“If we weren’t already married,” I mutter into my tea, “I’d get down on one knee and propose just for this.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Good to know my skill set is finally being properly appreciated.”
“You missed your calling,” I say, voice going soft on the edges as he digs into my heel. “You could’ve opened a spa. Scottie’s House of Questionable Aprons and Excellent Foot Rubs.”
“Too long for a sign,” he says. “But I like where your head’s at.”
He switches to my left foot, thumbs pressing, palms bracing, and my muscles melt one by one. The tension in my shoulders eases. My jaw unlocks. The constant, humming buzz of fear that’s lived under my skin for months quiets to something almost manageable.
For the first time since my father’s message appeared on my screen, my body believes something my brain is still afraid to trust:
There might still be a way out.
There might still be a chance.
Inside this ridiculous, rushed, paper-thin marriage… sitting on this couch, with tea in my hands and my aching feet in my husband’s lap…
I feel safe.
As long as my grandmother believes in us.
As long as my father doesn’t win.
As long as Scottie stays.
Chapter Ten
SCOTTIE
It’s been two days since I married a complete stranger, and this morning, I wake up smiling.
And that’s how I know something is different.
Most mornings, I wake up starving, sore, or irritated that my alarm goes off at an hour that humans were never meant to be conscious. But today, before my eyes are fully open, before Ieven remember where I am or what day it is, there’s this stupid little grin pulling at my mouth, like I’ve wandered into someone else’s life.
It takes a few seconds for the memories to sharpen, sliding into place one after another until they hit me all at once—heavy and vivid and so absurdly good that I almost laugh out loud.
I married my teammate's sister, whom I didn’t even know existed until last week.
Her soft “I do,” like she wasn’t just agreeing to paperwork, but to something she hadn’t prepared for.
The kiss…God, the kiss was sweet and shocking and more real than anything about this marriage is supposed to be.
I replay our rooftop wedding. Both of our vows, and then everything after.
Carrying her over the threshold because I said I would and because she looked at me like she wasn’t expecting it. Helping her out of that dress, one impossibly tiny pearl button at a time, and trying not to completely lose my mind every time my fingers brushed her skin. The image of her perfect ass, the thin lace of her white thong, the delicate blue script that read “bride” on it in perfect cursive. She was a bride, my bride. And then she turned around… and well, I couldn’t hide the way my body made its opinion very clear about what I thought of her.
There was a moment, barely half a breath, where if she’d taken one step closer, if she’d looked at me for one second longer, everything would have shifted. I would’ve crossed the line between us to see if she felt the same.
But then she whispered goodnight and slipped into her room, and I stood there in my bedroom, my erection still pointed in her direction, and me, trying to convince myself that the interest is only physical.
Then there was yesterday morning. I made breakfast that she barely ate, but she stayed anyway, eating fruit and coffee just to stay and talk.
I groan because, honestly, that might have been worse than the wedding.
She walked into the kitchen wearing that silk robe—hair sleep-messy, slippers soft on the tile—and my brain immediately shut down like it needed to reboot. She looked so small and sleepy and unguarded standing there in the morning light, like she belonged in that penthouse kitchen, leaning against the counter while I made enough food to feed an NFL team.
She smiled… barely, and I felt it in my ribs. Then she laughed, actually laughed, over my eating routine, and something in my chest did this weird, uncomfortable twist that I’m afraid to look at too closely.
