Page 11 of Hockey Wife

The offender turned, an insult ready on his lips that vanished at what he saw: Dylan Bankowski, center for the Chicago Rebels, rearing up like the beast you do not want to fuck with.

“Banksy! Man, I’m sorry.” He turned to Georgia and had the nerve to put a hand on her bare shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“She’s fine,” Banks said, moving in between them. “Just be careful.”

“Sure, Banksy. Great game last night!”

Banks turned his back on the guy, though the only way he could truly do that was to fold Georgia into the shelter of his body. They stood tightly-packed against the bar while he tried to ignore her scent—something light and floral—and make sure no one else could lay a finger on her.

Peering up at him, she smirked. “Banksy? Hate to break it to you but that’s already taken.”

“You were saying?” He lowered his voice. “About the options to talking to my lawyer?”

“Yes. So the option would be to not talk to him.”

“Because your lawyer did such a bang-up job.”

She sucked in a breath that made those pretty tits rise and brush against his rib cage.

“Because I need us to stay married, Big Guy.”

“What?”

That he’d be horrified at the thought shouldn’t have surprised her. She considered how best to explain.

My parents think I’m a screw-up. They’ve bailed me out of so many little dramas. I can’t let them see me neck-deep in another mess of my own making.

“So, I have a trust?—”

“Money? Should’ve known.”

She bristled. “What does that mean? You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know you’re already rolling in cash and spend your life getting photographed at every social event in the city. You come from wealth and now you want me to help you acquire more of it.”

What a dick. He didn’t know the first thing about why she needed that money.

“It’s my inheritance but my parents can petition for a delay in the distribution if they think I might be liable to make risky decisions with the money.”

He looked skeptical. “And you think staying married is going to make you look more trustworthy? News flash: marrying a stranger in Vegas and then screwing up the divorce doesn’t scream stable.”

But the dirty details would be so much worse. “It would just be on paper. And we’re already two months in.”

He scoffed. “And how much longer would we have to do this?”

Not dismissing it out of hand. Promising.

“A couple more months?” She held up her palm to stall his protest. “We wouldn’t even have to do anything … couple-y.”

“You mean your trust-dispensing overlords would accept it at face value and we go about our lives as normal?”

“Not completely normal. Maybe move in together for a while?—”

He was already sliding past her because his previous gesture—that one of oddly-placed protectiveness from the guy who bumped her—had placed him squarely in a wraparound that kept her snugly trapped against the bar. Now he was leaving, exposing her to hell knew what.

“Banks, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“I don’t need money.”

---