Chapter 7

7

“Georgia, your waist is snatched and you look stunning!”

Georgia plastered on her best clown grin and ushered Skye and Paris inside her apartment.

“You guys were supposed to be here hours ago.” It was already past ten and a girl needed her squad.

Skye tossed her dark waves over her shoulder. “Well, this one said she’d meet a date at Molly’s, but she needed a wing-girl. Nothing good ever happens before midnight, girl.”

“But it looks like you have plenty of people to keep you company.” Paris waved at the room behind her, heaving with people. All the lookie-loos had crawled out of the woodwork, salivating for the gossip. Except her friends couldn’t be bothered!

“Is he here?” Skye looked over her shoulder.

“Who?”

“Your husband, girl! Everyone’s dying to see the two of you together. I can’t believe you kept this to yourself.”

A familiar panic rose within her. “It was all a big mistake. You know me, love a bit of drama!”

“I’ve seen pics. That guy can flood my basement anytime.” Paris fanned herself, the thirsty bitch. Georgia and Banks might mean nothing to each other, but the man was technically still her husband. Her friends should not be drooling over him like he was on the Bridgerton marriage mart.

“He’s kind of old, though, isn’t he?” Skye wrinkled her nose. “Our girl’s daddy issues are showing. You gonna pull a Britney and get it annulled?”

Paris squealed. “Can’t get it annulled if they did the nasty.”

Not true, according to her lawyer. “Working on it now.”

“So this happened when we took our girls’ trip?” Paris cocked her head. “I know you disappeared there for a while?—”

“Because you met that tatted DJ”—Skye pointed at Paris—“and then we went to his suite so you could lick his ink. You weren’t paying attention to anyone after that.”

Paris scowled. “Neither were you! I thought you were going to hang with our girl here and look at the trouble she got into.”

Before they could get any deeper into the dirt of who was responsible for leaving Georgia alone long enough to get herself legally embroiled in the life of a professional athlete, she held up a hand.

“It was no one’s fault but mine. I just wanted some alone time.”

Paris smirked. “Look how far that took you. I only fucked the guy I met. You took it to the next level!”

Sex would have been so much simpler. As it was, she didn’t even get an orgasm out of it. But there were kisses. Stubble-jawed rubs against her throat, firm lips taking control …

“Oh, G, I need a word.” Skye took the moment that Paris was distracted while answering a text to pull Georgia aside. “So you’re never going to guess what happened. My car broke down, just crapped out on Halsted!”

“Oh no!”

“Right? And the mechanic, who was really hot by the way, not that I’d be interested, but just an observation, he says it’s going to cost me three grand to fix the transmission. Can you believe that? Fucking inflation! I have maybe thirteen hundred and I hate to ask, but it’s either that or I sell myself to the hot mechanic.”

Georgia squeezed her friend’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll Venmo you the difference.”

“You would? Oh, you’re a star! Could you round up to two grand?” Her phone buzzed and she quickly scanned the screen. “That’s my sister. She’s such a leech!”

Georgia rolled in her lips. Skye was a good friend, but she always had money issues, which were easier to support when Georgia didn’t have plans for her own funds. In the old days, she was happy to treat her girls with Sephora sprees here and trips to Santorini there. At one time, she had more money than she could possibly spend, so why not spread the wealth around?

Now her cash wasn’t as fluid, but she couldn’t turn down a friend in need.

Skye gave a dirty grin. “Don’t think I don’t want to know everything about this hockey player husband of yours. You’re not getting away with keeping that to yourself.”

The doorbell rang, saving her from launching into the details.

“Go get yourself a cocktail. I’ll catch you up later.”

Smile in place. Hand on doorknob. The game begins again.

Georgia could barely hear her voice, never mind her thoughts, above the din of the party. This was usually how she liked it. Blocking out the negative with loud music and lively chatter was her go-to. The best way to center herself and keep the boogeyman of grief away.

Only tonight, she couldn’t ignore as well as usual. Part of the reason was sitting beside her, sulking.

“I’m kind of hurt, G.”

She turned to Oliver, one of her closest friends, and the guy she usually relied on in times of crisis. They’d known each other since first grade, when she gave him a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich from her lunchbox, and he promptly threw it up.

“Hmm?”

“This marriage business. You could have turned to me if you needed a husband.”

How thrilled her mother would be. She loved Oliver’s parents. They were on all the same charity boards.

“And what would Savannah think?”

They looked toward Oliver’s girlfriend, who gave them a tiny finger wave and turned back to her conversation with a baby Pritzker. Poor Sav. She really did not like Georgia.

“She’d know I was just trying to do you a favor. We had a pact. Single by thirty and we’d do the deed. Guess you don’t need me anymore.” Boy band pout activated.

She squeezed his arm. “Believe me when I say this was not part of any plan. Serves me right for wandering the streets of Vegas by myself.”

“Yeah, Paris and Skye have a lot to answer for. They should have been keeping an eye on you.”

A little patronizing, but that was typical Oliver. That weekend, she’d wanted to get away from everyone, commune with neon and noise where no one knew her. It had been two years since she lost Dani. Two years as the broken half, left behind, her heart aimless.

It’s your time to shine, Georgia. I won’t be around sucking up all the oxygen. Make me proud.

All those promises to live life to the full and figure out her place in the world had shattered in a seedy chapel, a few blocks off the Strip. She couldn’t even get that right. Her parents already thought she was a disaster and Banks obviously thought so, too.

Before that fateful night, she’d had three marriage proposals in as many years and one broken engagement. A nice ratio. Everyone wanted to marry Georgia, even Oliver who should be thinking about his real girlfriend. But the one guy she’d gone all the way with, so to speak, knew instantly the mistake he’d made.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fixed soon, and we can go back to our original plan.”

Oliver was still hung up on the sordid details. “But a hockey player? Whatever possessed you?”

“Tequila, Oli. Tons of it. Do you really think I’d have done that if I was in my right mind?” A pang of guilt pinched her, though she didn’t owe Dylan Bankowski a single kind thought, not after he’d dismissed her so rudely. Neither had she been that drunk, but alcohol was as good a scapegoat as any.

He chuckled mirthlessly. “No, I suppose not. He’s not exactly your type. You prefer them with all their teeth.”

Another pinned-on smile. She was pretty sure the guy had all his original teeth, not that he’d ever used them on her. All that glowering, and still she’d let him lead her down the aisle.

Oliver wasn’t done. He had quite a nasty streak when he got going. “Multiple pucks to the head, too. Probably brain damaged. And don’t forget he’s a fists-first kind of guy.”

“He is?”

“They all are. That’s what hockey players are known for. Duking it out on the ice.”

That sounded familiar as a concept. The reality, not so much. Dani was the sporty one in the family, a big hockey fan. She’d be laughing her head off if she could see Georgia now.

What do you think, sis? A hockey player!

Oli’s right, G. So not your type.

“He was quiet.” Contemplative and stoic. But when he spoke, it felt like he saw right into her. Not that she told him much about herself, so that was her overactive imagination for sure. Now he knew that she came from money, that she liked to party, and he obviously had “opinions.”

She’d done some research herself.

Dylan “Banks” Bankowski. Thirty-six. Center position. Wisconsin native. Winner of several awards, including the Calder Memorial and the Frank J. Selke. (But not the Cup, which she knew was the big one.) Played for New York, Denver, and Nashville before being acquired by the Chicago Rebels in January, the weekend of the All-Star game.

The weekend he became her husband.

But soon not to be. Perhaps the bar ambush wasn’t her best idea, but subtlety had never been her strong suit. With his refusal, she was forced to reckon with telling her parents how much she’d messed up. They’d want more control over her life, make her return to college or … marry someone they chose. Like Oliver. Which wouldn’t be terrible because he was a friend and wanted to be with her.

Not like her current husband.

Banks hated parties.

At his age, he was no longer interested in hanging at clubs or even attending gatherings at his teammates’ houses, unless it involved cards and beer. A quiet cookout he could do. Maybe a night out at a bar with the boys. He should be there now, but everyone was zeroed in on O’Malley’s love life and his various schemes to stay out of prison. Banks had already said his piece and had no desire to rehash it in a group setting, especially as he needed to rest his shoulder and not let on how much pain he was in.

An ice bath would be good. A pack on his shoulder and a couple of whiskeys to help him sleep would be better.

Instead he had Georgia on his mind. He had been dismissive and rude to her the other night, annoyed at her for showing up and dangling the possibilities of a rematch in front of him. Residual anger at how things had ended between them had colored his perspective.

He was here to talk calmly about next steps.

Entry to Castle Apartments was a little too easy. The doorman recognized him immediately and told him “Ms. Georgia is on the fourth floor. Go on up, Mr. Banks.”

It’s Mr. Bankowski, but whatever.

Any concerns that she might be licking her wounds vanished as he stepped out of the elevator and registered the vibrating bass. Circling a couple mid-grope in the hallway, he followed the thump-thump to its origin.

He checked his watch. Almost eleven o’clock. He’d hoped to find her alone, maybe a little sleepy. Kind of like she’d looked as she fell into a deep slumber in his arms …

No, not like that. Forget that.

He really should be taking care of his shoulder and not chasing down his mistake. But he’d put this off for too long already. Give it another day and the tabloids would be talking about how Georgia was pregnant with twins and which color they were picking for the nursery.

He pushed the door to her apartment open. That Miley Cyrus song was playing, the she-anthem about flowers that seemed to be on an eternal loop when he visited his sisters and nieces. No one paid him any heed as he walked through the packed entryway, except to instantly move aside because he was a husky guy and people usually did that when he entered a room.

He scanned the space quickly, eyeing it like he’d just cleared the boards. The barriers to his progress. The defenders in his way. The goal where he would soon sink the puck.

She was currently marked. Some guy in a suit, extra douche points for the matching vest. Ignoring him, Banks took a good look at her.

His wife.

People flitted around her, butterflies to whatever sustaining nectar she dispensed into their sad little worlds. A half-smile. A flutter of her eyelashes. A low chuckle and a quiet word.

Dressed in pink—again—she laughed at something Suit Boy said, but even from here he could see it. Her eyes, usually so blue and bright, were dull. Faking it.

Time to put some life back into them.

He could come in from the side, out-flank the mark, but he figured direct was better. Just like the moment in the Empty Net when he knew bone-deep that she was there, Georgia seemed to sense his presence.

Their gazes locked. The music fell away. A weird shiver shuddered through him, some sense of déjà vu, because yeah, they’d been here before.

Christ, he wanted her.

He shouldn’t, not after everything he knew about her. How she discarded him without a second thought. How the paperwork mistake and her cash flow problem were the only reasons she sought him out again. It was purely chemical attraction, nothing more.

Yet, here he was, thinking of ways to have her all to himself.

She stood as he approached, probably because she felt at a disadvantage while sitting. He had at least a foot and a half on her.

“Celebrating your impending divorce?”

“Oh, I don’t need an excuse. Every day’s a party around here.”

Her defiant tone didn’t quite match her expression. So she needed to play at tough girl for a moment. He’d give it to her, but not for long.

“Hi, I’m Oliver, Georgia’s oldest friend.” Suit Boy offered a hand and, after a second, Banks took it.

“Banks. Georgia’s current husband.”

Her little gasp was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.

Giving himself a second to enjoy her reaction, he released Suit Boy’s hand and turned back to Georgia. “Let’s take a walk.”

Without waiting for a response, he grasped her tiny hand and led her away.