Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

18. Sawyer

18

SAWYER

M aggie and Siobhan chatter away like long-lost friends, their laughter filling the car as we drive home from the airport. It’s like they’ve known each other for years, not a half hour.

“And then,” Siobhan gasps between giggles, “Sawyer sneezed on the birthday cake! Snot all over the candles.”

Maggie busts out laughing. “Oh my gosh, that’s so gross! Please tell me there are pictures.”

“Oh, there’s video,” my sister assures her.

I groan, glaring at her in the rearview mirror. “Traitor. I thought we agreed never to speak of that again.”

“Sorry, bro,” Siobhan says, not looking sorry at all. “Sister-in-law privileges.”

My heart does a little flip at those words. Sister-in-law. It sounds so…right.

“So what happened to the cake?” Maggie asks.

“Oh, Sawyer’s stupid little friends all ate it. They didn’t care,” Siobhan says. “Lucky for me, there were snot-free cupcakes in the fridge.”

Maggie’s laughing so hard, she can hardly breathe. I love hearing her laughter. It does something to me. I was a little worried earlier when I noticed her lugging a suitcase down the stairs. My heart plummeted to my feet thinking she was moving out already.

“Whoa, where do you think you’re going?” I’d said, tugging the suitcase back upstairs.

She looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “I’m moving my stuff to the office. Your sister will be here in a few hours, and she needs my room.”

“Absolutely not. No wife of mine is sleeping on a blow-up mattress on the office floor.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “And where exactly am I supposed to sleep? Your room?”

I waggled my eyebrows suggestively. “Well, if you insist…”

I’ve never been happier that I decided to turn the downstairs bedroom into an office.

“You do remember this isn’t real, right?” she says.

I leveled her with a stern stare. “Look, Siobhan will tease me mercilessly if she finds out this marriage is fake. We need to sell it, which means…”

“Oh no. We are not sharing a bed.”

“Trust me, my sister’s like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out lies. If we don’t play this right, she’ll know something’s up faster than I can say Wayne Gretzky.”

“But—” Maggie started to protest as I took her suitcase into my bedroom and slid it under my bed. She hovered at the threshold, completely bewildered.

“Come on in darlin’.” I grinned, enjoying her discomfort a little too much. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

“I’m building a pillow wall between us.” she said.

I walked right up to her and ran a finger over her arm. “What’s the matter, Trouble? Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”

Even with the way Maggie reacted to my touch, I was still nervous about Siobhan’s visit—if we could act like newlyweds enough to convince her. If I should just tell her the truth.

Now, watching them interact, I’m glad I insisted on keeping up the marriage ruse. The way they’re bonding…it hits right in my chest. My two favorite women in the world, getting along like old friends, laughing and swapping stories. And I realize something. I have no intention of ever letting Maggie go.

Fake marriage or not, she’s family now.

As we walk through the front door, Otto greets us with a squawk. “Honey, I’m home! Whatcha doin’?”

Siobhan’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh my god, is that an African Grey? He’s adorable!” Siobhan approaches Otto’s cage, cooing at him. “Hi there, handsome. Aren’t you just the prettiest bird?”

“Pretty bird,” Otto replies, bobbing his head.

I roll my eyes. “More like a feathered menace.”

Maggie shoots me a glare, then coos at the parrot. “Don’t listen to him, Otto. Daddy’s just grumpy.”

“Daddy’s grumpy!” Otto repeats, flapping his wings.

Siobhan bursts out laughing. “Oh, this is too good. What else can he say?”

Maggie smirks playfully. “Otto, what do we say when Daddy's being a pain?”

“Squawk off!” Otto screeches.

“Real mature, Maggie,” I say.

For the next hour, Siobhan and Maggie take turns teaching Otto new phrases. My sister’s particularly fond of “Alexa, get me a beer!”—which Otto picks up with alarming speed.

“Great,” I mutter. “Now I’ve got two mouthy troublemakers in the house.”

Maggie winks at me. “You love it.”

I step closer, my voice low. “I’d love it more if you’d let me show you just how much.”

She blushes, and I can’t help but feel a little smug. But before I can push my luck, Otto interrupts with a perfectly timed, “Touch grass!”

Siobhan howls with laughter. “Oh man, this bird is my new best friend.”

After a little while, when Maggie heads out to grab some wine and takeout for dinner, I seize the opportunity to talk to Siobhan alone. The moment the front door closes, I join her on the couch. She looks so tired.

“So,” I say. “What’s the latest on Dad’s situation?”

She lowers her voice even though we’re alone. “I talked to Uncle Whitey.”

My stomach tightens. Uncle Whitey’s always been around for as long as I can remember. He’d come over and give us candy. I always thought we were related. Turns out, he’s a criminal—just like Dad. And that makes me itchy.

“And?” I prompt, leaning forward.

“It’s…not great, Sawyer.” Siobhan bites her lip. “He’s turning informant.”

“Wha…what do mean informant? Like a stool pigeon?”

He’s just an accountant. A criminal accountant, but an accountant just the same. He’s not even an important member of the Irish mob.

Siobhan’s expression goes hard. “He’s looking for full immunity. He talks, and in return, the Feds give his business partners some breathing room.”

“Sheesh,” I mutter, “What’s his angle?”

“From what Uncle Whitey says, Dad’s brilliant plan is to shift the FBI’s focus onto the Italians. He thinks if he gives them enough dirt on their operations, the Feds will be too busy chasing them around while the Irish do whatever the Irish do.”

I let out a low whistle. “That’s a dangerous game he’s playing.”

“Yep.” Siobhan bites her thumbnail, her gaze drifting to the middle distance. “It’s like he’s trying to get us all whacked.”

I can feel my heart racing, a mix of anger and fear churning in my gut. This isn’t just some game of hockey where you can check your opponent and skate away. This is the freaking mafia we’re talking about.

“So, what do we do now?” I ask, running a hand through my hair.

Siobhan shrugs. “Keep our heads down, I guess. And maybe start learning Italian…you know, just in case we need to beg for our lives.”

“Pretty sure half the Italian mob have never been to Italy,” I say. She nods in agreement.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our father’s choices hanging heavy between us. I think about Maggie, about how I’ve dragged her into this mess without even realizing it.

I scratch the scruff on my chin trying to process everything Siobhan’s telling me. The whole situation with Dad is like a twisted game of chess, and I feel like we’re the pawns. He’s playing double agent, and we’re potentially in the crosshairs of not one, but two mafias. Fantastic.

“So, what about those weird messages you mentioned before?” I ask, trying to get as much information from her before Maggie gets home. “The ones from Dad?”

Siobhan’s eyes light up, a mix of excitement and frustration. “Oh man, those are driving me crazy!” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small box. “Look at this.”

She hands me what looks like a snow globe, but instead of snow, it’s filled with tiny four-leaf clovers. At the base, barely visible, is the word ‘Clover-girl’—Dad’s nickname for her.

“Cute,” I say, turning it over in my hands. “But what’s the message?”

“That’s just it,” Siobhan groans. “I have no idea. This is the third one I’ve gotten. There was a keychain with a miniature book inside, and before that, a bracelet etched with seemingly random strings of numbers and letters. I think they might be some kind of code, but I can’t crack it.”

“Maybe they’re just innocent gifts?” I suggest, knowing even as I say it how unlikely that is.

Siobhan shoots me a look. “Come on, Sawyer. When has Dad ever been the sentimental type? And why would he suddenly start sending me random knickknacks?”

“All right, all right,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “So what’s your theory?”

She leans in close, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if Otto would repeat any of it. “I think…I think he’s trying to tell us where he hid something. Something important.”

“Could be Lotto picks,” I say breezily, but Siobhan gives me a hard stare. “I’m just kidding. If anyone can figure it out, it’s you, Miss MIT brainiac.”

Probably why Dad chose to send the messages to her and not me.

“I’ve tried everything I can think of,” she says with a sigh. “Caesar ciphers, Vigenère, even that stupid pig pen thing you were obsessed with in middle school.”

“Hey, don’t knock the pig pen. It got us through many a boring history class.”

“Speak for yourself,” she murmurs.

“Well, at least we know Dad’s keeping his mind sharp in the slammer.”

Siobhan rolls her eyes, but I can see the hint of a smile. “Yeah, well, I’d prefer if he’d stick to sudoku like a normal inmate.”

I take a deep breath, deciding it’s time to change the subject. “Hey, speaking of mysterious packages, I actually need a favor from you.”

She snorts. “Oh? This should be good.”

“It’s nothing crazy,” I assure her. “I’m just going to be sending some packages to your place.”

“Packages?” Siobhan’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “What kind of packages?”

“Books, actually.”

“Books?” she says skeptically, like she can’t even believe I know how to read.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. “Yep, books. They’ll come in small batches. One or two at first, then more as time goes on. I just can’t have them sent here.”

“Okay…” She narrows her eyes. “And what exactly are you planning to do with all these mysterious books?”

“I’m just supporting a local author I know,” I say, which isn’t entirely a lie. “Look, you can do whatever you want with them. Donate them to charity, fill up those little free libraries around your neighborhood in Boston. I don’t care, really. Just…don’t mention them to Maggie, all right?”

Siobhan’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Oh? And why shouldn’t I mention them to your wife?”

I groan internally. I should’ve known better than to try and slip anything past my too-smart-for-her-own-good sister. “It’s…complicated. Can you just trust me on this one?”

She studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Fine, keep your secrets. But you owe me one, big brother. Now, are you going to tell me why you had a rush-rush wedding or do you want me to guess?”