Comin’ in Hot (Touchdown Love #3)

Prologue

. . .

Jeffrey, fuck off.

“Hey, I’m signing right now,” I say, answering the call from my sister with all the pep I feel. And it’s a lot.

Do I have the kind of audacity that typically only comes with being a man?

Yes. Do I care one iota what my, in two more strokes of my pen, ex-husband and his band of loser lawyers think?

Absolutely fucking not.

Sure, taking a call in the midst of signing divorce papers is unorthodox. But I don’t have any shits to give. I gave them all away over the course of twenty years.

I glance up at all the shocked faces in the room just as Moonbeam chuckles on the other end.

“You’re an icon. He’s so mad, right?”

“Mmmhmm.”

Speaking of that devil, my soon-to-be ex, Jeffrey, levels my name as I look at the mediator and point to the next spot on our divorce papers.

“Here?” I whisper, and she nods, trying not to show her amusement.

“Margot…seriously?” Jeffrey presses, but I ignore him, choosing to speak only to my sister.

“Yeah, that’s him. I know, he’s still a bitch.

Honestly, how did I do it for so long? Hindsight is crazy.

” I hear his discontent, but it’s like glorious fuel to my inner fire.

“But like I said, I’m signing now, so I should be wrapped up and on my way to you in about three hours.

Give or take a long security line at the airport. ”

She squeals. “I cannot wait. This is your discovery era, babe! You are a modern-day Aphrodite, a Calista. And you better have taken a million dollars for every inch he lacked. That’s what karma would want.”

With a swoop of the t at the end of my name, I say, “Well, he was about three inches under average, but that wasn’t enough, so I added time and suffering for never having enjoyed myself.”

The sound of my pen hitting the table mixes with Jeffrey’s grumble and someone coughing to hide their laugh.

Moon claps. “The power of twenty-three will set us free, baby.”

I laugh. She’s wild.

My sister, Moonbeam, formerly Sloane Campbell, is a yoga instructor and true bohemian hippie. A moon-howling free spirit to my practical, buttoned-up cliché.

She’s married to a pro surfer, occasionally lives on the beach in Hawaii, braids shells into my niece’s hair, eats more granola than any person should, and rarely showers outside of the ocean.

And she’s my best friend. Especially this year.

Jeffrey always tolerated her, but I knew he secretly disliked her. Probably because she saw him for who he was: selfish and insecure.

She laughs louder. “God, I bet his whole face is pinched up like the asshole he is.”

I push the papers toward the mediator, looking directly into his eyes as she passes them to him.

Two very opposite memories play out.

The first: our wedding day. The other: our breakup.

God, we started out so happy, probably because we were twenty, and everything seemed like a good idea at that age. When the officiant declared us Mr. and Mrs., he dipped me back and kissed me. I thought my fairy tale had finally begun.

That’s the thing about fairy tales: The story ends before life really begins.

I’d love to read about Cinderella negotiating her taxes or Belle debating on whose turn it is to make dinner because you each have to work late.

And forget about the big-ticket items, like when you decide as a couple to never have children, and then he knocks up his assistant. On purpose. Because they’re in love.

My eyes narrow, and he gulps.

For a split second, I wonder if he’s remembering that moment too, in the kitchen, when he told me. I’d spent my day in the garden, and when I came inside, sweating but smiling, he just blurted out, “I want a divorce,” followed by, “I’m in a relationship with Poppy.”

I can feel the deep breath I take as I stare at him, and the memory takes over.

“What? What are you talking about…Poppy, your assistant? You’re sleeping with her?”

“Don’t make this harder on yourself by asking silly questions.”

I shake my head, feeling as if up is down and down is sideways. The feeling of the floor falling out from under you isn’t easy to describe, but it’s as shocking as one could imagine.

“You’re having an affair? With…”

“Poppy.”

I hear myself laugh, but I don’t feel it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he admonishes. “It’s not fair. You act as if I cheated on you.”

I grip the counter behind me, feeling my nails scrape over the concrete he insisted upon. Why do I suddenly feel out of breath?

“Jeffrey,” I level. “Sleeping with another person while married is the exact definition of cheating.”

His head draws back as if I’ve offended him.

“Unbelievable. You’re villainizing me because you can’t understand the nuance. This is why we were never going to work, Margot. We’ve wasted twenty years, and I deserve to be happy. I’m in love with Poppy, so I never cheated on you. How could I? You stopped being my person six months ago—”

I stopped…I stopped being his person. I didn’t stop anything. He’s still speaking, but I’m not really hearing anything until “—I went where my heart called. And honestly, I guess I’d rather you hear it from me, but…we’re pregnant.”

All I remember after that moment is the sound of the faucet and how it kept dripping. That night, after he left, I took the whole sink apart. We’d both complained about it for months and had been meaning to call someone to fix it.

But in that moment, I needed to do it. It had to be fixed.

Somewhere around 2:00 a.m., I dried myself off from the tears and the water before settling into what I now know was the third stage of grief—anger.

Because that’s what I was doing, grieving. Our marriage was dead. It had been murdered by the price of a partially balding, Porsche-driving, middle-aged man’s insecurities. Small men cheat, and that’s not a reference to dick size.

It’s funny, of all the tools lying around that kitchen floor, anger was the most helpful. Because it helped me go about dismantling his whole life.

After all, I deserved to be happy, to quote my husband.

Happy with half his money, assets, and retirement fund. At least that was the plan before the lawyers decided we needed most of his money, assets, and retirement fund.

He should really thank me because now Poppy can prove she loves him for his smile, not his money, like she swore in the first place.

I’ll never get over the fact that she’s named after a probiotic soda that makes you shit your pants if you have too many. On the upside, a few years together should feel like chronic IBS.

I grin, still staring into his eyes, finally answering my sister.

“Yes, pinched up is exactly what his face looks like.”

Jeffrey’s brows draw together before he gets to signing, but I lick my lips, letting his annoyance wash over me like I’m a pig in shit.

I will say, there was a voice inside my head this morning who told me to make room for the possibility of more grief, should I feel it. And still I’m prepared, but I don’t feel any.

We’ve spent a year nitpicking every piece of salt owned between us. I also spent six months in twice-weekly therapy sessions, which is why I’m at the seventh stage of grief—acceptance.

As in, I accept the joy of starting a new life as a woman in her prime. And my bank accepts wire transfers.

See, marrying Jeffrey wasn’t ever about me. It was always about doing what people do. I accepted the life handed to me. The lives too many women in society suffered before me.

Not once did I ever check in with myself and ask whether what people did was what I wanted to do.

He loved me, so we got married. And married people buy a house, so we did that too. Then we hosted dinners, joined country clubs, and looked like the perfect couple.

We even skirted the “kid” questions by allowing people to think it was my body betraying us. That was his idea. Even though we agreed we didn’t want them.

Regardless, we stayed perfect. The ideal couple aesthetic. And that’s all that mattered.

Fuck that.

Jeffrey lets a dramatic sigh, as if he’s feeling the weight of his decision before signing the last box. Chin up, Jeff. I left you with only the shirt on your back. You should be feeling light as a feather.

His pen hits the table, which makes my smile almost break my face.

“It’s done,” I level. “I’ll call you from the airport, Moon.”

She lets out a squeal of excitement. “Yes, bitch. I love you with my whole heart. Fuck the patriarchy.”

“Agreed.” I hang up and look around the room before I put my sunglasses on. “If we’re done here, I have a plane to catch to Malibu.”

Jeffrey shakes his head. “Can you pretend to be mature, please?”

My attorney gives me a wink as I stand and swipe up my Birkin, a divorce gift I splurged on. I lower my chin to look over the top of my shades at my ex-fucking-husband.

“Jeffrey, fuck off.” His face pales because I have never spoken to him that way. “Oh, and give Poppy my condolences. No woman should have to bear your child, the existence of your small dick, and your deep mastery of pleasure incompetence while also being broke.”

I’ve seen mic drop moments on television, but enacting one in real life is better than anything I could’ve ever experienced. My hips swish as I walk out of that goddamn room and into my new life.

My sister was right. This is my era. And whatever happens next will be on my terms because I’m not giving away another twenty years to any man without, at the very least, an epic goddamn orgasm.