28. Pumpkin Spice & Party Plans
Chapter twenty-eight
Pumpkin Spice & Party Plans
Marlow
The office smells like cinnamon. Again. Tatum insists it’s a “seasonal vibe,” which really means she dumped half a bottle of pumpkin spice essential oil into the diffuser on my desk.
“I’m telling you, this Halloween party is going to be everything,” Tatum says, spinning in one of my office chairs. “Black lace, feathers, red lighting—very grown. Exceptionally sexy.”
“Well, let’s just make sure it’s not ‘budget prom,’” I mutter, flipping through our guest list. “Don’t forget about signage, press, RSVPs—”
“Handled.” Tatum waves her hand like a queen. “All of it. Trust me, I’ve got this.”
“I’m trying to set my dad up with someone for it,” I add casually, scribbling a note in the margin of my planner.
Eslin’s head snaps up so fast I hear her neck pop. “Oh really? How does he feel about that?”
Her voice hits a little too high, like a cracked violin string.
“He says he’s open to it,” I say, shrugging. “He hasn’t actually gone out with anyone yet, but I figure this could be a good, low-pressure way to meet someone.”
“I’m sure he’ll come around when he’s ready,” Eslin says, sipping from her water bottle. She seems tense.
“And if he hasn’t gone on a date or gotten a girlfriend by the Thanksgiving Fall Formal we’re hosting with the local high school, I have the perfect plan,” I say, leaning back with a grin.
“Oh?” Eslin says.
I nod. “Mmm hmm. We’re auctioning off some of the players and franchise staff for charity dates at the Fall Formal and guess who I’m throwing into the pool?”
Eslin takes a sip—then promptly chokes on it.
Tatum jumps. “Girl, are you okay?”
Eslin coughs, waving a hand. “Yeah—water went down the wrong pipe.”
I tilt my head at her. “You sure?”
“Totally. Just—surprised. How...how does your dad feel about being thrown into the auction pool?”
“He doesn’t know yet.”
Eslin nods way too fast. “Cool. Cool, cool. Just curious.”
We turn our attention back to the game just as a roar echoes through the stadium outside. The sound of thousands screaming “Gooooooal!” pierces through the office windows.
Tatum raises an eyebrow. “Fragilé did it again.”
I groan. “That ridiculous nickname.”
Eslin leans in. “How has it been with him?”
I glance between them. “As well as can be expected. We have our final meeting with the lawyers tomorrow. We sign everything, making this marriage like it never happened.”
“Wow,” Tatum breathes. “How does that make you feel? That it’s going to be over?”
I chuckle, more to myself than them. “I might actually miss his crazy pranks. But other than that, this needs to be done before the press gets a hold of the story. It’s gone on long enough.”
“I hear you,” Eslin says softly.
I sit up straighter because this cannot turn into my pre-divorce pity party. “Enough about me. Who are you taking to the party, Eslin?”
She waves me off. “I thought the point of going to one of those things was to meet a masked man who will sweep you off your feet!”
“Well, considering you probably know the medical history of half the masked men who will be in attendance, I think it’s safer to just bring a date. Besides, Coach Jones has been sniffing around lately.”
Eslin’s eyes widen. “Really? Him? No way.”
“Oh yes, honey,” Tatum adds. “He’s always looking at you like he wants to love you in a special way, you hear me?”
Eslin laughs. “I’m certain I don’t know what you two are talking about. Besides, I don’t think I can date him.”
“Why not?” Tatum frowns. “He’s not a patient, right?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Then what?” I press.
But Eslin just goes quiet. Her mouth opens, then closes. “You know what? Never mind. I’m sure I’m trippin’. I might actually give Coach Jones a chance.”
“I, for one, definitely think you should,” Tatum says. “Before I have my arms and legs all over that man like a damn octopus!”
“Eww!” I laugh. “That just sounds excessive.”
Suddenly, the room is filled with the chime of two phones buzzing on the glass coffee table.
Tatum grabs hers first. “Girl…” she says, her eyes glued to the screen.
Eslin picks hers up. Her eyes go wide. “Girl,” she echoes.
“What? What is it?” I ask, standing.
They both look up at me like I’ve just stepped into an ambush.
“Turn on the TV,” Eslin says, eyes serious.
I rush to my desk, grab the remote, and hit the power button. The screen flickers to life, and a live sports feed fills the room. A reporter holds a mic up to Declan, still in his jersey, sweaty and breathless from the match.
He looks into the camera, unblinking.
“I’m missing my wife.”
My glass of water slips from my hand, shattering on the tile. I barely register it.
All the blood drains from my face.
“Is he serious right now? Are you fucking kidding me?!”
Tatum gasps.
Eslin stares at the screen like it might start bleeding.
And me?
I feel everything inside me shatter just as fast as that glass.
Declan
Did I just blow up my life?
Maybe.
Did I just drag Marlow into the blast radius with me?
Also… maybe.
But in the moment, I didn’t care. I meant every word.
She needed to know. She needs to feel the wreckage she left in her wake.
The sleepless nights, the fire in my chest that won’t burn out, the way her silence echoes louder than any crowd I’ve ever played for.
I didn’t just say it for the cameras. I said it for her. Because I’m done pretending I’m okay.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I’m storming through the corridors of the front office like a man who hasn’t slept in days. Because I haven’t. I’m running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the hope that if I look her in the eye, I’ll finally get through.
I need to see my wife.
Not the boss. Not the executive.
My wife.
And God help anyone who tries to stop me.
And then I see her.
She’s sitting with two other women and I’m thirty seconds from screaming at them to leave.
Except I see that one is Coach Saunders so I keep my cool.
For a moment.
Then it hits me—Coach Saunders must’ve known the whole damn time. That the Marlow I kept ranting about in therapy was this Marlow. My wife. And I’ve got to hand it to her. She played it cool.
But now… now I’ve got a new problem.
I’m going to have to break it to Marlow that her trusted confidante also knows what she sounds like when she comes.
I gave Coach Saunders a very detailed play by play of our wedding night.
The other woman in the room notices me standing there then clears her throat. “Umm. Low?”
Meanwhile, my wife is yelling at the top of her lungs.
“I cannot believe that fucker! Did he say my name? How long before people start digging into who Declan Fucking Agassi’s wife is? That arrogant fucking—”
“Honey,” I interrupt. “I’m home!”
I like seeing my wife all fired up. It means she still cares.
I happen to like that a lot.
She’s standing behind her desk, eyes locked on the TV, looking like every mistake I’ve ever made—and the only one I’d make again in a heartbeat.
She turns slowly, her gaze meeting mine like a blade.
“You!” she yells, voice cutting through the air just before she snatches a stapler and hurls it at my head. “You selfish, entitled asshole! Why the hell would you do that?!”
I duck, the stapler bouncing harmlessly off the floor. I pick it up and examine it casually. “Good to know,” I say calmly. “You can’t aim for shit.”
“I swear to God, Declan. I will end you.”
“Ladies,” I say calmly, never looking away from my wife. “Unless you want to experience the unholy and indecent way I’m about to fuck my wife, I’d suggest you leave.”
The blonde with the curls blinks, then mutters, “Yeah, that sounds like our cue.”
Shoes click. The door creaks open. And then I’m alone with a woman who still wears my name and looks two seconds away from hurling something else heavy at my head.
Her eyes blaze, panic flaring under the fury. “Declan,” she breathes. “What the hell is wrong with you? This could’ve been over. Tomorrow. We could’ve walked away clean.”
I hear her. I just don’t care.
I slam the office door behind me. The sound cracks through the air like a gunshot.
I cross the room without slowing. One long stride, then another, until her bravado falters and she instinctively steps back.
Too late.
There’s no escape now.
And that’s exactly how I want it.
“Declan—”
I hear voices coming from around the corner so I slam my other hand down on the frosted glass button on her desk. The windows fog instantly, erasing the world outside. We’re alone. Sealed in.
She yanks her arm back, eyes flashing. “Are you insane? People saw you come in here.”
“Oh no,” I mock, voice low and dark. “Someone might see me kissing my wife. Imagine the scandal. Wonder what they’d say if they heard the dirty things the sweet Americana moaned with her legs locked around my face.”
Her eyes flare, but she shoves at my chest. “What is wrong with you?” she hisses.
“You broke your fucking promise,” I snap.
“Again with that? Declan, this isn’t—”
I cup her cheek with one hand, cutting her off before she can say something I’ll never forgive.
My tongue teases the seam of her mouth, and her hands come up, pressing against my chest. It’s reflex—pure instinct—and that’s what gets to me. Because it means she still wants me.
My wife still burns for me.
She breaks our kiss. Tries to brush past me. I block her. She spins away again, and this time I let her go—watching as she storms across the room into the small bathroom tucked into the corner of her office.
I follow. I don’t knock.
She’s standing by the sink, gripping its edge like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her back is to me. That doesn’t stop me.
I grab her hips and pull her back against me. She gasps, but doesn’t move.
“You broke your fucking promise,” I breathe against her neck.
“Declan, don’t start—”
I don’t touch her. Not yet.
Instead, I reach around her and turn on the faucet. Warm water. Soap. My hands move purposefully.
The ritual I began with my wife—cleanliness before sin—on our wedding night. I want to still honor that.
She watches me in the mirror. I watch her right back. Her eyes burn. Her jaw’s tight. She’s seething—and beautiful in that furious, trembling way that comes before she breaks.
“What do you think this will accomplish?” she snaps.
I don’t answer. She always talks more when she’s nervous.
When she wants me.
My hand slides around her waist, past the band of those soft, sinfully thin leggings she always wears that torture me. She tries to spin out of my hold, but I press her against the counter, body to body, so close it’s war.
Her eyes roll to the back of her head and she nearly moans in pleasure but she stops herself.
She’s still fighting.
“What’s that, la signora Agassi? Or do you like it when I call you my Americana, instead?”
“Fuck you,” she spits, voice cracking.
I smile, dark and unrepentant. “La signora Agassi, it is.”
“You’re insane.”
“And you’re my remedy,” I growl, my tongue brushing her ear. “The sickness, the cure, the entire fucking reason I breathe. Come back to me, Americana.”
“Declan—”
“I’m going to make you come now, my beautiful wife. That okay for you?”
Her silence is permission. Permission born from need so deep, it chokes out words. So I don’t stop. I continue sliding my hand down the front of her leggings into her panties. I am eager for what I will find.
My wife is wet for me. Waiting.
“You can’t be serious!” She hisses.
“Shhhh,” I whisper as I slide a finger inside her. “This will be so much more enjoyable if you just give in to me.”
My fingers work slow, relentless circles over her center, until her hips are moving with mine, her breath falling apart in shaky little bursts.
“Look at yourself,” I murmur. “This is what you run from. What you pretend you don’t want.”
“Fuck you,” she breathes again.
“So pushy with the demands,” I tease. “I promise, I’m trying, Americana. But if you’re still cursing at one finger…” My hand moves deeper. Slower. Rougher. “Maybe you need two.”
“Shit,” she gasps, hips jerking as I work her. Filling her, breaking her, giving her exactly what she won’t ask for but needs like air.
She shatters then. Her body bowing, her mouth parting in a soundless cry. Her knuckles go white on the porcelain. Her thighs tremble.
I don’t stop until she’s done. Until the last twitch, the last moan, the last broken breath.
When I finally pull my hand free, she jerks away like I burned her.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, glassy with aftershock. But then something shifts. I see it click—the change from sated to shame.
She spins, shoving me with both hands as she leaves the bathroom.
I follow her.
“This isn’t me,” she spits. “You make me someone I don’t recognize.”
“Maybe it is you,” I growl. “Maybe you just don’t recognize her outside of me!”
“Exactly,” she snaps. “And that’s why I need this divorce from you. This isn’t the me I need to be.”
I step back like she slapped me. “Stop fucking saying that.”
“Declan—”
“I said stop!” My fists curl at my sides. My jaw locks. I turn away from her before I say something I’ll regret.
Before I can say anything more, there is knock on her door.
“Good afternoon!” The woman says and she looks vaguely familiar.
She’s wearing royal blue glasses, blonde hair with blue streaks and overalls. Like a five year old.
“Oh! Yay! Both of you are here!” She says excitedly.
Shit. Who is this woman? Did someone find out about me and Marlow already? What did I do?
“I’m Chelsea Raymond with SightUnseen, here to do your follow-up interview for the show!”