Chapter 22

22

His mom and Connie called it an early night, and though it was close to ten, he was feeling like maybe he should do that, too. He had cooked dinner while Georgia kept everyone entertained with stories about the exploits that got her Page Six attention. Like the time she set off a fire alarm in a church. Or when she “borrowed” a police horse during Lollapalooza.

His sisters would be here tomorrow, so he had less than twenty-four hours to re-frame his game face for them. He was a master of passivity, but his sisters knew him a little too well. They’d see how he was around Georgia and would recognize that he might be pretending to fake it for his gran’s sake, but that his body language with his wife screamed his attraction to her.

They were both in the kitchen now, tidying up in that domestic shorthand of established couples. Dishes stowed, leftovers stored, and countertops wiped.

“Thanks for today, for being so cool with Mom and Gran. I know it’s not easy to be on show like that.”

“Are you kidding? Plenty of stories to mine for your entertainment, sir.” She gave a mock bow.

“You don’t have to entertain us. This is your life we’re talking about.”

“It’s okay, Big Guy.” She rubbed her hands together. “Next hurdle—sleeping together!”

“Hurdle?” This was going to be awkward/difficult/excruciating for her?

She folded her arms, cocked her hip. “You need to get some rest for the game tomorrow. I don’t want to interfere with that. I can sleep on the floor if that’s easier.”

“The bed is big enough. Go on ahead. I’ll be there in a few.”

Let her have time to brush her teeth. Cleanse her face. Change into one of those wispy camisole things and get under the covers.

He futzed about, making sure everything was tidy, though nothing really needed doing. Not nerves, just giving her space. Stalling for time, he headed to the laundry room. The slight tang of the cat litter tickled his nostrils, and he looked down at Cheddar, who took a couple of steps toward him.

He hunkered down and because he was a sucker, he rubbed a hand over his arching back. “Sorry about this, dummy. If it were up to me, you’d have the run of the place.”

A plaintive mewl was his response. Banks closed the door and headed to the first-floor restroom to wash his hands and take a good look at himself in the mirror.

That kiss meant nothing. All these light touches in front of his gran? Nothing. When Georgia groped his ass in the laundry room? Nothing. The ring … He turned his own band, marveling at how strange it didn’t feel on his finger. Like it belonged there.

He had to stay focused on his game, and not just the one on the ice. So what if he had to sleep in the same bed as his wife? It was king-sized, and while he usually took up most of it, not tonight.

Tonight, he would hover on the edge at risk of falling off, anything to ensure he did not touch Georgia.

She was sitting up under the covers, e-reader propped on her knees, the soft light of the bedside lamp suffusing her creamy skin with a lovely glow. A couple of thin silky straps bisected her perfectly-rounded shoulders. He looked away quickly.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just wondering what took you so long. Did you need to check all the doors and windows?”

“Doesn’t hurt to do a walk-through.”

A slight smirk. “So I chose this side. But if you have a preference?—”

“No preference.” His gaze slid to the bedside table on the opposite side, taking note of the couple of millimeters the drawer was extended.

“I saw you had condoms, so I assumed that was your side.”

He nodded, feeling his color rising. “Fine. Just going to …” He gestured to the bathroom then headed there quickly and shut the door.

Fuck. He should have thought of that. Not that condoms were embarrassing, but it meant now he was thinking about sex. ( Sure, blame the condoms .) Maybe she was thinking about sex or the fact that he had protection, which they could use if?—

Nope. They were just there, little coils of rubber that would get no use for a while.

He had agreed to play out this charade for months, at least until Georgia’s parents put her back on the payroll. All that time, he’d have to be celibate because he was married.

Since Vegas, he hadn’t been interested in any other woman. Even when he thought he was divorced, he’d kept it in his pants. He’d known she didn’t want to give him the time of day, had figured out how to eighty-six him from her life within a week of marriage, yet he’d still placed her on some sort of pedestal. A woman worthy of his fidelity.

His psyche knew he was taken.

Mighty fucked up, that. He had signed the annulment papers—which weren’t worth the tree pulp they were printed on, apparently—and had still craved a woman who clearly didn’t want him. At least, not until she had a monetary reason.

This was good. Remember why she’s here. Remember she doesn’t want you that way.

A couple of minutes later, he was out of the bathroom after splashing his face with cold water to wake himself the fuck up.

She’d turned out the lamp on her side; now only the pale glow of her e-reader cast about the room. At least he could undress in the shadows, which he did down to his boxer briefs. He pulled back the covers, slid under them, and steeled his body for the night ahead.