket and throw it at him. I miss, of course.

He taps his chin. “Is it? Hmmm.”

I throw another orange at him. He ducks, which is, again, unnecessary because I’m a terrible aim.

He reaches out a hand, palm up, like he’s in a freaking stage play. “’Your love is like a touchdown in the final seconds of the game—unexpected, thrilling, and absolutely game-changing.’”

“That line’s from the last chapter! Oh my gawwwd, Sawyer!”

Sawyer’s grin widens. “Are you sure? I’m just speaking from the heart, here.”

“You read the whole book! In one night?” A horrifying thought strikes me. What was Sawyer thinking as he turned each page? Was he laughing? Cringing? Taking notes? A deep blush creeps up my neck, knowing exactly what kinds of notes he’d be taking. Oh gosh. The broom closet scene. The chocolate sauce scene. ALL of chapter nineteen! And twenty-seven! And thirty-two. GAH!

This is fine. Everything’s fine. I’ll just…never look him in the eye again. Easy peasy.

Sawyer leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, when can I expect the next one?”

“Next one?” I squeak. “There won’t be a next one. I’m not writing another book. Ever. I’m retiring from the romance writing business effective immediately.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s too bad. I liked it.”

I’m beyond mortified. The thought of him dissecting my romantic fantasies makes me want to dig a hole and live in it until I’m old and grey. I bury my face in my hands. “This cannot be happening,” I mutter.

Sawyer chuckles, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “You know, I particularly enjoyed that scene where the quarterback and the ice cream shop owner?—”

“Stop!” I yelp, peeking through my fingers. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop right there.”

He grins, leaning back in his chair. “What? I was just going to say I liked how they shared that sundae.”

“Right,” I say skeptically. “The sundae. That’s definitely what you were going to mention.”

He gets up, taking his bowl to the sink and rinsing it out.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a writer?”

I snort. “Do you tell me every little thing about you?”

“I’m not sure you’d want to know every little thing, Magpie.”

He’s still at the sink, his back to me, and he’s staring out the window. The maple trees are a crisp red and gold now. Soon the branches will be bare and covered in white.

“Oh, by the way,” he says, still not turning around to face me. “I won’t be home after morning practice today.”

“You’re staying at the stadium until the game?”

“No. I have a meeting,” he replies, still not turning around.

“What about your afternoon nap?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“I’ll survive.”

I chew my lip, hesitating before asking, “Is it another family thing?”

“No.” His tone is clipped, clearly not wanting to discuss it further.

My mind races. Is this the same place he’s been going every week? The place where he gets his ‘needs’ met? Curse that Mrs. Pruitt for putting those ideas in my head.

The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I continue to stare at his back, willing him to turn around and explain.

Finally, Sawyer sighs. “I can feel you glaring a hole in my back.”

Without thinking, I stick my tongue out at him.

“You’re sticking your tongue out at me, aren’t you?” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I gasp. “Whaaaa? How did you know?”

Sawyer chuckles, finally turning to face me. “I know all your sounds, Magpie. All of them.”

After Sawyer leaves for the day, I grab my phone and fire off a text to Emily.

Me: SOS. Husband read my smutty book. Send help. Or wine. Preferably both.

Emily replies almost instantly.

Emily: OMG. On my way with emergency Chardonnay. Hang in there, girl!

Me: It’s eight o’clock in the morning. I was kidding about the wine.

Emily: LOL

Me: But seriously, I do need your help. Can you meet me near the Blizzard Dome after morning practice?

Emily: Ooh, sounds intriguing. What’s the plan?

Me: Operation: Stalk My Husband. He’s not coming home for his nap and being all secretive about where he’s going. He does that all the time. I tried to ask him but he won’t tell me.

Emily: That’s so sus.

Me: My imagination is running overtime. I don’t know what to do.

Emily: I’m in! Spy gear optional?

Me: Bring your best trench coat and oversized sunglasses.

Emily: Roger that. I’ll meet you at the coffee shop across from the arena. We’ll blend right in with all the other totally normal people hanging around in detective costumes.

Me: Totes. C U at 1? That’s when the guys head home for naps, right?

Emily: Usually, yeah…Can't wait to channel my inner Nancy Drew! I miss those Scooby Doo days with Owen. :(

Somehow, I doubt Emily and Owen playing amateur sleuths had anything to do with the stolen championship trophy they were investigating, and more to do with investigating each other…in dark, cramped spaces.

But they’re married now, so I guess she’s just being nostalgic.

I go about my morning, cleaning Otto’s pistachio shells in the sitting room. I vacuum and mop the wood floor, and then I get the cleaning bug and don’t stop until the whole house is spotless. I get a proud sense of accomplishment from it and feel like I could, one day, have a home of my own to keep tidy and cozy.

As I get in my car to leave for my detective trip, I spot Jessica pushing her stroller down the sidewalk across the street. I wave to her and decide I’ll visit sometime this week. Maybe I’ll attempt to bake cookies.

When I get downtown, I enter the coffee shop across from the Blizzard Dome, spotting Emily immediately. She’s decked out in a full-on cat burglar outfit, complete with a black turtleneck and a beanie.

“Em, what are you wearing?” I ask, trying to stifle my giggles.

“What?” Emily asks innocently as I approach. “I’m embracing the spy aesthetic.”

“We’re following my husband, not robbing a bank,” I chuckle, shaking my head. “But I appreciate the commitment.”

“Go big or go home, that’s my motto,” Emily says with a wink. “Besides, what are best friends for if not questionable undercover activities?”

She’s referring to that time we snuck into the Blizzard Dome after hours to cover Owen’s locker with My Pretty Pony stickers. That was my idea. I wish I could have seen his face when he discovered them.

We grab coffees and position ourselves near the arena exit. When Sawyer emerges, looking unfairly handsome in his casual street clothes, we spring into action.

“Target acquired,” Emily whispers dramatically.

“Operation Stalk My Husband is a go.”

We trail Sawyer through downtown Toronto, ducking behind newspaper stands and pressing our backs against walls whenever he glances over his shoulder. I feel like I’m in some B-grade detective movie, complete with Emily’s ridiculous outfit.

“Quick, hide!” Emily hisses as Sawyer pauses to check his phone. We dive behind a parked car, narrowly avoiding a puddle.

“I feel ridiculous,” I whisper to Emily as we peek out from behind a parked car.

“Shh,” she hisses back, “We’re on a mission!”

We follow Sawyer for a few more blocks, our ‘stealth’ techniques becoming increasingly absurd. At one point, Emily even attempts to blend in with a group of mannequins outside a clothing store.

Just as I’m starting to wonder if this whole thing was a terrible idea, Sawyer rounds the corner of a high rise. We wait a beat then scurry after him. We go around the corner, when suddenly?—

“Boo.”

Emily and I shriek in unison, nearly jumping out of our skins. There’s Sawyer, casually leaning against the steps of a building, looking far too amused.

“Ladies,” he drawls, a smirk playing on his lips. “Out for a leisurely stroll?”