Chapter 9

9

“Darling! You made it!”

Georgia smiled thinly at her mother. “Of course I did. You invited me.”

Penny Goodwin gave a raspy, knowing laugh. “And whenever have you paid attention to your poor old mother? Your father will be thrilled.” She looked around the glitzy ballroom at the Drake in downtown Chicago, bannered and beautified for the Humane Society gala, seeking out Georgia’s dad. “We were just saying that we need to meet Derek. Have the two of you over for dinner and talk about a reception for the newlyweds.”

Her mom’s voice lifted on that last phrase, sounding a touch hysterical.

“It’s Dylan, Mom. Dylan Bankowski.”

“GiGi, you’re here!” Her father kissed her on the cheek.

“Why is everyone so surprised I accepted an invitation?”

“We’re not surprised,” her father said, as if Georgia was the one getting it all wrong. “It’s lovely to see you. Your mother’s been worried.”

“I hear Darren’s from Wisconsin. Is that last name Polish?”

“It’s Dylan, and yes, my husband is Polish.” She wasn’t sure if the mention of the word “husband” or “Polish” made her mother’s eyes twitch; either way, it was most gratifying.

Her father stepped in before her mother could say anything else. “It’s nice to see you settled, GiGi. Can’t wait to meet him.”

“Good, because he’ll be here tonight.”

Penny Goodwin’s eyes went as wide as the Villeroy & Boch plates they’d be serving mushroom Wellington on later. “Here? But darling, why ever would you think that was a good idea? We really should be doing this in private, don’t you think?”

“Well, nothing’s been private about it so far. Why start now?”

Her mom got that pinched look between her eyebrows. “Georgia, I’m thinking of Dar—Dylan. How awkward for him to meet his in-laws under such strange circumstances.”

At this rate, Georgia didn’t care. Her parents weren’t terribly awful, just a little bit awful. No worse than most parents except they took their jobs very seriously: they disapproved of everything she did.

While her mother jabbered on about which locations might be suitable for a last-minute wedding reception ( cart before the horse, darling, but we’ll manage! ), Georgia cast a nervy glance over her shoulder. She should have insisted they meet beforehand. Make an entrance together. But he’d said he’d be busy “with my job” all day so he’d see her here. She’d left his name at the door but maybe she should text him again.

She turned toward the entrance just as a male model in a suit appeared to block her view.

Only that was no male model.

That was … Banks.

When she asked him last night for a favor—put in an appearance at this gala her parents were hosting and by the way, it’s black tie—she had hoped he’d show in something decent. He hadn’t spotted her yet, but he was scanning the crowd, which gave her time to appreciate the spectacular form that was the man she had accidentally married.

Holy fucking wow.

He looked like he’d walked off a Paris runway. But there was also something indefinable about how he wore the threads, like he’d happily rip them off as soon as the director of this scene said “cut!”

Director Georgia would be happy to rip them off on his behalf.

He spotted her, and she remembered why she was in this mess. The world fell away. That night in Vegas, she had needed an escape from her life, from the version of herself that was forced to exist without Dani. Banks had done that for her. He’d given her that comfort.

But it wasn’t real.

As he headed toward her, she reminded herself: Not real.

As the crowds parted—because that’s what everyone did when Banks strode through like a god among mortals—she repeated the words. Not real.

And when he stood before her, those deep brown eyes locking in and finding new ways to incinerate her panties, she whispered to herself. Not real.

“Georgia.” Reality crashed through her like a soul-sucking wave.

“You came!”

There was a slight twitch of his lips at her innuendo-laden declaration.

“Sure did,” he murmured before leaning close to her ear. His lips brushed the sensitive lobe, his beard tickled her skin, and anyone watching would think he had kissed her. A husband greeting his wife. “Your wish, my command, right?”

That was different. He sounded almost … flirtatious. She turned to her parents who were looking on with interest.

“Mom, Dad, this is Dylan. Dylan Bankowski. Um, these are my parents, Penny and Marcus Goodwin.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin. It’s great to meet you.”

Her mom’s eyes lit up. “Likewise. Though we’re a bit surprised it took so long.”

“You’ve been out of town for months, Mom.”

“We were in Chicago in early February before we went to Gstaad and then again in March before Hawaii. Not that my daughter tells me anything.”

Before Georgia could defend herself, Banks jumped in.

“Yeah, that’s my fault. I wanted to keep it under wraps so I could spend some quality time with Georgia before the press got ahold of it. She was worried it would look weird, how it all happened so fast.”

This did not pass her mother’s sniff test. “But to keep it from her parents?”

“To be honest …” His hand circled Georgia’s waist and pulled her into the haven of his hard body. “What we did was a touch impulsive, and I wanted to give her time to back out if she had second thoughts.”

Georgia swallowed hard, shocked that the man beside her had come up with a coherent statement that plugged the holes better than anything she could have conjured.

Her mother narrowed her eyes. “That’s quite … mature of you, I suppose, especially given the strange start to your relationship. Vegas is rather clichéd, don’t you think?”

“Well, it’s not as if we met there for the first time.”

Three sets of Goodwin peepers fixed on Banks, who squeezed Georgia a little tighter and gave her a wry look.

“You didn’t tell them you’re neighbors with my teammate?”

“No, I didn’t.” Even think of it.

Banks smiled and it was like the clouds had parted to reveal the sun after a storm.

“We met a while back when I was visiting Dex O’Malley, one of my teammates. He’s kind of an idiot, but Georgia’s beyond patient with him ’cause she’s a saint. Anyway, we ran into each other in the elevator. She’d dropped a couple of oranges out of her grocery bag and one of them went rolling down the hallway. I chased that sucker like it was a puck heading into the blue zone.”

“The blue zone?” her mother asked, enthralled by Banks’s easy manner.

“Where I score goals, Penny. On the ice rink. Anyway, I scooped up that orange and returned it to Georgia and we got to talking. That was what—how long before Vegas, honey?”

Honey. She looked up into the gorgeous, lying eyes of her husband and tried to get with the program. He was helping her save face, framing their relationship as something historical, planned. Solid.

“A few months, maybe?”

“Yeah.” Another little squeeze of encouragement, maybe even approval that she was finally on board the Origin Story train. The people pleaser in her morphed into a praise whore on the spot while he went on. “We didn’t go there to get hitched, but when in?—”

“Vegas?” her father offered.

“Yep, Marcus, it seemed like the best idea in the world. Only …” He leaned in, like he had a secret to tell. “She got cold feet after we did the deed.”

“She did?” Her mother turned accusing eyes on Georgia, the big bad of the story once more. How could you do that to this lovely man, darling?

Georgia spluttered, “It all happened so quickly!”

“Too quickly,” Banks said with a chuckle. A chuckle! “I kind of strong-armed her into it. Georgia wasn’t completely sure, and the day after, she hotfooted it out of there. Once we got back to Chicago, I had to beg her to give it a shot. She was being the sensible one, y’know. She wanted to live apart at first so we wouldn’t be overwhelmed with setting up house. Or letting that honeymoon period weigh too heavily on the facts. Too much pressure.”

“That sounds very reasonable,” her mother said, though it hadn’t sounded reasonable at all. He had spilled the beans about her running away, but her mother wasn’t focused on that. She was too busy staring at Banks as if every word out of his mouth was utter perfection. “It’s nice to see you’re approaching this with a modicum of common sense. I’m guessing it’s because you’re a little older, Dylan. A calming influence.”

Good grief, had he not just told a version of events that painted Georgia as the sensible one? No getting out from under that misconception.

Her mother turned to her daughter. “I just wish you’d told us. We want to get to know our new son-in-law.”

She smiled at Banks, a warm, generous smile that she usually reserved for the beneficiaries of her charitable largesse.

He returned it, holding her gaze until she dragged it away and blinked in confusion. Dylan Bankowski, Mother-in-Law Whisperer.

“Oh, Marcus, there’s Mitzy Layton. We really should talk to her.”

“Indeed,” her father said. “We’ll catch up later. Good to meet you, Dylan.”

“Likewise, sir.”

He kept his hand on her waist as her parents walked away, then inclined his head, his lips brushing her ear again.

“I think we need a drink, don’t you?”

Banks signaled to the bartender. “Gin and tonic, and an IPA.”

Georgia looked up at him with those big blue eyes. “You remember my drink?”

“We shared quite a few of them in Vegas.”

He looked around the ballroom, about as glitzy as you’d expect for a gathering of wealthy do-gooders. Everything was gilt-edged and shiny and a little bit phony, including Georgia’s parents.

The Goodwins were rightly suspicious of him—after all, they’d never heard of him until now. Obviously not hockey fans. He’d expected to wing it once they met, but that skeptical look from Mama G had inspired some light improvisation. They had the connection in O’Malley, so why not use it to give the story more weight? Hopefully no one would delve deep enough to discover he hadn’t moved to Chicago until after Vegas.

She took a quick breath. “You saved my ass back there. I know we should have discussed the backstory beforehand, but I’ve obviously not thought this through. And there you were, with all the answers.”

“Just thought it would sound better if we said we’d known each other from before. Makes it seem less weird.”

“A little bit less.”

“A tiny bit less,” he countered and watched her lips curve into a gorgeous smile. Jesus, he would come up with any number of lies and cheats to see that flash of sun.

“And telling them I got post-nuptial jitters? That’s genius. Covers us in case they get wind of the first annulment.”

His thoughts, exactly. This girl was sharp. He remembered that from Vegas.

“Do you think they bought it?”

“My mom was very taken with you, which is incredible because she’s not easy to impress. I’m amazed at how quickly you came up with that story. You’re a natural liar.”

“I’m a natural storyteller. There’s a difference.”

“Well, I owe you. Big time.”

I accept Visa, Mastercard, and hot, wet kisses. He looked her over . Her long, platinum blonde hair fell down her back like a wave of sun over another strapless pink dress, similar to what she wore that night. Her wedding dress. Those round, creamy shoulders were right there, awaiting his lips …

She waved at him. “What? Do I have a stray booger?”

“Come again?”

She rubbed her nose. “You’re staring at me like I have spinach in my teeth.”

“No, you’re perfect.”

She blinked, like she’d never heard that. People—men—must tell her that all the time.

He evicted thoughts of compliments from previous boyfriends, none of whom were her husband, he might add. “What’s this gala for?”

“One of my parents’ many causes. This one is for the Humane Society. Fifty thousand dollars a plate.”

He gave a low whistle. “How much will they raise?”

“Five million. Maybe more.”

“That’s a lot of cheddar.”

“It is. They’re very conscious of giving back, putting good into the world.”

“They have a lot of money, and you can’t take it with you.”

She shook her head. “I’m not criticizing. Of course they’re doing great work.”

“But you think there’s something performative about it.”

She shrugged. “Maybe? They’re very aware of how they look. But people are getting helped, so I shouldn’t be so nitpicky about it.”

She’d brought it up so there must be something to it that bothered her. Maybe she thought their money was hers by right. Maybe her parents expected her to do serious things with her life and didn’t approve of how she lived it. Professional party girl wasn’t exactly the noblest of professions.

“So, they cut you off?”

“What makes you say that?”

A guess, but he suspected a good one. “You’re living next door to O’Malley.”

“A wealthy hockey player.”

His turn to shrug. “Castle Apartments is fine but isn’t exactly a palace. That’s temp housing for the new guys on the team. Decent, but not your style.”

She finally gave up the act. “My parents haven’t been all that happy with some of my choices of late. They cut off my allowance, are threatening to withhold dispensation of my trust, and are trying to blackmail me into doing what they want.”

“Which is?”

“Take a job with one of their companies.”

What a drag to be set for life without doing a thing.

“But you’re not partied out yet?”

Those beautiful blues went wide for a millisecond. Had he hurt her feelings?

“Me? Never.”

He looked around. People were staring at them, likely wondering what the hell this gorgeous young woman was doing with him. Beauty and the Goon.

“So what’s the end game here?”

“I figure a couple of months should keep them off my back and get me back in clover.”

A couple of months he could manage. The playoffs were just around the corner, and he’d be so busy he would barely notice her. But his family would have questions about why he was letting this drag on. As for his grandmother? She’d have a whole other set of expectations.

The notion that time together would help him figure out the why of it all was still there, simmering away.

“Be ready to move in tomorrow.”

“What?”

He passed her drink to her. Looked like she needed it. “You want this to look legit? You need to move in with me.”

She glowered at him. Kind of cute, to be honest. “Is this what I have to expect? Bosshole husband?”

He liked that. Bosshole .

Eh, husband , too.

“Sounds about right.”