He smiles and shakes his head again. “Let’s keep up the good work kids. This case, and your divorce, will be finalized in no time.”
Grabbing my briefcase, I say goodbye to Cain and head to my office to get some work done. And three hours later, I’m back in my East Side apartment, my laptop balanced on my knees as I search for photos of Anastasia at Boone’s games when they were together.
To my surprise, there are only five pictures from the nearly two years that they dated and were engaged. And in every single one she isn’t wearing his jersey, his number, or even the team’s colors.
I frown. It feels… off. Almost dismissive and unsupportive.
Boone seemed to like that I showed up wearing his name and number to his game. Sure, I bought the sweatshirt online, but I thought it showed I was rooting for him, even if this whole thing is fake.
I think back to what Cassie and Jill were wearing. Cassie had on a team logo T-shirt and jeans, casual but clearly supportive of her husband. Jill had a team scarf wrapped around her neck, layered over her husband’s warm-up jersey.
If that’s the standard, shouldn’t I be following it too?
But against my better judgment, I follow Dad’s advice and wear something different.
I pull out a fitted maroon dress I’ve worn to court in the past. It hugs my smaller curves in all the right places and feels in line with what Anastasia might have worn.
I pair it with knee-high black boots with a heel, practical for the cold but polished enough to pass Dad’s unspoken approval. Pinning my dark blonde hair up on one side I swipe on some simple makeup. Natural colors and a dab of light pink lip gloss complete the look.
Then I grab my bag and stare at the guest bedroom that Boone should have moved into this weekend.
Curiosity gnaws at me. Did he move in behind that closed door? There’s nothing in the kitchen, the living room, or the shared bathroom that belongs to him. Everything looks the same, like he was never here at all.
I hesitate, tempted to snoop, then stop myself. I decide to respect his privacy and turn away from the door to head to his practice.
It doesn’t matter whether he moved in or not. The facts are that our paths will hardly cross before this is all over…
Chapter 13: Boone
“So, how was your weekend now that you’re a married man?” Lochlan asks, his tone dripping with curiosity and suspicion.
I get it. These guys are not just my teammates, but my best friends and the people I tell everything to. I consider them family, and I know it was a surprise to find out I got married to a woman none of them have met without anyone knowing.
I flash him a grin, keeping it casual. “It was great.”
The reality is that it was far from great. Moving into Rosie’s guest bedroom this weekend had been a slow and lonely process. Most of my stuff is still at Penn’s place. I told him I’d move things over gradually and that since our old place is closer to the stadium, I wouldn't rush.
That’s true. But mostly I’m dragging my feet because in three months, after I inevitably get divorced, I’ll need somewhere to go and moving back and forth is a pain in the ass.
Rosie’s apartment is… interesting. It’s feminine, polished, and unmistakably Upper East Side chic meets lawyer. Everything has its place in her apartment, and it was tidy with matching patterns and expensive furniture.
I was tempted to snoop around, maybe get some insight into her life beyond the surface of what she’s been willing to share with me, but her bedroom door was shut. And even if it hadn’t been, I’m trying to respect her privacy.
So instead, I spent the weekend stuck indoors thanks to the snow, catching up with my agent about a new line of wool socks that I’ll be promoting, reviewing contract language, and meeting with my financial planner. It’s a quarterly ritual I never miss.
It was a productive weekend, sure, but let’s just say I’d rather have spent the time doing anything else—like celebrating real nuptials inside of my new wife the way everyone thinks I spent it.
But, of course, you have to beactuallymarried for that kind of thing.
“Jill said Rosie was really cool,” Lochlan presses. “Where’d you find her, and why didn’t you tell us about her?”
The guys have already grilled me nonstop over text message, but I told them I was too busy to chat and would fill them in later.
Apparently,latermeans during this grueling two-hour long practice, with pucks flying at our faces. At least practice is almost over. Coach has already left the ice for the interview room, leaving us with strict instructions to do suicides on the ice until further notice.
Which, of course, we’re ignoring entirely. Our next game this weekend is huge, and I don't want to exhaust my legs anyway.
“Met her at the museum. You know I love going there to look at all the artwork,” I say smoothly. It’s not a total lie. I doenjoy a good museum solo date. Which makes it slightly more believable.
