Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
The last song was a lively waltz. The band drops the tempo for a slow dance.
Margo looks up at me with a question in her eyes—one she probably should’ve asked before she claimed that I’m her fiancé.
After seeing the harpies that she calls family, my protective instincts kicked in, possession took over, and that old movie with the line about not putting “Baby in the corner” suddenly made a world of sense.
If any of the guys on the team had a peek into my brain right now, they’d rethink everything they know about me, which turns out is very little. The way I prefer it.
I slide my hand into Margo’s, feeling her soft skin against my calluses. Her warmth thaws something in me that I’ll entertain for tonight and tonight only, and then it’ll be back to business as usual.
We start to move to the beat, rocking and swaying as she finally lets me take the lead so we can dance together .
When it seems she’s committed the box step left, together, left, together, right motion to muscle memory, she looks up at me, eyes plaintive, and says, “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I’m starting to get your rhythm.”
I wonder if she means this literally or figuratively.
“You’re doing great.”
She beams like I just gave her a gold star. Like she’s not used to hearing kind words or compliments. Badaszek’s comment after the last game comes to mind. It’s not like the women in her family are overt monsters. They’re the more dangerous kind. The ones who get into a person’s head and make them feel no bigger than an ant or a fly to be swatted. The blood-sucking, vampire kind.
She says, “You’re good at this.”
“You sound surprised. It’s kind of like gliding. Like skating.” The truth is I learned formal dancing before I even put on my first pair of hockey skates.
With a laugh, she asks, “Is your family a bunch of ballroom dancers?”
“Worse.”
I win another laugh and never has a response felt so good. But I toss that in the bin along with thoughts about how nice she feels in my arms and how her smile lights the lamp inside.
“If anyone is watching, they’ll think we’re really engaged,” she says low, eyeing those nearest us.
“You don’t look like anyone in your family.”
“That’s because they take measures …” Margo clears her throat.
“I take that to mean plastic surgery.”
“And dyes, fillers, anything artificial. I get a lot of flack because I prefer the more natural look.”
Turns out I do too.
“My mother grew up poor. Like really poor and took it upon herself to lift the family out of poverty through marriage. New money, like the kind my dad made in the music industry, was the golden ticket. She doesn’t know this, but he left after the ceremony today to fly to a golf tournament in Pebble Beach. She thinks he has a doctor’s appointment. She shops. He plays golf. ‘The twain shall never meet ...’ Unless absolutely necessary.” She wrinkles her brow. “That should tell you everything you need to know about their relationship.”
New money, old money. The greed it can cause is all the same. I know this first hand.
“Her singular objective is for me to marry rich so someone can take care of me.”
Wren Cabot could start showing she cares.
“Celeste, my older sister, married a foreign investment banker, so he’s always traveling and she’s always spending his money.”
“Sounds like a real catch,” I say sarcastically.
“If you like catching flies.” She claps her hand over her mouth as if afraid someone overheard.
I shake my head. “If anyone asks, you said, ‘If you like matching ties.’”
I get a big smile. “I have a younger brother too, Gerard. For a while, he went by Gerd.”
A gastrointestinal disorder comes to mind.
“Our parents gave us names that are not nickname-able.”
Maybe I’ll come up with one.
She says, “Anyway, Gerard is a himbo.”
“A what?”
“Look it up on the internet later. Anyway, he married a national carwash chain heiress and fancies himself a social media influencer. They travel all over and take photos of their life, what they eat, wear, and that kind of thing. I guess it’s cool to see what he’s up to, but there’s also a kind of hollowness. Like I’d much rather hang out with Gerard and hear about his adventures directly from him rather than filtered for the masses. You know?”
“Don’t touch the social media stuff myself.” But I am touching her, the softest feather in my arms as the song flows between us, making this dance feel familiar, comfortable, something we’ve done before.
“You’re a professional athlete and you’re not on social media?”
I shake my head. “My manager pretends to be me when there are things to reply to or report.”
“The last time my phone gave me a screen time report, I was horrified, but I tell myself I’m on social media, building connections as I try to build my business. It’s like an obsession.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You’re a stronger man than I.”
I glance down at her lovely curves highlighted by the mint green gown. “Margo, you are very much not a man.”
Her cheeks turn a pretty pink as we glide along the dance floor. “Sorry. I’m babbling.”
“You’re entertaining me.”
“I’m not sure if that makes me sound like a court jester. In my family dominated by strongly opinionated women, I’ve always been the comic relief character. The sidekick or the one they measure themselves against to boost their egos.”
“I assure you, it’s a good thing.”
“You don’t look entertained. You look, well, like a grizzly.”
“Ted is the bear on the team—our defenseman. Ted ‘the Bear’ Powell.”
“You’re the goalie. You guard, protect.”
Without thinking, I draw her closer.
“Something like that. My coach recently told me to smile sometimes.”
“I haven’t seen you smile once. Not even when I called my brother a himbo.”
“Sounds like a real winner.”
“My family are a bunch of gold diggers which leads me to us. I’m sorry about all this. But I have to ask, why did you change tact? It seemed like you weren’t going to go along with it, which I understand since it’s totally wacky. I’d told them I had a date and acted rashly when I saw you.”
The song ends and someone announces it’s time to toss the bouquet.
As we leave the dance floor, I can’t help but feel slightly off-kilter. Is it because I rapidly went from confusion to rejecting the bonkers idea of pretending to be this woman’s fiancé, to going all in? Or is it because her eyes sparkle, she blushes easily, and everything about her is soft, gentle, and kind?
I lean in and in a low voice, I say, “I played along to get your family off your case. Because I’m not a fan of condescending wealthy people. I cannot stand bullies.”
“Is this a multiple choice question or an all of the above scenario?”
I tap the air. “That one.”
To move through the crowd, we have to walk single file, but I catch the edge of Margo’s smile as she steps in front of me.
With a glance over her shoulder, she mouths, “Thank you,” then joins the eager women, vying for the bouquet.
It feels like a goodbye but not a dismissal.
As the eligible women arrange themselves behind the bride for this tradition, I watch Margo. She alternatively moves with admirable confidence while also stalking cautiously through a field of landmines. At any point, one of the women in her family might detonate.
There’s a song and countdown involved in the bouquet toss, but my eyes remain glued to her. She said something along the lines of me making a woman happy someday, but her future fiancé is the real winner.
Without elbowing anyone or stepping on toes (the other women are like honey badgers wrestling a snake), Margo catches the bouquet. She drops her nose to the roses and some other blue flowers I don’t know the name of. Her eyelids close as she inhales like she just found an oasis amid a storm that looks a lot like a wedding.
I could walk out right now, but she’s like a net, cast around me. I’m the puck, trapped inside. So much for being a goalie, a pro at blocking shots. I feel like I have to protect her from the offensive team ... with the reminder that this is just for show. I’m merely playing an understudy role of fiancé for the night. I’m not looking for love or a wife…even if that would make my life easier.
A missile-like thought catapults toward me. Before I have a chance to launch defense rockets, it lands with an explosion that lights with the kind of awe inspired by fireworks.
It may be that I left a possible answer off the quiz about why I went along with the fake fiancé thing. If I got married, I’d finally be free from the tug of war that is my grandfather’s will and my mother’s willpower to drag me through the mud until I marry someone like Pixie Galaxie. I’d free up the funds she was promised upon his death. The battle would be over.
And I’d be married to a woman as beautiful and sweet as Margo. There are no negatives to that as far as I can tell except possibly the in-law situation—and that false marriages are likely against the law.
She looks around the room and her eyes land on me. They’re beautiful and deep, the brightest eyes of anyone here.
Do I move toward this possibility to at least temporarily solve a problem we both have?
Her gaze holds mine. I get to my feet. She walks slowly my way, flowers in hand like a bride marching down the aisle or like she’s approaching a dangerous animal.
When she’s about a meter away, she says, “You didn’t leave.”
It’s different from You’re still here . I probably shouldn’t give too much thought about what that might mean other than it’s a matter of convenience, which we’ll discuss.
I simply say, “I didn’t want to miss the cake.”
After they serve it, instead of being polite and listening to speeches about Maxine and Marlon’s future, we find a quiet place to sit.
After sliding her fork along the frosting like she’s shaving ice, Margo says, “Thank you for participating in this counterfeit commitment scheme. I think the bar is just about out of champagne which means my family soon will move past the point of no return, rendering them unable to recall what happened in the morning.”
I ask, “Is what they said true?”
“Which part?” She smooths her fork along the frosting, skimming off another thin piece as if afraid to let herself have too much.
I shrug. “Any of it.”
“Would you even believe me if I told you since I built this house of ours on a foundation of lies?”
“I’d say we’re at the apartment stage. Maybe a tent. Haven’t moved into a house yet.”
Her lips crack with a grin. “You speak so ... I don’t know the word. Stoically? Have an economy with your words. But I can’t tell whether I’m supposed to laugh.”
“You’re not supposed to do anything for anyone else’s benefit.”
“I’ve never met a real-life person like you before,” she says absently while taking another bite of frosting.
I’ve certainly not met a Margo.
She says, “If you’re wondering if I’m lousy at relationships, I’d suggest you survey the guys I’ve dated, but there aren’t many. Celeste calls me a marriage maker. After guys date me they get married. Let’s see, there was Darrel who called it off when his high school sweetheart came crawling back. Boyd went on a gap year and got engaged in Australia while we were still dating. Then Jonathan ...” She trails off and the light in her gaze dims.
My jaw lowers as I try to puzzle out how dudes can be so dumb. How a man doesn’t see a good thing when it’s looking him right in the face with big, brown coffee cream eyes, hair made of silk, and curves so luscious I could get lost in them.
“How about you? Any ex-Mrs. Hammers-to-be?”
“None worth noting.” Just Pixie Galaxie who won’t seem to lose my number no matter how many times I block her. I have my mother to blame.
“My friend Juniper tried to get me onto some dating apps, but I got nervous. I was not using a dog park dating app despite what you may have heard earlier.”
“Those women said you don’t have a green thumb either.”
She winces. “I forget to add water. When I was a kid, I always wanted a dog. Instead, my mother got me a Ficus as a test.”
“I take it your plant didn’t make it.”
“You’re suddenly very questiony.” She leaves the square of cake on her plate, having eaten all the frosting.
“Just curious.” I remove the frosting from my slice of cake and set it on the side, devouring the cake in a few bites.
“You can choose whether to believe them or me. But no. I have never killed anyone. I’m better with dogs than plants.” Sliding her plate away, she adds, “It’s not that I’m bad at relationships, it’s just that I’ve never met the one. Maybe there isn’t one.”
It’s then we both look at each other’s cake plates. She ate all the frosting, leaving the perfectly square sponge, and I ate that part and left the frosting in a little pile.
Her eyes flick to mine and then back to our plates.
“Are we cake twins?” Margo’s cheeks turn pink like she’s been warming herself in front of a fire.
“Like when one person eats the cereal and the other drinks the milk?”
“Like when one person eats the cookie part of an Oreo and the other likes the filling.”
I nod. “In that case, it would seem so.”
She laughs, filling me in such a way that a switch flips inside. Whereas before it almost felt like I was tap dancing at a ballet, now I breathe easy. Maybe we have our own choreography. It’s strangely easy to talk to her. Not that talking to women is normally hard for me, but she has a way of making me feel at ease. Like I can say anything and her mind and heart will remain open. She intuitively knows that my silence isn’t a bad thing.
Some people want to hear the sound of their own voice. Others are content to listen. I have a hunch she needs someone with open ears more so than having a strong opinion on every move she makes.
I clear my throat, about to tell her I had fun and goodnight when Hag One and Hag Two fly down the hallway on a pair of broomsticks with a shared cackle.
Margo freezes like a deer in headlights. Only instead of a single semi bearing down at her, it’s as if her mother and sister race to see who can plow into her first.
“Save yourself,” she whispers.
The desperate plea in her eyes makes me tuck her into the alcove behind the sitting area and out of sight. We’re close, our arms and legs touching, sending an electric thrill through me, a powerful charge, much like when we were dancing.
I say, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You don’t have to do this. The jig is up. They’ll take you down.”
I incline my head. “I’d like to see them try.”
“You’ve been warned.”
I’m all too familiar with women like this. “Don’t show fear. They thrive off it.”
Margo lets out a long sigh. “I could just tell the truth. That I made up that we’re engaged. Calculating which would be worse, I came up with cutting my losses and letting them believe the lie. Does that make me a horrible person?”
The cackling chatter dies down. The sound of their clicking heels recedes into the distance.
“They’re retreating. See? We stood our ground. They backed off.”
“We hid.”
My lips quirk.
Margo peers around the corner. “Uncle Harlan cornered them and is likely blathering about his underwater civilization theory. If he ever asks you if you like to Scuba dive, pretend you don’t speak English.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or be concerned. “Looks like a good diversion.”
“You’re my faux good luck beau.”
I shift uncomfortably because I’m doing my best to rid my life of lucky charms—not the cereal.
Taking Margo’s hand, I move us in the other direction toward a short hallway and away from a potential encounter with Wren and Celeste.
When we’re in the clear, I say, “You asked if you’re a horrible person. No. You’re reacting to horrible people. The better route is to respond with sound reason. Granted, your judgment back there was questionable, but lucky for you, you approached a guy who was willing to go along with it.”
“I still don’t understand why, but sure. Lucky me,” she says with a warm smile that doesn’t match the despondency in her voice.
“I’m surprised you recognized me. Goaltenders usually slide under the radar.”
“Until last week, I’d never given hockey a thought. The woman who owns my favorite bakery gave me two tickets to see the Kings versus the Knights. My best friend came too and gave me a Hockey 101 lesson. Suffice it to say, I did not pass the exam at the end.”
“But that game was in New York.”
“That’s where I live.”
For some reason that piece of information makes me feel like my itchy wool sweater shrunk a couple of sizes.
“I’m from here though,” she adds.
“Cobbiton is a hockey town, but you’re not a hockey fan?”
“Do I need to know any positions besides goalie?” Margo asks.
No, no she doesn’t.
“I left Cobbiton without looking back except for weddings and funerals.” She suddenly goes still. “Uh, oh, I think they’ve traced us. Should I make a run for it or face the firing squad for questioning?”
I’ve never run from anything other than my life back in Concordia. Well aware of that kind of desperation, I sense Margo already knows the answer to her question. Do I leave her to fend for herself or offer cover? Fight or flight? ...or we could flee.
“I know just where to go.” I hold out my hand.
Her eyes lift to mine, bright again.
She slides her palm into mine, exciting the sparks inside.