Page 55 of Offside Bride

I can’t help but let out a snort of laughter. Divorce me? The absurdity of it all is almost impressive.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “I appreciate your…creative storytelling, but if Maggie wanted to take me for all I’m worth, she’d have to get in line behind my agent, my publicist, and the IRS. And trust me, if she wants my money, it’s hers. My stuff is hers. This house…is hers. The money I make to pay your salary…you guessed it. Hers.

I can see the gears turning in Mrs. Pruitt’s head as she scrambles for her next tall tale. Part of me wants to see how far she’ll take this, but the other part—the part that’s royally pissed about Maggie’s artwork—is ready to shut this circus down.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I say, my voice dangerously calm. I lean back in my chair, fixing her with a steely gaze. “I think it’s time we hada little chat about your employment here. And by ‘chat,’ I mean the kind where I do the talking, and you do the listening. Trust me, you’ll want to pay attention to this one.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s throat bobs, like a criminal about to be taken to the gallows. Taking my phone out of my pocket, I open the payroll app I use to transfer money to the helpers I employ. I deposit a copious amount in Mrs. Pruitt’s account then turn my screen to show her the large sum.

Her eyeballs double in size.

“Do you see this?”

She nods like a dashboard bobblehead.

“This is your severance pay. Take whatever belongings you brought in to do your tasks and leave my house in the next five minutes. Your services are no longer required.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s face turns red. “But Mr. O’Ma?—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I’ve overlooked a lot of crap from you over the years, and I think you’ll find I’m a very patient man. But the minute you disrespect my wife is the minute we part ways. Now, I’m asking you to leave quietly without making a scene, and I’m sure you’ll agree your severance pay is more than generous. Don’t make me regret it.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s mouth hangs open like a carp, and without another word, she backs up slowly like I’m the damn King of England. I feel like the Godfather dismissing someone who wronged the ‘family’. Not gonna lie, the power trip is morbidly addictive. No wonder my dad was so attracted to organized crime.

A huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how much of Mrs. Pruitt’s toxic behavior had been affecting me until now. I feel like I want to celebrate. Maybe take Maggie out to dinner—better yet, bring dinner to her.

Her car is in the driveway, so I know that she’s home, but I’d like to surprise her with something special. I make a quicktrip to the store, order curbside takeout from one of my favorite restaurants, and pick up a mixed bouquet. Something bright and colorful—something that represents what Maggie is to me.

The house is quiet when I get home even though I haven’t been gone long. The sun is low on the horizon, and the house is dark. The only sound is that parrot making his nutty parrot noises. I give him a snack and I tell him he’s a good boy. As I’m leaving the sitting room, he tells me that I’m a big fat nerd.

In the kitchen, I chill the champagne over ice and leave the takeout bags and flowers on the counter before going upstairs to find Maggie. I take the stairs two steps at a time, excited to see her.

I knock on her door, but there’s rage music playing too loudly for her to hear me, so I crack the door open—just a little bit to peek in.

And that’s when I see her on her bed behind of a stack of her paperbacks, ripping them to shreds. There’s paper everywhere—pages from the books all over her bedroom. And tears are streaming down her face.

I freeze in the doorway, my heart clenching at the sight before me. Maggie, my fierce, sassy wife, is sobbing uncontrollably on her bed, surrounded by a sea of shredded paper. Pages flutter around her like wounded butterflies as she rips her books apart like they’ve personally offended her.

Slowly, I approach her, as if she’s a wounded animal.

“Mags?” I say softly, reaching out to still her hands as she grabs another book. “Hey, hey, easy there. What did these poor books ever do to you?”

She looks up at me, her eyes red and puffy, mascara streaked down her cheeks, and snot running down her face. Her chest heaves with each breath. I carefully pry the mangled book from her grip and set it aside, then take her trembling hands in mine. “Breathe with me, okay?”

She hiccups, trying to speak through her tears, but all that comes out is a garbled mess of sounds.

Turning down the music, I sit beside her on the bed, pulling her into my side. “Hey, hey, look at me,” I say softly, cupping her face in my hands. “Take a deep breath. That’s it. Now, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Maggie’s lower lip trembles, and for a second, I think she’s going to start wailing again. But then she takes a shuddering breath and chokes out one word: “Pirates!”

I blink, confused. “Pirates? Like, ‘ahoy matey, shiver me timbers’ pirates? Or are we taking the Johnny Depp variety?”

Maggie shakes her head violently, fresh tears spilling. “No, you weirdo! Book pirates! They…they stole my book!”

“Stole your…Oh.” Realization dawns on me. “You mean they piratedTouchdown for Love?"

She nods miserably, clutching a handful of torn pages to her chest. “It’s everywhere online. For free! All my hard work, just…just…” She sniffles, gesturing weakly at her laptop.

“Hey, hey.” I pull her into my arms, stroking her back. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”

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