Page 42 of Offside Bride

“Well, joke’s on you, dress,” I say out loud, because apparently, I talk to inanimate objects now.

I flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling in my bra and panties. The house feels too quiet, too empty. Even Otto, the parrot, is silent on his perch downstairs.

“This is what you get for hoping, Maggie,” I tell myself, refusing to cry. “This is what happens when you let your guard down.”

But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers,“Maybe there's a good reason. Maybe something really did come up.”

I squash that voice immediately. Hope is dangerous. Hope gets you hurt.

No, it’s better to expect the worst. That way, you’re never disappointed.

I bolt upright, my mind racing. No way am I letting Sawyer get to me. Time to channel my inner Barbie and get my sparkle on.

With that feminine rage I was joking about earlier, I grab my phone and type out a message:

Me: Plans canceled YAY. I'm free. Want to pick me up? I’m wearing something sexy.

The response is almost immediate.

Sawyer: What the heck?

I bite my lip, suppressing a giggle as I type:

Me: Oops wrong number

Sawyer’s reply pops up instantly.

Sawyer: Maggie, what’s going on?

I leave him on read, tossing my phone aside with a satisfied smirk. Let him stew in that for a while.

Humming to myself, I sashay over to my closet and pull out that red dress from the Thornton dinner—the one with the slit that had Sawyer practically drooling. My Jessica Rabbit dress. I shimmy it on, relishing the feel of the fabric against my skin.

“This is for me, to feel good.” I murmur, smoothing the dress down. “Not for any man. I’m taking back my power.”

I paint my lips a dangerous shade of red, the color of warning signs and sirens. Then I go downstairs and pour myself a generous glass of merlot, because why the hell not?

Otto squeaks from his perch. “You’re so cute.”

“Awww, Otto. Thanks. I think you’re so cute!”

He cat whistles at me. “Come here, sweetie. Wanna grape?”

I eye my wine. “I’m drinking my grapes. Are you hungry? Do you want grapes?”

He blows a raspberry. “Call the police.”

“The police?”

“Bad boys, bad boys—” he sings, then makes a siren sound. “Watch TV.”

“Is that from a TV show, Otto?”

“You wanna ‘stachio?”

Okay then. I go to the kitchen and get him grapes and pistachios. He’s making gurgling sounds the whole time.

When he sees me come back, he says, “Hello sweetie. Whatcha doin’?”

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