Offside Bride (Toronto Titans #2)

28. Maggie

28

MAGGIE

P atricia Thornton’s living room is like an Ethan Allen catalog on steroids—with its curated sofas and gilded throw pillows. This house is all about the plush cream carpets that your feet sink into with every step, silk curtains that shimmer in the soft lighting, and antique furniture that looks too delicate to actually sit on without breaking into a thousand priceless pieces. There’s even a grand piano in the corner, which I’m pretty sure is just for show.

The whole place screams ‘I have more money than I know what to do with,’ but in the most tasteful way possible.

I’m starting to second-guess bringing Otto with me, but ever since he was bird-napped, I never let him out of my sight. I hope he doesn’t poop on the carpet.

Everything looks so different from when I came here a few months ago for dinner—partly because it’s a bright, sunny afternoon. Things look different in the daytime, you know. I think it’s more likely because almost getting unalived by the mafia really changes your perspective of things.

But, if I’m being truly honest, being in love is what truly changes a person.

I’m perched on the edge of a velvet chaise lounge, trying not to spill my champagne as Patricia’s book club dissolves into fits of giggles.

I glance over at Emily and Siobhan, sipping champagne from crystal flutes and nibbling on tiny quiches and salmon puffs. Jessica came to support me, too, but she’s not drinking champagne since she recently found out she’s pregnant again. She’s bouncing little Brylee on her knee, just as involved in the book club conversation as Patricia’s friends.

The ladies around me are dressed to the nines, pearls gleaming at their throats and designer handbags perched beside them. They’re all perfectly coiffed and manicured, looking like they’ve just stepped out of a country club luncheon in their pastel sweaters and tweed dress suit sets.

But right now, these prim and proper ladies are anything but composed as they gush over Touchdown for Love.

“Oh, when Jake said ‘I’d rather fumble with you than score with anyone else,’ I nearly fainted!” Mrs. Harrington exclaims, fanning herself with her paperback.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Who knew my little football romance would be such a hit with the country club set?

“I simply adored the scene where Jake catches Sarah practicing her touchdown dance,” Mrs. Ashworth gushes, her diamond bracelet jangling as she gesticulates. “It’s positively scandalous!”

Mrs. Ashworth is on her third glass of champagne. She should probably slow down a little.

“Oh, but the locker room scene!” Mrs. Worthington clutches her discrete cover edition of Touchdown for Love to her chest, causing her pearls to clack against her Chanel tweed suit. “I had to take a cold shower after that one.”

Mrs. Fairfax, who is probably nearing ninety, wags her brows and says something I wouldn’t dare repeat in polite society and then adds, “I haven’t blushed so much since my wedding night!”

I nearly choke on a caviar-topped blini. These ladies are wild! Who knew the upper crust could be so…crusty?

Emily catches my eye from across the room and mouths “Oh. My. God.” I have to stifle a laugh. This is surreal.

“Ladies, ladies,” Jessica chimes in, “Let’s not forget the emotional depth. The way Jake struggled with his fear of commitment? So relatable.”

I feel a warmth spreading through my chest. These women get it. They really get it.

Otto squawks his new favorite phrase, which is just a series of numbers over and over, and occasionally calls for someone named Nico—probably the mobster that was in charge of feeding him.

“Maggie, darling,” Patricia says, leaning towards me. “You simply must tell us. Are you working on anything new?”

I can’t help but smile. “Actually, I am. I’m ten chapters into a new hockey romance.”

“Hockey, eh?” Patricia leans in conspiratorially. “Is that based on anyone…real?” She winks so hard I worry she’s having a stroke.

“A lady never kisses and tells,” I demur, channeling my inner socialite.

The room erupts in delighted squeals and excited chatter. I catch Siobhan’s eye, and she gives me a thumbs up. My sister-in-law is loving every second of this.

“Oh, how thrilling!” Mrs. Harrington claps her hands. “Will there be fights on the ice? And steamy locker room scenes?”

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. “You’ll just have to wait and see!”

“Darling, your imagination is simply divine,” Patricia gushes, reaching over to pat my hand. Her friends nod in agreement, their perfectly coiffed heads bobbing like well-dressed pigeons.

As Jessica reaches for another cucumber sandwich, I can’t help but marvel at how my life has changed. Two weeks ago, I was tangled up in mob drama. Now, I’m sipping champagne with Toronto’s elite, basking in the glow of my unexpected literary success.

As I listen to them quote their favorite lines (some of which I’d forgotten I’d even written), I feel a warmth spreading through my chest. My book sales are climbing, my new hockey romance is practically writing itself, and for once in my life, I feel like I belong.

And then there’s Sawyer. The man is husband material personified. My cheeks heat up thinking about just how much. And it’s not just that we’re hot for each other. He’s the most considerate, respectful, generous, appreciative, trustworthy man on the planet. And he makes me laugh.

“Maggie, darling,” Mrs. Harrington says, pulling me out of my Sawyer daydreaming. “I have a dear friend in the film industry. A producer, actually. I’m going to pass your book along to her. Who knows? We might see Touchdown for Love on the big screen!”

“That’s…Wow, that’s incredible! Thank you so much!”

She winks at me as she takes another sip of her drink. “It’s all about who you know, darling.”

She turns back to chat with the rest of the ladies, and after a while, they’re all gossiping instead of sticking to the book club questionnaire. It’s all good. I didn’t particularly care for that portion of the agenda anyhow. The champagne keeps flowing, and I’m pretty sure I’ve eaten my weight in fancy cheese.

Suddenly, in a lull in the conversation, Otto pipes up from his perch. “Bribe the judge! 42-18-7-33! Bribe the judge!”

The room goes silent for a moment before erupting into laughter.

“Oh, what a delightful bird!” Mrs. Fairfax coos, her wrinkled face crinkling with mirth.

“He’s quite the character, isn’t he?” Patricia chuckles, raising her champagne flute in Otto’s direction.

I catch Siobhan’s eye across the room, and we exchange a meaningful glance. What could Otto mean by “Bribe the judge”? And those numbers…they can’t be random, can they? I’m beginning to think they aren’t random.

As if to answer my unspoken question, Otto keeps repeating the phrase and numbers, alternating between them like some kind of feathered conspiracy theorist.

“42-18-7-33! Bribe the judge! 42-18-7-33!”

The book club ladies are in stitches, finding Otto’s antics absolutely hilarious. Mrs. Ashworth is laughing so hard she’s practically crying, dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Oh, Maggie,” Patricia says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “you simply must bring Otto to all our gatherings. He’s an absolute riot!”

I catch Siobhan’s eye and give her a subtle nod. We need to talk about Otto’s mysterious ramblings, but not here in front of Patricia’s book club.

“Ladies, if you’ll excuse us for a moment,” I say, standing up and smoothing my dress. “Siobhan and I are just going to freshen up a bit.”

“Oh, of course, darling!” Patricia waves us off. “The powder room is down the hall, second door on the left. And feel free to use any of the products in there—I’ve got quite the collection!”

I link arms with Siobhan, and we make our escape, the sound of Otto’s continued squawking fading behind us.

Once we’re safely in the powder room—which is bigger than my first apartment and decorated like a Parisian boudoir—Siobhan whisper-hisses, “Okay, what the heck was that about? How long has Otto been repeating these numbers?”

“I dunno. A couple weeks?”

“And that didn’t seem strange to you?”

I shrug. “I thought he was just repeating stuff from the TV. Sawyer watches so much hockey, I assumed it was a snap count like in football.”

Siobhan squeezes her eyes shut and sighs. “You really need a lesson in hockey. Does my brother teach you nothing?”

Oh, he teaches me stuff, all right, but hockey rules haven’t come up yet, somehow.

“Listen,” I say. “I did a lot of research when I wrote Touchdown for Love .”

“Yeah, and now you’re writing a hockey romance, so…”

“I’ve only written the love scenes so far. I’ll research later.”

Siobhan palms her forehead. “Okay, okay. Let’s try to figure this out. Otto didn’t start repeating those numbers until after he was kidnapped, right?”

“Correct.”

Siobhan bites her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration. “So, it must be something he picked up while he was being held captive by the Italians. It must be some kind of code.”

“Yeah, that makes more sense than hockey jersey numbers. What about ‘Bribe the judge’? That’s not exactly subtle.”

“Right? Like, which judge, and why do they need to bribe him?”

My mind is racing with possibilities. "Okay, so we’ve got a judge who’s potentially on the take and a string of numbers that could be anything from a locker combination to next week’s lottery numbers. What’s our next move?”

Siobhan’s eyes light up with that familiar gleam—the one that usually precedes some sort of mind-blowing scientific breakthrough like building a robot that can make the perfect latte. “Well, I’m heading back to Boston in a couple of days. I’ll do some digging, see if I can sniff out which judge the Italians have in their pocket.”

“And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Are you going to hack into the judicial system’s mainframe or something?”

She grins mischievously. “Please, that’s child’s play. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Did you know that with the right algorithm, you can predict judicial decisions with seventy-nine percent accuracy? I developed a machine learning model that?—”

“Whoa, whoa,” I interrupt, holding up my hands. “English, please. Some of us didn’t graduate from MIT at twelve.”

Siobhan rolls her eyes, but there’s affection in her voice when she says, “Let’s just say I’ve got ways of narrowing down our suspect pool. I developed software that cross-references financial transactions, social media activity, and public records to flag suspicious behavior. I originally designed it to catch cheating boyfriends, but it works for corrupt judges too.”

I blow out an impressed whistle. “Genius.”

“Trust me, by the time I’m done, we’ll know more about these judges than their own mothers do.”

“You’re kind of scary sometimes, you know that?”

She winks. “I prefer the term ‘efficiently brilliant.’ Anyway, I’ll work on those numbers Otto is repeating, too. If it’s a code, we’ll crack it.”

I pause, considering. “And if it’s not?”

“Then we’ll have a really confusing set of lottery numbers.” She shrugs. “Either way, it’s a start.”

“Is there anything I can do on my end?” I offer, although I don’t have a whole lot of skills besides writing romance novels and making whacky jewelry art.

“Just keep my brother happy.”

My thoughts turn to all the different ways Sawyer makes me happy when there’s a knock at the door.

“Maggie? You in there?” Sawyer’s deep voice rumbles through the wood.

Siobhan raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Well, your husband’s here. Better answer, wifey.”

I open the door to find Sawyer leaning against the frame, looking unfairly handsome in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans. His eyes rake over me, a slow smile spreading across his face, and my heart does a little flip.

“Hey there, beautiful,” he says, his voice low and warm. “Miss me?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you had practice.”

He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Finished early. Couldn’t stay away from my favorite author.”

Siobhan slips under her brother’s arm, mumbling something about the chocolate mini cakes, and sneaks away.

“So,” Sawyer says, in that deep, gravelly timbre I love. “Want to tell me why you and Siobhan were having a secret pow-wow in Patricia’s powder room?”

I blink innocently up at him. “What? Can’t a girl gossip with her sister-in-law in peace?”

Sawyer’s eyes darken as he pushes me against the bathroom doorway, his lips crashing into mine with an urgency that makes my toes curl.

Okay, then…

It’s like he’s a man dying of thirst, and I’m a tall glass of water. His hands frame my face, fingers tangling in my hair as he deepens the kiss.

I melt into him, my arms snaking around his neck. I can’t get enough.

His mouth teases mine, playful yet desperate, like he’s trying to devour me whole.

“Gaaad, I missed you,” he murmurs against my lips, barely breaking contact. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to focus on hockey when all I can think about is you?”

I giggle into the kiss, feeling lightheaded from the champagne and Sawyer’s intoxicating presence.

“It’s only been a few hours,” I tease.

“Too long,” he growls, peppering kisses along my jaw. “Way too long.”

His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me impossibly closer. “I’m taking you home,” he declares, his voice husky with desire. “Right now.”

“But the book club—” I start to protest weakly, not really wanting to leave the warmth of his embrace.

“Can survive without you,” he finishes, nuzzling my neck. “I, on the other hand, cannot. I’m going to ravish you, Mrs. O’Malley. Thoroughly and repeatedly.”

Sawyer’s lips crash into mine again, sending sparks through my entire body. It’s quick but intense, leaving me breathless and a little dazed. Before I can fully recover, he grabs my hand and starts pulling me through Patricia’s lavish house.

“Sawyer, wait—” I start to protest, but he’s on a mission.

We burst into the living room where Patricia, Emily, and the rest of the book club ladies are still chatting and sipping champagne. Otto squawks in surprise from his perch.

Sawyer doesn’t miss a beat. He nods politely to the room, flashing that million-dollar smile of his.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says smoothly, not slowing his stride one bit.

I catch a glimpse of Patricia’s raised eyebrows as Sawyer practically drags me toward the front door. My cheeks are burning, but I can’t help the giddy laughter bubbling up inside me.

“Sorry, gotta run!” I manage to call over my shoulder as we reach the foyer. “Urgent…uh, hockey research!”

The last thing I hear before Sawyer whisks me out the door is Mrs. Fairfax’s delighted cackle and Patricia’s amused voice saying, “Well, I hope that book comes out soon!”

I'm barely settled in Sawyer’s truck when he revs the engine and peels out of Patricia’s driveway like we’re fleeing a crime scene. Which, given our recent adventures, isn’t entirely out of the question.

“What’s the rush, Speed Racer?” I tease, gripping the grab handle for dear life.

Sawyer just smirks, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe I just can’t wait to get you alone.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “And that’s why we’re heading…wait a minute. This isn’t the way home.”

“Observant as always, Mrs. O’Malley,” he chuckles, taking a sharp turn that has me sliding in my seat.

“Sawyer, what are you up to?”

He keeps his lips sealed tight, but that smirk is still plastered on his face. It’s infuriating and sexy all at once.

We drive for a while, Sawyer holding my hand across the bench seat, his thumb tracing delicious circles on the sensitive area between my thumb and index finger. Eventually, he turns onto a winding road that leads us away from the city. We pull up to a breathtaking overlook, the Toronto skyline stretching out before us, glittering in the late afternoon sun.

“Okay, this is…Wow,” I admit, taking in the sight.

Sawyer turns to me, suddenly serious. “Maggie, take off your ring.”

“Excuse me?” I clutch my hand protectively.

“Your ring. Take it off.”

I frown. “No. If this is your way of divorcing me, it’s pretty dramatic.”

“Just take it off, woman.”

Reluctantly, I slide off the ring and place it in his palm. He pockets it, then gets out of the truck and comes around to my side, opening the door.

“Sawyer, will you please tell me what’s going on?” I demand as he helps me down.

He leads me to the edge of the overlook, then drops to one knee.

My heart stops.

“Margaret,” he begins, holding up my ring, “I have only one regret in our whirlwind romance, and that’s not proposing to you properly. So, here I am, asking you to marry me. For real this time. No contracts, no pretending. Just us.”

“Hmmm.” I tap my finger over my lip, fighting back a grin. “I don’t know. When I dreamed of snagging a bad boy, I didn’t exactly picture marrying into the mob. I hear the in-laws can be real killers.”

Sawyer just laughs. “You’ll fit right in, then.”

THE END