Page 36 of Hockey Wife

So the moment she’d seen him in that bar, sex was her first thought. That instant shot of desire had thrummed through her as she watched this bear of a man, dressed like a woodsman, chatting with his mom and fighting off horny brides. But no way would a normal person think that getting married was the logical next step to sleeping with a guy.

Especially when sleeping was all they did.

“We were attracted to each other,” he said.

“We were.” A statement of fact, no more, no less.

“Every marriage usually starts with that.”

She put her wine glass down on the counter. “But every attraction doesn’t usually end in a marriage.”

“No. That middle section is tricky.”

“Very.”

He put a dish detergent tablet in the slot and closed the door. The cycle started with a whoosh.

He leaned against the counter. “You fell asleep in my arms.”

She was speechless. That level of intimacy was harder to discuss than sex.

“That night after we got married,” he continued. “We ended up in my room and?—”

“Nothing happened,” she said on a breathy gasp.

“Well, we didn’t fuck, if that’s what you mean. Not because I didn’t want to. We were both wrecked and—” He paused, biting back whatever he’d planned to say. “But it’s not exactly accurate to say ‘nothing happened,’ Peaches. We’re here, married, and pretending to the world that this was the plan all along. I’d say something happened, wouldn’t you?”

Her pulse spiked. Peaches?

He was right. Something happened. That night, she was fearless, initially because of alcohol but then because of … him. Banks had made her feel like the Georgia who takes what she needs, who deserves to be central, not the daughter who recedes into the background because there’s no room for her in the front row with her ill sister.

But that Georgia wasn’t real. And if Banks knew the real version—the selfish, impulsive, trouble-making version—he wouldn’t be so enamored of their supposed connection.

“Something happened,” Georgia said, her voice shaky. “A mistake. But we’re going to make lemonade from these lemons, and both get something into the bargain.”

Where was the Georgia who had jumped at the chance to be with this man?

She was too busy walking out of the kitchen.

12

Georgia parked her Mini outside the ranch house in Skokie and turned off the ignition. She usually liked to take a moment to access the best version of herself before she met with her clients: cheery, but not too over the top; understanding without condescension; kind and ready to take the cues from the family. It was a balancing act, but she’d been walking this tightrope for most of her life.

Today, however, she was feeling out of sorts. This morning, she’d risen earlier than her usual 10 a.m. to find the house empty and a post-it on the fridge from Banks.

See you Saturday.

Five days without him. She’d planned to cook breakfast, to make up for the not-so-stellar dinner last night and her hasty kitchen exit, but he was already gone. She should be glad of the breathing room. She wouldn’t have to be on her best behavior, trying to impress a man who excelled at throwing her off her game with his pin-point observations and strip-her-soul looks.

Something happened.

Yes, a huge mess that she needed to fix.

The door to the ranch house opened and Debbie Draven, a pretty brunette in her early forties, stepped outside with a wave. With a wave back, Georgia popped the trunk, climbed out of her car and grabbed the shopping bag, gussied up with ribbons and crepe paper. What must she look like, showing up in her designer duds in a cute seafoam green Mini?

A trust fund chick with a guilty conscience, that’s what.

“Hi, Debbie,” she said, moving in for the hug. “How are you?”

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