I’m the teammate they can trust, but have to quell this surge ofsomething(Desire? Yearning? The urge to sweep everythingoff the table and say,Let’s try this?). That’s crazy thinking. Because I’m Grey, the guy who grunts, ghosts, and gives a football and all the players on the opposing team a solid whooping.
I know the playbook rules. I’m aware that I’m in a state, not a fragile one, but an unknown one. It’s obvious the stirring and whirring within have transformed into something bigger, brighter, warmer. But I can’t break any of the rules. The problem is, I’m not sure I can trust myself.
Unable to promise to adhere to the playbook and Marriage of Convenience Club rules, I anticipate breakfast and Everly. She’s a ray of light in the morning with wavy brown hair streaked with sunshine. Eyes that remind me of spring and a smile that keeps me craving another.
I should probably stop the mushball thinking and eat some steak, elk, bison, or something raw and manly to get this poetry and pining under control. Who is this guy and what did he do with Grey? I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror next to the door to my suite. Hair is cropped shorter, with it a bit longer on top. My beard is groomed to perfection. Everly has a golden touch and I’m not sure how to feel about that, other than that I like it.
I look slightly less beastly than I did when I arrived at Blancbourg, but nothing else on the outside suggests I’ve changed. And I’m okay with that because I’m not quite ready to reveal that this woman who breezed into my life shifted something inside me. It feels too soon to reenter the world of emotional vulnerability, never mind navigate situations where I have to actually smile, laugh, or relate.
Being a cold, quiet, pillar of emptiness brought with it simplicity and zero expectations.
However, I am confident that I won’t do anything to make Everly’s meal miserable, like criticizing her eating habits or heroutfit. Now that I know she lost her luggage, I understand why she wore the same thing a couple of days in a row.
I like that she has my T-shirt. Something borrowed, something blue...something old, something new, or whatever the saying is.
Before I head downstairs, my phone rings.
“Grey, it’s Ted. I got the marriage license, you sneaky scamp. Kept that secret locked up tight. I guess a guy in your position prefers privacy. We ought to redo your will. But good for you, settling down and making an honest man of yourself. Congratulations and all that.”
“Thanks,” I say dully, instantly worried about what’s going to happen when the guys on the team find out. They’ll be happy for me but disappointed I didn’t tell them about any of it. Who can blame me for not finding the words when, up until recently, I could hardly string two sentences together?
After everything that went bad with my ex and she blew up my life, I committed to being single—the marriage of convenience notwithstanding.
“Three more days until your life changes forever. Ready?” Ted asks.
And there it is. The prospect of taking full responsibility and custody of a child is becoming more and more of a reality with each passing moment.
My life has already changed and I’m not prepared for more of that. The flickers of hope that lit inside at finally digging myself out of this pit of despair fizzle. “I’m in Concordia.”
“Come again? You took up the accordion? That can’t be right. You do realize I charge for these calls, so if we have a bad connection, let’s hang up and try again or at another time.”
“No, I’m in Concordia,” I say slowly. “The country.”
“Never heard of it. But I get it. Lying low until the moon-gate fiasco blows over. Speaking of, I had to do a little damage controlwith the other attorney.” His whistle indicates he refers to me showing my backside to the world. Yeah, not exactly something I’d share with my lawyer.
Everly would tell me to thank him profusely, but all I can manage is a grunt. It’s like I took two steps forward and then slammed back to the beginning of the gameboard, landing, you guessed it, on my backside.
I opt not to explain #BruiserButt or the consequent reform school situation. However, since I am stuck here, I tell Ted that I’m arranging for my son’s care for a couple of days until I return to Michigan.
“Nancy will be in touch with logistics. If you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to reach out. Good luck.”
The line goes dead. Do I have any other questions? Yeah. I do. I trust Ted Brown to work in my best interest, so when the documents came for me to sign, I didn’t even review them. Stupid, I know, but these days I don’t even know the total in my bank account, no less whether I have any clean laundry.
The shirt I gave Everly being an exception.
So yeah, I have questions galore. Will my son recognize me? Is he potty-trained? How do diapers work? Does he have teeth? What if he bites? Scratches? How do I trim his nails?
Does he look like me?
It’s been over a year since I saw him and I despise myself for it.
I’m late for breakfast, but don’t pick up my pace as I plod down the halls of the manor. The dining room is empty except for the server I tormented the first morning here. I’d make small talk, but preoccupied with what’s going to happen in three days, I opt to toss him as friendly a smile as I can muster. Making note of his name tag, Arthur Fitzwilliam, I’ll donate to Chase’s charity in his name.
The grandfather clock chimes, indicating Everly is also late for breakfast. Where is she? Is she okay? Did she oversleep because she’s in a sugar coma? Can’t find her shoes? What if she’s trapped in her room because a giant spider blocks the doorway?
These are the thoughts of a guy who’s afflicted. Infatuated. Hooked. My leg jitters and I get up to walk it off like a nervous mother duck. The door opens. In walks a beam of sunshine and fresh air. Today, Everly wears a shirt and shorts with a badger school mascot on the thigh. Her light brown hair is smooth and shiny. Her spring-green eyes shine like gems.
“Why are you late?” I ask.
