Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

24. Maggie

24

MAGGIE

I ’m exhausted, my brain feeling like mush after hours of staring at cryptic messages and trinkets. Siobhan’s not faring much better, her usually pristine hair now a messy bun atop her head. But Sawyer? He’s on another level entirely.

His jaw is clenched so tight I worry he might crack a tooth. The visit with his dad clearly didn’t go well, but he’s been tight-lipped about the details.

Suddenly, he grabs the snow globe from the table and hurls it across the room. It smashes against the wall, sending a shower of glittery water and tiny clovers everywhere.

“Sawyer!” Siobhan shrieks, jumping up. “What the hell?”

Siobhan rushes to clean up the mess, muttering about anger management classes. But Sawyer’s on his hands and knees, spreading out the tiny clovers on a paper towel like he’s inspecting diamonds.

“Um, did prison make you lose it?” I wave my hand in front of his face. “You okay there?”

He ignores me, meticulously turning each clover over.

Just as I’m about to get him some chamomile tea, Sawyer lets out a triumphant “AH-HA!”

“What?” Siobhan and I chorus, peering over his shoulder.

Sawyer holds up a tiny clover, grinning like he’s Indiana freaking Jones. “Look!”

Siobhan and I lean in close. There, embedded in the tiny leaf, is what looks like a microchip.

“Holy crap,” Siobhan whispers.

“Ask your sister, he says. She’s the intelligent one he says,” Sawyer mutters, contemptuously. He turns to Siobhan, waving the clover. “Not so smart now, are ya, sis?”

Siobhan pulls a sassy face, but I can see she’s impressed. “Lucky guess,” she grumbles.

“Luck o’ the Irish had nothing to do with it,” Sawyer boasts, puffing out his chest. “Pure O’Malley genius right here.”

I’m still processing the fact that we’re living in some kind of spy movie. “So, what now? Do we…eat it?”

Sawyer looks at me incredulously. “Why would we eat it?”

I blink at him. “Jason Bourne swallowed a microchip once. I think.”

Sawyer and Siobhan stare at me in confused silence.

“What?” I yelp.

Sawyer just smiles and plants a quick kiss on my nose before turning to Siobhan. It’s such a casual, affectionate gesture that it makes my heart do a little flip. Yeesh, I could never be one of those aloof Bond Girls.

“How do you read a microchip?” Sawyer asks, his brow furrowed.

Siobhan shrugs. “I dunno. A microchip scanner?”

“Well, do you have a microchip scanner in that pile of electronics in your makeshift lab?” Sawyer retorts, gesturing to the closed door of her home office.

“Do I look like a vet? No, I don’t have a microchip scanner,” Siobhan snaps back.

“Somehow I doubt it’s that kind of microchip,” Sawyer mutters.

Siobhan launches into a barrage of technical jargon that makes my head spin. Words like “cryptographic systems,” “electromagnetic spectrum analysis,” and “quantum tunneling microscopy” fly past my ears, and I’m pretty sure my eyes are starting to glaze over.

I nod and smile, hoping I look somewhat intelligent, but inside I’m thinking this girl could probably build a time machine with a paper clip and some chewing gum. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out how to program my coffee maker.

It’s times like these I wish I’d paid more attention in high school physics instead of doodling in the margins of my notebook. But hey, at least I can craft a mean friendship bracelet. I’m pretty sure they didn’t cover “how to hack a mysterious microchip” between dissecting frogs and making baking soda volcanoes, anyway.

I’m about to lamely suggest we Google it when suddenly, it’s like a lightbulb goes off over all our heads simultaneously. I lock eyes with Sawyer, then Siobhan, and I can see the same realization dawning on their faces.

“You don’t think…” I start.

“It could be…” Siobhan continues.

“In all of them?” Sawyer finishes.

Without a word, we all dive for the pile of trinkets. Sawyer grabs a decorative egg and smashes it against the coffee table. I’m wrestling with a particularly stubborn music box, trying to pry it open with a butter knife.

Siobhan takes great pleasure in dropping the ceramic leprechaun onto the hardwood floor. “Take that, you sneaky little leprechaun!” she wahoos as it shatters into a million pieces.

We’re like kids on Christmas morning, except instead of unwrapping presents, we’re destroying them. The living room quickly becomes a disaster zone of broken knickknacks and glittery debris.

“Hey, I think I found something!” Siobhan shouts, holding up what looks like a tiny USB drive she’s extracted from a plush shamrock.

Siobhan bolts to her office, where I can hear her rummage through some stuff. She emerges with a laptop that looks like it’s seen better days. Probably back when dial-up was still a thing.

“This is our burner,” she announces, blowing dust off the ancient machine. “No way am I risking my work or personal computers with this sketchy USB.”

I nod, pretending I totally understand the intricacies of cyber-security. In reality, my idea of high-tech protection is using ‘passw0rd123!’ instead of coming up with something original.

Siobhan boots up the laptop, which makes concerning whirring noises. The ancient machine coughs and sputters to life, the screen flickering ominously. I half expect smoke to start billowing out at any moment.

“Um, Siobhan? Are you sure this thing isn’t going to spontaneously combust on us?” I ask, taking an instinctive step back. “Because I’m not exactly dressed for a tech fire today.”

Siobhan inserts the USB, and suddenly the screen fills with what looks like ancient Sanskrit had a wild night out with a calculator.

I whistle. “Whoa. Is that…Klingon?”

Siobhan snorts. “Close. It’s ciphertext. But we’re going to need a decryption key to read the actual message.”

Meanwhile, Sawyer is pacing behind us, muttering to himself. “No wonder he never helped me with my taxes,” he murmurs.

“What was that, honey?” I call over my shoulder.

“Just…processing,” he grunts. “One minute Dad’s this boring accountant who wears sweater vests and drinks decaf, and the next he’s Ethan Hunt.”

“Not the decaf!” I say.

Siobhan snorts. “It’s not every day you find out your dad’s involved in cyber espionage when you thought he was just really good at Excel."

“Can you solve it?” I ask, hopeful.

Siobhan groans in frustration, pushing away from the laptop. “This is going to take forever without the key. It’s like trying to open a safe with a banana.”

Sawyer’s still pacing, his brow furrowed. “High-tech espionage! I always thought his idea of ‘coding’ was writing down the TV remote instructions.”

“What about the other clues?” I ask lamely. “The etchings on that bracelet.”

“Oh, I already figured that one out,” says Siobhan. “All it says is ‘ When Irish Eyes are Smiling .’”

“That’s weird. Is that your dad’s favorite song or something?” I ask. “Or a lullaby he used to sing to put you to sleep?”

“Not that I know of,” she says thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sing.”

I whip out my phone, fingers flying over the screen as I pull up the lyrics to “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Clearing my throat dramatically, I begin to recite:

“When Irish eyes are smilin’, sure it’s like the morn’ in spring,” I start, my best attempt at an Irish accent falling flat. “In the lilt of Irish laughter, you can hear the angels sing…”

Siobhan’s looking at me like she just wants me to stop before Bing Crosby rolls over in his grave. But I’m committed to it now, so I continue on. “When Irish hearts are happy, All the world seems bright and gay. And when Irish eyes are smilin’…” My voice trails off as I reach the last line. “Sure they steal your heart away.”

Sawyer lets out a humorless laugh.

“Steal your heart away,” he mutters, shaking his head. “How ironic. Dad’s been stealing plenty, but hearts? That’s a new one.”

Suddenly, Siobhan gasps like she’s just remembered she left the stove on. “My heart!” she exclaims, bolting from the room.

Sawyer and I exchange confused glances, wondering if the stress has finally caught up to her. My own heart pounds with alarm. Is she having a heart attack? Or is it more like an ex-boyfriend broke her heart and she just can’t handle it anymore?

I don’t know if I should start looking for aspirin or ice cream. But before we can call for a wellness check, she’s back, clutching something in her hand.

It’s a stunning Waterford Crystal heart pendant necklace. The light catches it, sending little rainbows dancing across the walls. Inside the crystal heart is another smaller heart, making it look like some sort of beautiful, sparkly Russian nesting doll situation. It’s the kind of necklace that would make even the most jaded jewelry thief drool.

“Dad gave this to me a month before he went to prison,” Siobhan explains.

And it hits me like a ton of bricks. “Is it stolen?” I ask. “Is that what the Italians want?”

Sawyer’s eyes narrow, his gaze hardening like he’s facing off against a rival team. “Break it,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Break it?” Siobhan says horrified. “It’s Waterford Crystal, not a ceramic leprechaun.”

Sawyer steps closer to her and levels her with a hard glower. “Break. It.”

Siobhan squeaks a whimpering cry and squeezes her eyes shut. Then she throws the necklace on the floor with all her might, shattering it into a beautiful, sparkly mess.

Sawyer picks up a shard of the shattered crystal heart, his fingers delicately tracing the crack in the inner heart. With surgical precision, he extracts a tiny slip of paper from within.

My curiosity is piqued, but I’m also wondering if we’ve stumbled into some sort of Leo DiCaprio Inception situation. At this point, I half expect the paper to self-destruct in five seconds.

Sawyer hands the paper to Siobhan, who takes one look at it and groans, “Oh for crying out loud!”

“It’s another code within a code,” Sawyer says.

I snort. “The man sure likes his secret codes. What, was he a teenage girl passing notes in class in a previous life?”

Siobhan suddenly springs into action, frantically searching the disaster zone that was once her dining table. She starts shoving papers aside, lifting books, and peering under empty coffee mugs. I’m pretty sure I see a rubber band go sailing across the room.

“Pen, pen. I need a pen,” she mutters urgently.

“I’ll get one,” I offer, jumping on my toes. I start toward the kitchen then think better of it and rush toward my room, hoping there’s a pen in my messy purse.

But on my way, I notice the door to Siobhan’s office is wide open. Rushing inside, I’m met with a tech wonderland. The room is a chaotic mess of papers, gadgets, and what looks like half a robot in the corner.

Magazines are stacked precariously on every surface, wires snake across the floor like electronic spaghetti, and there’s enough computer equipment to make NASA jealous.

“Pen, pen, pen,” I mutter, rifling through drawers and shuffling papers. “How can someone so smart not have a single pen?”

At last, I spot a mug full of writing utensils and lunge for it, knocking over a stack of papers in the process. Oops. I’ll clean that up later.

Just as my fingers close around a sleek ballpoint, something catches my eye. There, tucked behind a stack of scientific journals, is a familiar book cover. My book. Touchdown for Love .

At first, I think Sawyer must have lent Siobhan his copy. But then I spot an open box nearby.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself drawn to the box. As I peer inside, my jaw drops. It’s full of Touchdown for Love .

What in the name of Fabio’s flowing locks?

My pulse quickens as I notice more boxes, all from the same bookstore. With shaking hands, I open one after another. They’re all filled with my book. Not just a few copies, but dozens. Maybe even hundreds.

A sick feeling settles in my stomach. Why on earth would Siobhan have hundreds of copies of Touchdown for Love ?

I dash back to the living room, clutching one of my books like it’s a piece of evidence in a crime scene. My heart’s racing faster than it did during that one time I tried hot yoga (never again, by the way).

“Can someone explain to me why there are hundreds of copies of my book stashed away in Siobhan’s office?” I demand, waving the paperback in the air.

Sawyer’s face goes pale—which is really saying something considering how white he is naturally. “Uh, about that…”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “Go on. The suspense is killing me.”

“I bought them,” he admits, looking sheepish.

I blink at him, my brain struggling to compute. “You…bought hundreds of copies of my book?”

He winces. . “Yeah, I did. I wanted to support you, but I didn’t want you to know it was me.”

‘But…why?”

Siobhan jumps in, her face a mix of guilt and confusion. “I’m so sorry, Maggie. I didn’t put two and two together at first. I mean, the author name is Margaret Jones…I didn’t realize it was you.”

I turn back to Sawyer. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. “What on earth were you thinking?”

He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to help boost your sales. I know how much your writing means to you, and I thought…well, I thought this might give you a little push.”

“You’re telling me that my sudden spike in book sales wasn’t because I’m the next Nora Roberts, but because you decided to become my own personal Oprah’s Book Club?”

“You were so upset. I didn’t know what else to do.”

I’m touched, really. But also slightly horrified. “So you decided to single-handedly keep my publishing career afloat? Like…indefinitely?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds a bit crazy,” he admits.

“And, what exactly was the plan here?” I say to Sawyer, trying to keep a straight face. “Pay the mafia off in romance novels?”

Sawyer takes another deep breath. “I don’t have a plan, I just didn’t want you to be so discouraged you’d quit writing. And because…well, because…I…love you…Even if I’m terrible at showing it sometimes.”

I stand there, clutching my own book like a shield, trying to process this information. My fake husband bought hundreds of copies of my steamy romance novel. Because he loves me? Or is he just saying that to keep up this ruse in front of his sister?

I’m tired. So tired of this fake marriage, of not knowing what’s real and what’s not. The line between pretend and real has become so blurred, I can barely see it anymore.

And then there are these feelings for Sawyer—real, terrifying feelings that are growing stronger every day. It scares me more than any mobster ever could.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Sawyer. We should tell Siobhan the truth.”

Sawyer’s eyes widen in panic. “No. Definitely not. She does not need to know the truth.”

I spin around, ready to spill everything to Siobhan, but…she’s vanished. The living room is empty, save for the mess of broken trinkets.

“Where did she go?” I frown and drop the book on the table and go searching through the condo. Sawyer follows close behind, practically tripping over his own feet in his rush to stop me.

“Maggie, wait,” he pleads, his voice urgent. “Telling my sister the truth is a bad, bad idea.”

I march down the hallway, poking my head into rooms. “Why? Because having a fake wife is somehow more embarrassing than having a mob boss dad?”

“No, because—” Sawyer starts, but I cut him off.

“Because what? I’m tired of lying, Sawyer. I’m tired of pretending.”

I push open the bathroom door. No Siobhan. Where did she disappear to?

I want to cry but the tears aren’t even coming. It’s like they’ve had enough of my dumpster fire life and said, “Screw this” then decided to take the rest of the year off.

Sawyer grabs my arm, spinning me to face him. “You keep calling yourself my fake wife, but I seem to recall signing a very real marriage certificate. I don’t think you understand?—”

“Understand? Oh please, by all means, enlighten me.”

For one fleeting moment, something flickers in Sawyer’s eyes. Then suddenly, his hand is on the back of my neck, pulling me to him.

“I will,” he growls. Then his lips crash into mine with an intensity that knocks the wind out of me.

Sawyer’s mouth is urgent, demanding, like he’s trying to convey every unspoken word through this kiss. One of his hands tangles in my hair while the other finds my waist, gripping tightly as if he’s afraid I might disappear. I can feel the heat of his body through my clothes, setting my skin on fire.

His lips move against mine with a desperation that makes my knees weak. I’m caught off guard, my brain short-circuiting as I try to process what’s happening. Part of me wants to push him away, to demand answers, but another part—a traitorous, weak part—melts into his embrace. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and shoving him back. The world around us fades away, and for a moment, it’s just us, locked in this passionate, confusing dance.

My body is a thousand torches, sparking and sizzling with each brush of his lips against mine. I marvel at how perfectly we fit together, how natural this feels despite the chaos swirling around us.

My heart’s pounding so hard, I swear he must be able to feel it, but I don’t care. In this moment, I’m lost in the intoxicating sensation of his touch, the warmth of his body pressed against mine, and the taste of him on my lips.

This kiss is everything I’ve been craving and more. It’s fury and frustration, adrenaline and desire all rolled into one explosive moment. It’s like every cell in my body is suddenly awake and singing.

When Sawyer’s lips leave mine, he trails hot kisses along my jawline and down my neck. I gasp as he nips at the sensitive spot just below my ear. My hands, seemingly with a mind of their own, clutch at his shirt, desperate to keep him close.

His stubble scratches deliciously against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. My fingers tighten in his shirt, tugging gently as I arch into him. The heat between us is intoxicating, making my head spin and my heart race.

I’m vaguely aware that we’re still in Siobhan’s hallway, but I can’t bring myself to care. All I can focus on is the feeling of Sawyer’s body pressed against mine, his hands roaming my curves like he’s memorizing every inch.

When he pulls back slightly, his eyes are dark with desire, and I’m sure mine mirror the same intensity.

“Maggie.” He breathes my name in a reverent whisper on his lips, and I’m lost all over again.

“Yes?” I manage, almost out of breath.

“Maggie,” he repeats.

When Sawyer’s lips find mine again, I submit to him. The world around us fades away, and all I can focus on is the feel of his mouth, his hands roaming my back, the solid warmth of his body pressed against me. It’s like every nerve ending in my body is on fire, sparking with electricity wherever we touch. He sweeps his tongue across my bottom lip, followed by a possessive nibble.

I feel intoxicated, dizzy with a heady mix of passion and tenderness that makes me…I don’t know. Something more than the physical act of making out…or the other thing. It’s something deeper that I don’t care to explore right now.

So, I throw caution to the wind and let out a soft moan as his mouth devours me, and I find myself clutching at his shoulders, desperate to pull him even closer.

In this moment, nothing else matters—not the mob, not the lies, not even the hundreds of romance novels stashed away. There’s only Sawyer, his lips on mine, his hands holding me like he never wants to let go.

This kiss is earth-shattering, mind-blowing, toe-curling perfection. It’s the kind of kiss romance novels are written about—and believe me, I would know.

His breathing is heavy, his chest heaving as he takes every inch of me. And like little punctuations, he presses tiny, reverent kisses all the way down to my belly, crouching low before me.

I have no idea what he plans to do to me in this hallway, and I really don’t care as long as he doesn’t stop. But then he surprises me by lowering himself to his knees and bowing his head at my feet.

“Yours,” he says.

One word.

My heart stops. Yours.

Okay, now I’m about to lose it completely. Mine? Nothing has ever been truly mine. Ever.

I'm still coming down from the throes of the most amazing kiss of my life, and now this man is on his knees, giving all of himself to me completely.

I’m about ready to grab him by the scruff and drag him to the bedroom when we hear Siobhan shout, “Eureka!” from somewhere in the condo.

Sawyer shoots to his feet comically fast.

He helps me fix my hair and straighten my blouse before we leave this perfect little bubble, following the sound of Siobhan’s voice.

We find her descending a staircase I hadn’t noticed before, looking like she just won the nerd lottery.

“Where did you go?” I ask, still a bit frazzled.

Siobhan grins, looking way too pleased with herself. “The roof. I didn’t want to stand there eavesdropping while you had what was probably your first marital spat.”

Sawyer and I burst into laughter at the same time. If only she knew ‘marital spat’ is our love language.

“You have no idea,” Sawyer manages to choke out.

She reaches over to Sawyer, wiping a trace of my lipstick from his chin. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Aaaaaakkk! Shoot me now.

“Ummm…” I say, feeling flushed, “did you just go up there to give us some privacy, or…?”

Siobhan’s eyes light up again. “Oh! Right! I snuck away and figured out the code.”

My eyes widen. “Really? Already? What is it?”

“It’s an address,” she announces proudly. “And I know exactly where this is.”