Page 63 of Line Change

“I’m not trying to string you along.”

“I know.”

He reaches for me, pulling me against his chest, and wraps his arms around me.

“Thank you.”

We lie like that for a little while longer before I get out of bed and head into the bathroom to get ready while he phones in our brunch order.

I wish we had more time together here. That we could spend another night in our little cocoon, but he has practice tomorrow, and I have to go back to work.

I take a fortifying breath and then another, staring down at the phone number I’ve typed, willing myself to hit the Call button. I know I need to. I don’t know why I’m this nervous to talk to my grandmother’s lawyer, but I am. I need to get it over with. I meant to call him this morning when I got to my office, but I procrastinated, and now it’s midafternoon, and I refuse to put this conversation off until tomorrow.

Once I do this, I can focus on other things. Like whatever is going on between Bash and I. But most importantly, so I can focus on the rest of my pregnancy. I drop my hand to my stomach, feeling the flutters I’ve attributed to the baby, although it might be too soon for that. I’m only thirteen weeks pregnant today. It’s probably indigestion from the Italian sub I ate for lunch.

Finally, I hit the Call button, and a few minutes later, his assistant is putting me through.

“This is Glenn.”

“Hi, Glenn. This is Sutton St. James.” I pause. “Mary Jefferson’s granddaughter.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. St. James,” he says, his New York accent strong. “I trust that you’re well.”

“I am. I’m calling to find out where or how I can send you my marriage license.” I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me where to send it the last time we spoke, but here we are.

He rattles off an email address, and I quickly type it in, double-check the signed license is attached, and hit Send.

“You should have it momentarily.”

He hums in response. I twist the ring on my thumb as the silence stretches on. Do I hang up? Sit here?

The sound of the clacking of a keyboard comes through the phone.

“I received it. Looks like it’s in order.” There’s clicking in the background. “You provided your husband’s information. Wonderful. I’ll be reaching out to speak with him.”

“Oh-kay.”

“We must do our due diligence, you understand, Ms. St. James, or should I say Mrs. Henderson. We want to make sure your marriage is legitimate. Although I trust it is. But you never know. I’ve had one or two times where someone has tried to skirt around stipulations in a family member’s will.” He tuts. “We always find these things out.”

My palms are sweaty. Why is he telling me this? My heart races. Does he think my marriage is fake? I mean, we signed the paperwork. It’s real on paper.

“My husband works a lot. He’s—”

“I’m familiar with who your husband is, Mrs. Henderson.” Does he watch hockey? “I’ll be in touch.”

“Sounds good.”

He hangs up without another word. Well, okay then. I type out a quick text to Bash to let him know to expect a call from Glenn, then I put my phone in my drawer and get back to work.

I spend the rest of the afternoon reviewing the press announcements for events the Storm are hosting or part of in the coming weeks, as well as requests for quotes or interviews from local media.

At five-thirty, I pack up my things and head out to my car, ready to relax and thankful that Monday is over. When I get home, I unlock the door and push it open, expecting my cats to come running to greet me, but there’s no sign of them. I take off my shoes and make my way into the kitchen, dropping my purse and empty lunch bag onto the counter. No sign of Bash either. I can’t remember if he said he’d be in when I got home or not.

I pad farther into the condo, and the sight that greets me when I make it to the living room stops me in my tracks.

“Bash.”

The man in question looks at me from his spot kneeling on the ground in front of a massive cat tree. A cat tree that was not there this morning, one my cats are currently exploring.