Chapter 37

37

Georgia was sitting at the vanity, trying to decide if demure drop diamond earrings went better with her scar than platinum hoops, when Banks appeared at the door to the room they’d labeled “Georgia’s Closet, Part II.”

She’d returned late from one of her birthday party gigs and Banks had been in the shower. Tempted to join him, she decided that would be better left until later. She would need the stress relief after a visit with her parents, and she suspected Banks would, too.

Tonight, her knockout husband wore a burgundy shirt, open to one button, with black dress pants. She doubted her mother would approve of that beard, but his wife thought he was on fire.

She opened her mouth to say hi to his reflection in the mirror, but bit off a greeting at the sight of him approaching. More like stalking.

Heart beating like a hammer …

Every damn time.

He halted behind her, still staring, still consuming her with his gaze. With a gentle sweep, he moved her hair aside, leaving her neck exposed. Then he inhaled at the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder like her scent was the oxygen he needed to breathe.

She shivered with pleasure. Words dried in her throat.

His lips brushed her earlobe, inducing another delicious shiver. He applied a kiss just under her ear, then another to the curve of her neck. Her nipples hardened. Dampness pooled between her thighs. Reaching up, she hooked a hand around his neck, and her touch fanned the flames. His kisses became more ardent, desperate to cover more ground.

She let out a whimper. He sucked on her lobe, then gave it a small nip that set her whole body ablaze.

They were going to be late.

She didn’t care.

Her phone vibrated. She ignored it. Banks’s mouth was all she could think of, all she could feel.

Her phone buzzed again, and he raised his head.

“Your mom,” he said with a kiss that felt final to her neck.

Gah!

Mom

Darling, Rosetta wants to know if you’re still vegetarian. She could probably whip up some pasta primavera at the last minute.

She closed her eyes.

“Still?” Banks asked.

“Never. I experimented for a week in eighth grade before I remembered I couldn’t live without pepperoni pizza.” Her mother had a memory like a steel trap, which she chose to use selectively. “Just a dig about my lack of commitment to any course of action.”

He screwed up his mouth, ready to defend her.

She cut him off. “We should get going.”

“Yep.”

“Georgia, you have a scar!”

“I told you I got hit by a puck.”

Her mother blinked. “Yes, but I had no idea it was so … obvious.”

Her father leaned in for a closer look then turned to her mother. “We should get Stephen to assess the legal options.”

“Dad, it was an accident and not a big deal.” As moguls, her parents lived their lives on the litigious edge. Lawyering up was usually the first option.

A warm weight wrapped around her hand. Banks had curled his fingers in hers, and the knowledge that he was here at her side gave her strength.

Her mother wrinkled her nose. “Dylan, does this kind of thing happen often?”

“No, Penny, it’s pretty rare, but then so is Georgia.”

There went her pulse again. She slid a look at Banks to find him smiling at her. She would think it all part of the act if Banks hadn’t held her hand on the car ride over or all the way up the elevator. If he hadn’t turned to her before they knocked on the door to her parents’ penthouse and said, “We’ve got this, Peaches.” If he hadn’t given her a kiss so sweet her knees were still knocking when Rosetta opened the door.

She would never have considered herself rare enough to deserve the undivided attention of a man like Dylan Bankowski. But in this world they’d created, she was at the center, and she wished more than anything it could stay that way.

The Goodwins lived in a penthouse in the John Hancock Center on Michigan Avenue, which, given Banks’s own wealth, he really couldn’t fault them for. (Though he wanted to.) It was filled with expensive art and uncomfortable furniture and looked like it was used for a few weeks a year.

One thing stood out: Dani was not forgotten. Photographs of her covered sideboards, mantels, and walls. There were pictures of Georgia as well, but mostly in official-looking family portraits or with her sister. Scanning the offerings, he found one of her solo, on a horse. Not more than fifteen, he’d guess, she had the imperious look of someone who had been born into wealth and privilege and expected everyone else to bow down before her.

Curious that this would be the photo they kept on public display.

Dinner was served in the dining room with large picture windows overlooking Lake Shore Drive.

“We hope you like Cornish game hen, Dylan,” Penny said. “Georgia said you’re not a fussy eater.”

“He can’t be, not with how often I’ve tried to poison him.”

Her father raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’ve cooked, GiGi? Meals?”

“Yes, Dad. If you can call it cooking.”

Banks chuckled. “She’s better than she lets on. It’s nice to see her trying.”

Penny narrowed her eyes at him. “Your job … pays quite well, doesn’t it?”

“Mom. Rude.”

“Well enough,” he said, seeing where they were going. These people had a housekeeper and a personal chef. “But I like to cook, and I prefer the privacy. Also, better to keep my money for retirement.”

Marcus coughed. “Quite a short career span in your profession.”

“True. A couple more years in me, then I’ll settle. Start a family.”

He’d like to say that had come out of nowhere, but he couldn’t. It had been on his mind for a while, the next phase, and though he and Georgia hadn’t talked about it—hell, they hadn’t talked about anything future-focused—the thought of her in his life on a more permanent basis had taken hold.

He took a quick look at a blushing Georgia and prayed he hadn’t gone too far.

“A family?” Penny shifted to look at Georgia, as if the notion had only just occurred to her. “That’s …” She blinked at her husband, who was remaining quiet. “Marvelous. Jenny at the Tattler will love that.”

So, he was going with the flow here, making small talk with his fake wife’s parents about their future imaginary grandbabies, but a part of him was digging it. More than digging it. Craving it.

Georgia as mother to his kids. But she wouldn’t have to do it alone because he’d be retired in a couple of years and ready and willing to be a good co-parent.

Something Georgia’s mom had said niggled, though. “The Tattler ? The society magazine?”

“Oh, just a little joke. We’re on great terms with the editor over there. They loved getting the marriage news straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Mom!” Georgia groaned. “Are you saying you spilled the beans about my marriage to the Tattler ?”

Her mother looked baffled. “Darling, it wasn’t exactly a secret. Once you told us, I wanted it handled properly, and the Chicago Tattler is where all the society news is revealed.”

Georgia looked embarrassed. She mouthed, “sorry” at him, and he tried to puzzle out why. Because she told her parents?

Because she told her parents.

They were the reason word about their marriage was made public.

Penny had moved on. “Darling, I’m thrilled to see you more … settled. You’ve had us worried.” She turned to Banks. “She’s become quite wild.”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of wild, Penny.”

“Well, she’s all yours now!”

Georgia gave one of her patented fake smiles. She must have spent her childhood perfecting them.

“You make it sound like my wife’s a problem to be managed. I assure you, she’s not.”

Georgia’s father stared at him for a second. “We could always rely on Georgia to never cause a fuss when she was younger. We had so many pressures with Dani being ill, and Georgia made it easy for us to be there for the daughter that needed us most. But then?—”

“Dad, Dylan doesn’t need to hear this.”

Marcus held up a hand, cutting his daughter off. Dick move, man . “Like all teens, she started to act out. And Georgia’s teen years seem to have lasted longer than most.”

A quick look at Mrs. G tagged her in. “That’s why we think Dani’s charity would be the perfect thing for you to fill your time. Your husband”—at that, Mama Goodwin’s expression took on the strain of incredulity—“is a busy man with his sports. Dylan, tell her she can’t be sitting around at home.”

Anger flared, but instead of showing it, he reached for the comfort of Georgia’s hand. “As far as I’m concerned, my wife can do whatever the hell she wants.”

Penny winced. “Is that typical of the other wives of your teammates? Doing whatever they want?”

“There’s no standard template for how a hockey wife or husband has to behave or fill their time. Some of them have jobs, own businesses, stay home with children. Some of them like learning to cook or the rules of hockey. There’s space for all kinds of journeys here.”

Georgia squeezed his hand, and he risked a glance at her. She was smiling at him, her eyes shiny enough to make his heart contract.

“Darling, aren’t you lucky to have such support?” Penny managed to make “support” sound like a four-letter word.

“Absolutely blessed,” Georgia murmured, like she meant it.

Which was good because he would have her back through hellfire if she needed him.

Mrs. G wasn’t finished. “And with all that support, you’d still have time for Dani. You wouldn’t have to do any of the operational work, just liaise with the appointed head on the optics. Tell her, Marcus.”

“If she doesn’t want to do it, we can’t force her.” Marcus patted his wife’s arm and sent her a quelling look. Clearly, Georgia’s intransigence was a much-discussed topic. Why wouldn’t she tell them about her plans? Her dreams?

He caught her gaze. Tell them, Peaches.

She looked away, and the moment passed.

“Now, Dylan, we’d love to hear more about you,” Penny said. “When did you start playing ice hockey?”