Chapter 29

29

April stood at the counter, a whisk in one hand, the pancake mix box in the other. She looked up at Banks as he entered the kitchen.

“Is Georgia okay? What time did you guys get in last night?”

“She is. And almost two.” He made himself a cup of coffee. “She’s sleeping. Nasty cut and a bruise starting to show. But she’ll be okay.”

His sister shook her head. “I thought it took her eye out. I’ve never been so scared in my life. All I could think was: this poor girl. Quickly followed by: Dylan is going to kill me.”

He hid his smile behind his cup. “You got the order of operations right.”

“And she didn’t even cry. I think she was just stunned. Literally.” She measured some of the mix into the bowl. “Fucking McMillan.”

“Yep,” he affirmed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so …”

“Pissed.”

“Smitten.”

He put his cup down. “Smitten? What the fuck does that mean?”

“Infatuated, taken, affected, afflicted?—”

“Are you reading from a thesaurus?” She had her phone on the counter, so it wouldn’t have surprised him. “Afflicted makes it sound like I’ve come down with some sort of disease.”

“Love is a disease, isn’t it?”

Before he could respond, Sandy walked in. “Are we talking about Dylan’s OTT reaction to not being able to get to his wife quickly enough?”

April grinned. “We are.”

He picked up his coffee. “How is it OTT that I need to see the woman I married after she was injured? I’d be the same if it happened to one of you.”

“‘The woman I married’?” Sandy tilted her head and added in a deep voice that was supposed to be an impression of him, he gathered. “ ‘Where’s my wife?’ You sounded like one of those beasts in the romances I read. The guys who turn into werewolves and have to find their mate or die trying.”

“Which is kind of strange because we assumed you were just doing this for Gran.” April quirked a very annoying eyebrow.

His coffee cup halted midway to his mouth. “I am.”

“Right,” April said. “But then what?” She shared a look with Sandy. “We understand, honestly. You did something crazy in Vegas. Something out of character, and instead of getting divorced, you decided to work through it because you’re a good guy. For Gran. For Georgia. But maybe for yourself?”

He didn’t respond. Someone might say he was curious to hear them out.

That someone was not him.

Sandy lowered her voice. “We encouraged you to do this for Gran. And we wanted to meet her because we’re messy like that. But we’re wondering why Georgia agreed to it.”

“She has her reasons.” He didn’t want people to know she was in it for the money, to stop her parents from cutting her off completely. That made her look mercenary and him look like a fool.

“Well, whatever they are, she’s in it now.” April dropped butter in the pan and it started to sizzle.

“Meaning?”

April made a face. “Dylan, you’re sweet on her. Maybe more than that because as much as you love Gran, and as much as you’re willing to follow the advice of your wise and wonderful sisters, I don’t think you’d act quite so obsessed unless you were maybe?—”

“Totally fucking obsessed,” Sandy finished.

“I’m not obsessed. I just …” He trailed off, unable to explain it.

“Exactly.” Sandy patted him on the arm. “We love to see it. Especially the caveman invasion of the exam room to find your wife.”

“She was hurt.” Was it not common decency to barge in and demand to see the person who was injured during the game to which you invited her?

His sisters stared at him until April finally said, “Is this marriage real?”

“I have a certificate that says so.”

“Sure, D.” Sandy smirked at April. “A certificate.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Georgia had just walked in, and she looked so damn pretty and fucked out, he lost the power of speech. His sisters started fussing over her, making sure she was settled, getting her coffee, enquiring about her pancake preferences. Then it started all over again when his mom came out with Gran. Throughout this malarkey, Georgia accepted their attention patiently while sending impish looks his way.

He did the smile-behind-his-cup thing again, and she rolled in her lips because his wife knew all. Last night was their secret, and while it shouldn’t be a surprise that he and Georgia had fucked, it felt like something for them, and them alone.

His phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Is your wife okay?

Banks

Who wants to know?

Unknown

This is McMillan. Fuck, I’m sorry.

Banks inhaled deeply, thinking about all the things he’d like to say. At the same time, he recognized that striking a puck in anger during the playoffs was not unheard of. Rarely did it end so badly, but his wife was fine. Better than fine, and last night he’d taken care of her.

In all the ways.

Banks

She’s okay.

And then because he didn’t want to let him off too lightly, he added:

See you on the ice tomorrow.

Hockey players had ways to sort out their differences.

Unknown

…

Sure. Tell her I’m sorry.

You will be.

“Really, I’m perfectly fine. I only wish I could go with you.”

Trish frowned. “We can’t leave you.”

Georgia held up her phone with the text thread from Skye. “See? My bestie is coming over. You guys have tickets to Wicked ! You should not be missing that. I’ve already seen it twice.”

The Bankowski Babes looked torn. All morning, they had been so attentive, along with Banks before he headed into Rebels HQ for practice, and Georgia had squirmed at being the center of such focus. Dani used to call it “The Eye of Goodwin” when their parents were laser-focused on her, whether it was her temperature, her breathing, or her constantly monitored heartbeat. Whenever her parents said good morning, they’d respond with “Under his eye” and dissolve into giggles.

People looked at Georgia, but no one actually saw her. Which was why it was very easy to fob the crowd off with protestations about how fine she was. She’d been doing it for years.

“Text me at intermission. And if you don’t hear from me, shoot an SOS to your brother.”

April pointed her finger. “You know he’ll kill us if anything happens to you.”

“Again,” Sandy said.

Connie added, “When he should be saving that aggression for McMillan and Boston tomorrow night.”

“Nothing will happen. The doctors gave me the all-clear and you know Banks is just being overprotective. Go enjoy your show!”

Thirty minutes later, they were out the door and Georgia had sent a message to Skye telling her she would see her in a couple of hours, which gave her time for her real errand: to go see Jim.

“How is he today?”

Debbie stared at her, clearly amazed that Georgia was here at all. “You got hit by a puck! We saw it on TV. Are you okay?”

Georgia touched her wound. “It was a bit of a shock, but I’m fine. Hard head, you know?”

“Dad’s going to love hearing all about it. And your husband scored before he left the rink. I assume he raced to be at your side.”

Georgia could feel her cheeks heating. “I would have much preferred he stayed on the ice. He was on a roll.”

“Thankfully they won. And you’re so lucky that puck didn’t land an inch lower.” Debbie took her by the arm and led her inside. A woman Georgia didn’t recognize walked by with a lunch tray and headed into Jim’s room.

“Who’s that?” Though she had her suspicions.

“You know how I said I was trying to get home help? Well, this new charity sent someone over. I’ve applied to so many that I didn’t even remember this one.”

“That’s great news.” After the usual charitable sources had tapped out, Georgia arranged something anonymously with an agency. She wasn’t sure how long she could continue to pay for this, but if it gave Debbie a break, then that was all that mattered.

“So I have a favor to ask,” Debbie said.

“Anything.”

Debbie brought her upstairs to a room, where several outfits lay in a messy heap on the bed.

“I have a job interview tomorrow. I know I might not have this help for long, but between that and Mick, I’m hoping I can get back on the market.”

“Oh, that’s exciting. What’s it for?”

“A receptionist at a law firm downtown. But it’s been a while since I’ve been, well, anywhere, and all my clothes are kind of out of date. I thought maybe I could match this”—she picked up a brown skirt with pleats and a peach blouse with anchors all over it—“with this. What do you think?”

“I’m sorry, Debs, but that’s just hideous.”

The poor woman groaned. “I know.”

“Now what kind of place is this? Not all law firms are fuddy duddy where everyone has to wear suits.”

“The partners are kind of hot, actually.” She showed Georgia the firm’s website, where the evidence affirmed that they were indeed hot.

“Kind of younger. Divorce lawyers. Smartly dressed.” She didn’t add that these guys were wearing four-thousand-dollar suits. Not that their receptionist would be expected to match that, but Debbie was going to have to do better.

After a quick perusal of the paltry offerings in the woman’s closet, Georgia made an executive decision.

“Can you get away for an hour or so?”

Three hours later, Georgia got in her car, waved at Debbie, and set off for home. The aspiring receptionist was now in possession of a couple of business-casual blazers, a tweed pencil skirt, a belted A-line skirt, three silk shells in jewel tones, and a pretty azure blue blouse. Three years ago, Georgia had interned at an advertising agency, a gig purely to please her parents who had wondered what to do with her after she graduated college. To prepare, she’d bought a few classic pieces that weren’t really her style, and now they had a new owner.

“I can’t take these.” Debbie had run her hand over the tweed skirt, then snatched it back like she’d been caught guiltily enjoying the fabric. “I can borrow them, but that’s it.”

“Sure,” Georgia lied, knowing they were going to a much more deserving home. “Now how about shoes?”

Turned out they were roughly the same size in skirts but not footwear, so they went shopping. This is just as fun for me as it is for you , she’d insisted as they scanned the shoe section of Nordstrom’s. Not a lie in the slightest.

“When’s the last time you bought clothes or something for yourself?”

“It’s hard to find the time.” Debbie didn’t add “money” but Georgia heard it all the same.

When a family member was ill, it tended to take over the lives of everyone in their orbit. Not a criticism of the sick person, just an observation. With Dani as her family’s focus, Georgia had sometimes marveled at how much energy was expended in service to one individual.

And Georgia’s family had the wealth and resources to make Dani’s life as comfortable as possible and ensure that Georgia wasn’t completely forgotten. She had horse-riding and ballet lessons, spa treatments and birthday parties, overseas trips and beautiful gifts. With a steady stream of nannies and drivers, there was always someone to eat dinner with, pick her up from school, even attend recitals and plays when her parents had to take Dani in for check-ups or be at her bedside after a procedure.

But for someone like Debbie, who spent all her time caregiving and rarely had help, when did she get a shot at me-time?

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Debbie said after she’d checked the underside of the fiftieth pair of shoes. “It’s one thing to borrow clothes, but for you to buy shoes …”

“If you were able to squeeze into mine, I would have happily handed off a pair. But you don’t have to get anything expensive. These ones are only”—she held up a pair of Franco Sarto’s pumps—“$120.” Realizing that sounded rather elitist, she moved on to the more sensible, and likely cheaper, options. “These very ugly Naturalizers are $65 on sale, but I will never forgive you if you buy them.”

Debbie laughed. “I’m sure we can find something that doesn’t stop you from talking to me.”

As Georgia watched the sales assistant fussing over Debbie and bringing her low-heeled, office-appropriate shoes to try on, her phone buzzed.

The Hubs

Where are you?

Georgia

Just running an errand.

The Hubs

You’re supposed to be home resting.

Home. She’d never get used to that, which was good because that warm, syrupy glow in her chest was almost as dangerous as hearing Banks call her “wife.”

Georgia

I’ll be there soon!

The Hubs

Don’t make me come looking for you.

Oh, she shouldn’t like this feeling, having someone worry about you for all the right reasons. She shouldn’t but she did. Her parents weren’t to blame for putting Dani first, but Georgia couldn’t deny the hurt their neglect had caused. Having Banks fuss over her was nice. She should take a puck to the head more often.

Everyone needed that kind of TLC, but with limited resources, we tended to focus on the ones who needed it most. An illness created all sorts of collateral damage to a family. It wasn’t just that people had to give up jobs or never got the chance to have date nights with their husbands or go shopping for sensible shoes.

Her brain was ticking over, the seed of an idea seeking out the sun.

Her phone rang, and she steeled herself for another call from Banks, who had left three messages already before the texting began. It was her mom.

“Hello?”

“Darling, are you okay?” Her mother sounded a touch frantic. “Caroline Wilkins said you were hit by an ice hockey ball last night. I only just heard.”

“I’m fine, honestly. It wasn’t a big deal. Just bad luck.”

Her mother offered a tentative, “Was it … Dylan?”

She laughed. Wouldn’t the press have loved that? “No, Mom. Another player. Purely an accident.”

“Well, accident or not, I expect it’ll still get negative media attention. One of those viral things.”

Georgia stiffened. Did her mother think she had attracted that puck with her magnetic, partying personality?

She took a quick look at Debbie, who was trying on some loafers with— ugh— tassels. She shook her head to signify stern disapproval and returned to her mother. “It’ll die down soon enough.”

“I hope so. I’m not sure that’s the image we want to cultivate for the new foundation. You’ve been doing so well since news of your marriage got out. Much more like the Georgia of old! Now, did you get the meeting request from Emily? We need to get the media release out soon.”

Damn. “I did, but things are kind of busy right now. Banks’s family is in town, the playoffs are taking all our focus, and …” I have an idea for something different. Something special.

Her mom cut in. “If you can’t make the meeting, we’ll reschedule. Again. We also have to discuss the wedding reception. Can you send Emily a list of invitees for Dylan’s side? And shoot her some dates for dinner.” She muttered something to someone else, probably poor, overworked Emily. “Darling, I have to go.”

“Okay, Mom?—”

The line had already gone dead.

Debbie held up a pair of classic, but incredibly boring Calvin Klein slingbacks. “Will these do?”

“Do you like them?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”