Page 93 of Offside Bride

As Jessica reaches for another cucumber sandwich, I can’t help but marvel at how my life has changed. Two weeks ago, I was tangled up in mob drama. Now, I’m sipping champagne with Toronto’s elite, basking in the glow of my unexpected literary success.

As I listen to them quote their favorite lines (some of which I’d forgotten I’d even written), I feel a warmth spreading through my chest. My book sales are climbing, my new hockey romance is practically writing itself, and for once in my life, I feel like I belong.

And then there’s Sawyer. The man is husband material personified. My cheeks heat up thinking about just how much. And it’s not just that we’re hot for each other. He’s the most considerate, respectful, generous, appreciative, trustworthy man on the planet. And he makes me laugh.

“Maggie, darling,” Mrs. Harrington says, pulling me out of my Sawyer daydreaming. “I have a dear friend in the film industry. A producer, actually. I’m going to pass your book along to her. Who knows? We might seeTouchdown for Loveon the big screen!”

“That’s…Wow, that’s incredible! Thank you so much!”

She winks at me as she takes another sip of her drink. “It’s all about who you know, darling.”

She turns back to chat with the rest of the ladies, and after a while, they’re all gossiping instead of sticking to the book club questionnaire. It’s all good. I didn’t particularly care for that portion of the agenda anyhow. The champagne keeps flowing, and I’m pretty sure I’ve eaten my weight in fancy cheese.

Suddenly, in a lull in the conversation, Otto pipes up from his perch. “Bribe the judge! 42-18-7-33! Bribe the judge!”

The room goes silent for a moment before erupting into laughter.

“Oh, what a delightful bird!” Mrs. Fairfax coos, her wrinkled face crinkling with mirth.

“He’s quite the character, isn’t he?” Patricia chuckles, raising her champagne flute in Otto’s direction.

I catch Siobhan’s eye across the room, and we exchange a meaningful glance. What could Otto mean by “Bribe the judge”? And those numbers…they can’t be random, can they? I’m beginning to think they aren’t random.

As if to answer my unspoken question, Otto keeps repeating the phrase and numbers, alternating between them like some kind of feathered conspiracy theorist.

“42-18-7-33! Bribe the judge! 42-18-7-33!”

The book club ladies are in stitches, finding Otto’s antics absolutely hilarious. Mrs. Ashworth is laughing so hard she’s practically crying, dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Oh, Maggie,” Patricia says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “you simply must bring Otto to all our gatherings. He’s an absolute riot!”

I catch Siobhan’s eye and give her a subtle nod. We need to talk about Otto’s mysterious ramblings, but not here in front of Patricia’s book club.

“Ladies, if you’ll excuse us for a moment,” I say, standing up and smoothing my dress. “Siobhan and I are just going to freshen up a bit.”

“Oh, of course, darling!” Patricia waves us off. “The powder room is down the hall, second door on the left. And feel free to use any of the products in there—I’ve got quite the collection!”

I link arms with Siobhan, and we make our escape, the sound of Otto’s continued squawking fading behind us.

Once we’re safely in the powder room—which is bigger than my first apartment and decorated like a Parisian boudoir—Siobhan whisper-hisses, “Okay, what the heck was that about? How long has Otto been repeating these numbers?”

“I dunno. A couple weeks?”

“And that didn’t seem strange to you?”

I shrug. “I thought he was just repeating stuff from the TV. Sawyer watches so much hockey, I assumed it was a snap count like in football.”

Siobhan squeezes her eyes shut and sighs. “You really need a lesson in hockey. Does my brother teach you nothing?”

Oh, he teaches me stuff, all right, but hockey rules haven’t come up yet, somehow.

“Listen,” I say. “I did a lot of research when I wroteTouchdown for Love.”

“Yeah, and now you’re writing a hockey romance, so…”

“I’ve only written the love scenes so far. I’ll research later.”

Siobhan palms her forehead. “Okay, okay. Let’s try to figure this out. Otto didn’t start repeating those numbers until after he was kidnapped, right?”

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