Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

27. Maggie

27

MAGGIE

I vaguely remember the car ride back to Siobhan’s house. All I know is that Sawyer didn’t bother with a seatbelt and just cradled me like a baby.

This whole night has been a weird dream—mobsters, Russian toys…hockey players.

I blink groggily, trying to focus on the doctor’s face as he packs up his bag. He must be a mob doctor—the way he can take a house call at a moment’s notice. One of the perks of the O’Malley family, I guess.

My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and my ankle throbs dully beneath an ice pack. Sawyer hovers nearby, his brow furrowed with worry.

“She’ll be fine other than a twisted ankle,” the doctor reassures him. “No concussion. Just a mild case of vasovagal syncope. It’s a common reaction to stress or—in her case—the sight of blood. Keep her hydrated and elevate that ankle.”

I groan, remembering the embarrassing moment I fainted at the sight of Sawyer’s blood.

“Great. I’m officially the world’s worst hockey wife.”

Sawyer chuckles, taking the prescription slip from the doctor. He turns to me when the man leaves the room.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll stock up on saltines and orange juice for when you watch my games. We can’t have you swooning every time I get a bloody nose, can we?”

“No one’s giving you a bloody nose but me, knucklehead.”

As the doctor leaves, Sawyer sits next to me on the bed, gently brushing my hair back. “You scared me half to death, Magpie.”

I try to sit up, but Sawyer gently pushes me back down. “Easy there, now. The doc says you need to rest.”

“Otto! Where’s Otto?”

Sawyer snorts. “You know Siobhan’s vintage record player?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Otto’s personal merry-go-round now.”

“Oh no! What a naughty bird.”

“Yeah. But let’s keep the bird rescue missions to a minimum,” Sawyer warns, but his eyes are twinkling. He leans in close, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “You know, there are much more fun ways to make you swoon.”

My heart skips a beat, and I’m pretty sure it’s not from the Vaso-Vegas syndrome this time. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

Sawyer grins wickedly. “Well, for starters?—”

“If you two lovebirds are done flirting,” Siobhan interrupts from the doorway with a laptop under her arm, “I solved another cypher, and we need to discuss it.”

“In the fifteen minutes since we’ve been here?” cries Sawyer.

Siobhan shrugs nonchalantly. “I work better under pressure.”

“All right, Miss Smartypants,” Sawyer says. “What have you got for us this time?”

Sawyer helps me prop myself up with a pillow, his hand lingering on my shoulder. I’ll never tire of the electric tingle his touch sends through me.

Siobhan plops down on the foot of the bed, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees.

“Okay, get this. Dad got arrested on purpose. He orchestrated the whole thing. The Italians, the crates of dolls. Everything.”

My jaw drops. “Wait, what? He planned his own arrest?”

Siobhan nods slowly, her big, blue eyes wildly wide. “Exactly. It’s all part of some grand scheme. He wanted to set up a feud between the Italians and Russians.”

Sawyer squeezes his temples, looking utterly bewildered. “So, let me get this straight. Dad deliberately got himself thrown in the slammer, set up a fake deal with stolen Russian dolls, and pissed off the Italians…all for funsies?”

“Well, not for funsies,” Siobhan corrects. “He set up this whole mob war as a smokescreen for his real operation. It’s genius, really.”

Sawyer shakes his head. “That’s some next-level chess moves right there. But why?”

Siobhan’s fingers fly over her keyboard as she pulls up a series of encrypted files. “That deal with the Feds? It’s not as an informant. But a partner with some corrupt officials. He’s dealing with international government hacking. This is big.”

I blink, trying to wrap my head around this new revelation. “International government hacking? Like, spying on other countries?”

Siobhan shakes her head. “I’m not sure yet. But whatever it is, it’s big enough that Dad’s willing to risk a mob war to cover his tracks.”

Sawyer’s seething. “And gets you involved in the middle of it.”

“Oh there’s more, I’m afraid,” Siobhan continues. “I have reason to believe the COCG has something to do with it.”

“What’s the COCG?” I ask.

“The Callahan Organized Crime Group,” replies Siobhan solemnly, clicking on a search tab and reading what it says.

“It says here that they’re a major Irish organized crime syndicate with ties to important entities in multiple countries. The COCG, or otherwise known as The Callahan Cartel, is alleged to be the most powerful cartels in Ireland and one of the largest organized crime groups in the world.”

Sawyer lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Dad is certifiably unhinged.”

I snort, suddenly laughing at the absurdity of it all. Or maybe it’s the stress catching up to me.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to stifle the giggles that come over me. “But your family puts the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional, babe.”

Sawyer shoots me a playful glare. “And you thought Emily’s in-laws were out of pocket.”

“She’s got nothin’ on me,” I say. “Can’t wait for the O’Malley family Christmas party.”

“I can’t wait to spoil you with thousands of presents,” Sawyer says, brushing a thumb over my bottom lip.

“I’ll allow it,” I whisper.

Siobhan clears her throat. “Hate to interrupt the lovefest, but we need a plan. If Dad’s involved with the Callahans, we can’t trust anyone. Not even Uncle Whitey.”

I nod, sobering up. “Right, sorry. So what do we do now?”

Sawyer looks up to the ceiling, half laughing. “Honestly? I vote we order Chinese takeout and pretend none of this is happening.”

“Seconded,” I chime in. “Extra fortune cookies.”

Siobhan throws her hands up. “We really should do something.”

“I am doing something,” Sawyer says, sliding off the bed. “I drew a hot bath for my wife, and I intend to pamper her until the Door Dasher arrives. Order me the sesame beef you know I like.”

Sawyer flips the blanket off my legs, and the chilly air hits my legs. I’d almost forgotten Siobhan took my jeans off before the doctor examined my ankle. I’m a little bashful to be so exposed in nothing but my underwear, but Sawyer’s not even fazed by it. His strong, capable hands slide under my bare legs and lifts me from the mattress. I’m cradled in his arms like there’s nothing to it.

He carries me out the door and into the hallway, heading for the bathroom. Siobhan huffs, but gets off the bed, too, stopping at the threshold.

“Okay fine,” she says. “But I’m using your credit card.”

“Sweet and sour chicken for me,” I call over Sawyer’s shoulder. “And cream cheese wontons.”

Sawyer pulls me closer to his chest, his fingers tickling me where they touch my ribs. I’m giggling too much. As we turn into the bathroom, I hear Siobhan muttering under her breath about getting intel on the Italians from Otto.

We stop in front of the tub, and Sawyer looks around, turning side to side, calculating something.

“What are you doing? I think I can stand on my own.”

“It’s not that. I’m just trying to figure out how to undress you without putting you down.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” I say. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

He blinks, studying me with such a tender look in his eyes. “I’m your husband. It’s my job to take care of you.”

How does he do that? Just disarms me with sweet, sweet words and a look that holds my heart.

“You’re going to have to put me down eventually,” I tease, but secretly, I never want him to let go.

“Eventually,” he agrees with a mischievous grin. “But not yet.”

Before I can protest, he’s lowering me into the warm bath, clothes and all. The water soaks through my T-shirt and panties, and I let out a surprised squeal.

“Is the water warm enough?” he asks. “It was scalding hot when I drew the bath, but it’s been a minute.”

His hands dip under my T-shirt.

“It’s warm enough,” I say. “Sawyer O’Malley! What are you doing?”

He chuckles, kneeling beside the tub. “Solving the undressing problem, obviously.”

His fingers brush my skin as he helps me peel off my sodden shirt, tossing it aside. He doesn’t touch my bra or panties. He doesn’t even ask. It’s all so beautifully mundane—like he’s given me a bath a million times before.

I’m struck by how tender he’s being. He starts on my back, rubbing circles with his soapy hands. His soothing palms are relaxing me so much they’re almost lulling me to sleep. Then he moves to my shoulders, massaging out all the tension that’s been trapped there for as long as I can remember. I could get used to this.

“What are you thinking about?” Sawyer asks softly, his hand dipping in the water to rinse the soap off my back. A fresh waterfall of warmth slides off my shoulders and spills back into the tub.

“I’m thinking I love your hands,” I say, almost moaning the words.

“Just my hands?” he teases.

“They’re pretty good hands.”

He grunts appreciatively, cupping my head with those same large, lovely hands and tilts me back to wet my hair.

“What are you thinking about?” I counter.

He pauses and cocks his head in thought. “I was wondering how my teammates seemed to appear out of nowhere. Fully decked out in their gear.”

I have to admit that was pretty hilarious. They just swooped in there, kicked butt, and then took off to who knows where.

“I’m in my bra and panties and that’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“That’s what I’m forcing myself to think about precisely because you’re in your bra and panties.”

“If you really hate my matching set that much, I can just take them off.”

“Don’t tempt me, woman. It’s been a rough night and you’re injured.”

“It’s a twisted ankle.” I roll my eyes.

Sawyer’s fingers trace a wet, soapy trail down my leg, lifting my foot out of the water.

“And what a gorgeous ankle it is.” He presses his lips on the swollen skin of my ankle, then carefully lowers it back in the water.

“If you must know,” I say, “I might have spilled the beans to Emily yesterday. And I guess she tracked my phone and shared it with Owen.”

“You gave Emily access to tracking and not your own husband?”

I splash his face. “Check your app, dummy. I accepted your request weeks ago.”

“Oh.” His lips curl into a beautiful grin. “Thank you.”

He returns to his work, squeezing shampoo in his palm. As he gently washes my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp, I feel myself melting into his touch. It’s tender and intimate in a way I never expected. My eyes flutter closed, and I let out a contented sigh. The warm water cascades over me, mingling with the scent of the lavender shampoo.

Sawyer’s hands are strong yet gentle, and I feel so safe with him. It’s like the rest of the world has faded away, leaving just us in this bubble of warmth and care.

When did this happen? When did Sawyer O’Malley, the man I married for convenience and spite, become the man I can’t imagine my life without?

Love snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking, wrapping around my heart like a warm, cozy blanket. And now, as Sawyer carefully rinses the suds from my hair, his touch so gentle it makes my heart ache, I realize I’m in deep. Hopelessly, completely, deeply in love. It’s like someone flipped a switch inside me, and suddenly everything is Sawyer.

The way his calloused hands move so tenderly through my wet strands, the soft hum of contentment that escapes his lips as he works—it’s all overwhelming in the best possible way. I want to bottle this moment, to keep it safe and revisit it whenever I need a reminder of what true happiness feels like.

I’m toast, folks. Utterly and irrevocably smitten with Sawyer O’Malley.

He thoroughly washes away the grime of this awful day, then when he’s done, pulls the plug to drain the tub. As the water goes down, suds sticking to my body, he hands me the shower hose.

“Here. Hold this.”

His attention to detail gives me all the feels.

Once the dirty water has drained enough, he turns on the faucet, making sure the temperature is comfortable before toggling the knob for the shower hose. His heavy sigh does not escape my notice while he rinses the suds off my body. I watch the foamy dirt swirl down the drain, along with my last excuse.

Sawyer wraps an oversized, soft towel around me and effortlessly sweeps me up again, but instead of taking me back to the bedroom, he cradles me to his chest and sits on the edge of the tub.

His eyes search mine, and I can tell he’s been thinking about what he’s about to say for a long time.

“I meant what I said yesterday, you know.”

I look up to him with a pretty good idea what he means, but I still want to hear him say it.

“About what?” I ask. “You said a lot of things yesterday.”

“That I love you,” he says softly and so matter-of-factly, he might as well be asking me to pass the salt.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he adds. “I screwed around with your feelings, and if you want to hate me forever, I’ll gladly take it as long as you let me love you enough for the both of us.”

Oh for heaven’s sake. He’s killing me. This man!

Still wrapped up like a cocoon, I shake my head. I want to scream at him, but I settle for a well-placed groan.

Sawyer takes in a sharp breath. “Maggie, I?—”

“Will you shut up, you big goober? I never hated you.”

He blinks. “Never? Not ever?”

“No,” I say, my heart feeling a little too fluttery. “I just…hated myself.”

Gosh, this is hard to admit.

“I hated myself because I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, keep from falling madly in love with you.”

His pupils dilate. “Wha…You…”

I nod, because finishing sentences is so overrated.

“Madly?” he says with that amused grin I want to gobble up.

“Furiously,” I say. “Infuriatingly.”

He gazes at me in wonder for a long moment. I wish I could reach out to touch him, but my arms are wrapped all snuggly in the towel, and it feels too warm and delicious to squirm out of it.

I think we might stay like this until the sun comes up.

But then, in a thick, smoky voice I’ve never heard out of him, he says, “If I don’t kiss you right now, I might die.”