Chapter 12
GREY
Before leaving Boston, I played phone tag with Ted Brown and his assistant Nancy. As soon as I get to my suite, I get a call back.
“Grey, it’s Ted. Good news or bad news first?”
“Is any of it good news?” I mutter.
“Bad news first to soften the blow. You do indeed need to be married in order to obtain custody.”
“And what’s the good news?”
“That you get to be married.”
How is that good news? But I don’t ask because likely he’ll have the same answer as Hammer when he gushed over Marsha.
I can’t imagine being married to someone like the coach, Ted.
.. or me. Gross. Even if you’re as slick as Declan or a charmer like Chase, peel back the outer layer and it’s all hair, sweat, and bone.
Nothing soft or sweet. My mother used to sing a rhyme to Bran and me about snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails.
That’s what little boys are made out of. Men too.
Why a woman would want to be with a beast like me is unfathomable.
“Ted, I have some news for you, too.” I clear my throat. “I am married.”
“Ha ha. Married to football. I know. And I have my money on you this season. But married to a woman, legally, in this country.”
“The problem right now is that I’m out of the country.”
“Well, you have one week to get your #BruiserButt back here, say I do, and claim custody.”
I swipe my fingers through my hair and they tangle. “You heard about that too?”
“I was ready to run interference if necessary.”
“Thanks. But I am married. True story.”
“Crazy weekend in Vegas? What happens there, stays there. Amiright?”
“You’re not wrong, but, um, I’m actually married to, um, a woman.”
“Well, that’s lucky. Any chance she wants to be a mother?”
“Status pending.”
“Well, unpend all statuses and get me a legal copy of your marriage license.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Yesterday.”
A shaky breath escapes. “I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you will, Grey. That’s why you’re the best player in the NFL. Now, go get ‘em, tiger.”
If only it were going to be that easy. Nonetheless, a plan forms in my mind, involving getting my son back with my cousin, taking care of him temporarily until I return to Michigan.
As my wife repeatedly said, the first rule of the Marriage of Convenience Club is you do not talk about the Marriage of Convenience Club.
Hands hammocked behind my head, I flop back onto the bed. I could use a snooze, but my mind whirs with this strange turn of events. I repeatedly land on our wedding day. It was surreal as the officiant said our names, pronouncing us husband and wife.
But the kiss was very real and I cannot stop thinking about it whenever I’m in the same room as Everly. It doesn’t help that her lips are soft, pink, and plump.
Suddenly, I’m craving cookie dough and wondering what she looks like in my T-shirt. She wished me sweet dreams the other night when I couldn’t sleep because the void threatened to swallow me up.
However, right now, if I close my eyes, I think I’ll get those sweet dream wishes after all.
Two days into my time at Blancbourg, I’ve obeyed the first and second rules of the Marriage of Convenience Club by simply not speaking much.
It’s not hard for me to do, but that also means that I haven’t had a good opening to ask Everly if she happens to have a copy of the marriage license on hand.
Mine is on Isle Royale, probably. I didn’t take great pains to keep track of it because I figured it would be in the paper shredder before the year was out.
After consulting the daily etiquette school itinerary, the next item of business is a makeover. When it comes to my appearance, my routine involves running my fingers through my hair, making sure there aren’t crumbs in my beard, and calling it good.
It wasn’t always this way, but when it seems like almost everyone you love is ripped from your life, looking put together becomes less of a priority, and keeping it together moves to the front.
Everly mentioned a lifestyle makeover, but the location indicates I have to go to The Salon on the lower level. Checking my watch, I only have five minutes until the appointment.
I smooth my hand down my giant beard, well aware of the scar it hides.
Is the Blancbourg Academy preparing me for a live appearance on a talk show?
An interview? A dating competition? Bran would always tease me, saying I was the next eligible candidate for one of those bachelor contests because of my good looks, but they’ve been swallowed up by what my mother would call a hobo beard on my face and a mop of hair on my head.
Walking past a floor-to-ceiling mirror, I glimpse my long stride and ignore my stringy hair and face hidden behind the beard. Bran would say I look like a feral dog with mange. He wouldn’t be wrong.
While he was the good brother, I had been the good-looking brother.
At least, that’s what he would say. Maybe he was trying to gas me up.
I’ll never know. However, we looked so much alike, we’d sometimes be mistaken for twins—handsome, strong, over six feet with broad shoulders, and big hands Dad made good use of splitting and stacking logs.
We had the chiseled features of our Scandinavian ancestors—well, I do under my beard.
Everly, as bright as ever, waits outside the door.
Today, she’s dressed in a pair of leggings with a cosmic background and cats riding on slices of pizza and a tiny vintage T-shirt with a boy band emblazoned across the front.
I imagine her cornering a teenager at the mall and demanding they give up the goods.
It’s quite the ensemble, but I’m starting to expect nothing less from the woman who happens to be my wife. I also can’t help but think about her sleeping in my T-shirt. It’s so big, she probably swims in the thing.
“Good morning, Mr. Adams.”
I grunt as usual.
“Not a morning person?”
Grunt.
“Grey the Grump.” She holds out a paper cup of coffee. “I’m guessing you need some caffeine to get the gears going. I noticed you take a splash of milk, no sugar.”
I take it and offer a grunty thanks. Our hands brush.
I expect a sensation, but there’s still only cold stone inside.
Nothing lights under my skin. Well, maybe a little bit of warmth kindles, but that brings the risk of feeling more, which I want to avoid, because what happens if I leave the void?
I fear a rush of emotion will crush me like a full-team tackle.
“Cranky?”
I take a sip of the coffee and grunt.
“I was today, too before I had my morning waffle cone with ice cream. Coffee flavor striped with dark chocolate, if you’re wondering.”
I grunt, unsure if she’s serious or making a joke.
Everly sucks her cheeks in, then starts whistling softly before saying, “I bet you were one of those old-man-yellers as a child, like you’d yell at the neighborhood kids to get off the lawn.”
My mouth pinches toward a grunt, but she’s wrong. My eyes soften and crinkle on the edges at a memory of Bran and me causing havoc in our lakeside neighborhood.
A woman with dark hair greets us. Her nose wrinkles as she looks me up and down. “Well, we have a situation, don’t we?”
Yeah, I may resemble a guy who just came ashore after weeks on a long boat, traveling from island to island, raiding and pillaging, but I bathe and don’t smell bad. At least I don’t think so.
Everly introduces me to Shonda, the resident stylist at Blancbourg.
She clutches a football...and her stomach?
I grunt in greeting.
“I was wondering if you could sign this.” She thrusts the football into my hands and then turns away.
I tense, unsure if there’s a problem.
The woman pales, looking ill.
“Are you okay? Can I do anything—?” I ask, alarmed.
She waves her hand in front of her face. “I’m fine.”
“You sure, Shonda?” Everly asks. “Water? Fresh air? Ice cream?”
Shonda approaches and then halts, swallowing thickly. “We have a real Beauty and the Beast scenario here.” Her smile makes me worry she accidentally consumed one of Declan’s mayonnaise concoctions.
I glance at Everly for a clue as to what’s going on. She barely reaches my shoulder and whereas she’s petite, I feel like an overgrown oaf. There’s no mistaking that I’m a beast and belle means pretty in French. Haven’t seen the movie, but Beauty and the Beast is accurate.
Shonda coughs lightly and presses her hand to her belly again. “Karma’s going to get me for that comment. No offense meant.” She rushes toward the door.
“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?” Everly asks, echoing my questions from moments before.
“I’m expecting. First trimester. This never happened with my previous pregnancies. Please, just do it. Don’t tell Cateline.” Shonda makes a scissoring motion with her two fingers and then hurries off.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“Maggie, whom I just met and who also works here, used to be a Disney princess. She was joking that I look like Belle from the movie Beauty and the Beast.”
“Never seen it.”
“No surprise there,” she says.
Still holding the football, I grunt. “I meant I was wondering why Shonda ran out. Is she ill?”
“She’s pregnant. Probably morning sickness.”
“But it’s afternoon.”
“That’s just what it’s called. It can strike any time, day or night.”
“What did Shonda want you to do?” I ask.
“Get you in a salon and you open right up, huh? Mr. Chatty, all of a sudden,” Everly says, circling me. “She wants me to give you a makeover.”
“Are you qualified?”
“My best friend Heidi is a hairstylist. I think I can manage. Let’s just say anything would be an improvement,” she mumbles the last part.
I grunt and reluctantly get in the chair, but only because my brother wouldn’t recognize me. I worry my rough appearance caused Shonda to become ill.
Everly peruses the stylist’s tools and picks up a hank of my hair and another. She studies the ends. “You have nice hair. Good genes.”
“What does this have to do with my pants?” I ask, belatedly realizing I just opened myself up for a #BruiserButt joke.