Page 80 of Offside Bride

In this moment, nothing else matters—not the mob, not the lies, not even the hundreds of romance novels stashed away. There’s only Sawyer, his lips on mine, his hands holding me like he never wants to let go.

This kiss is earth-shattering, mind-blowing, toe-curling perfection. It’s the kind of kiss romance novels are written about—and believe me, I would know.

His breathing is heavy, his chest heaving as he takes every inch of me. And like little punctuations, he presses tiny, reverent kisses all the way down to my belly, crouching low before me.

I have no idea what he plans to do to me in this hallway, and I really don’t care as long as he doesn’t stop. But then he surprises me by lowering himself to his knees and bowing his head at my feet.

“Yours,” he says.

One word.

My heart stops.Yours.

Okay, now I’m about to lose it completely. Mine? Nothing has ever been truly mine. Ever.

I'm still coming down from the throes of the most amazing kiss of my life, and now this man is on his knees, giving all of himself to me completely.

I’m about ready to grab him by the scruff and drag him to the bedroom when we hear Siobhan shout, “Eureka!” from somewhere in the condo.

Sawyer shoots to his feet comically fast.

He helps me fix my hair and straighten my blouse before we leave this perfect little bubble, following the sound of Siobhan’s voice.

We find her descending a staircase I hadn’t noticed before, looking like she just won the nerd lottery.

“Where did you go?” I ask, still a bit frazzled.

Siobhan grins, looking way too pleased with herself. “The roof. I didn’t want to stand there eavesdropping while you had what was probably your first marital spat.”

Sawyer and I burst into laughter at the same time. If only she knew ‘marital spat’ is our love language.

“You have no idea,” Sawyer manages to choke out.

She reaches over to Sawyer, wiping a trace of my lipstick from his chin. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Aaaaaakkk! Shoot me now.

“Ummm…” I say, feeling flushed, “did you just go up there to give us some privacy, or…?”

Siobhan’s eyes light up again. “Oh! Right! I snuck away and figured out the code.”

My eyes widen. “Really? Already? What is it?”

“It’s an address,” she announces proudly. “And I know exactly where this is.”

“I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.”

— GROUCHO MARX

25

MAGGIE

Crouched behind a stack of crates and rusty oil drums with Siobhan, my heart is pounding like a jackhammer.

Siobhan’s elbow digs into my ribs as we try to stay hidden. We’re not supposed to be here, but wild horses couldn’t have dragged us away from this showdown. Now I’m just praying we don’t sneeze or something equally ridiculous.

The warehouse is dimly lit, with shafts of moonlight streaming through grimy windows. It smells like saltwater and motor oil in here, and every little sound echoes ominously through the cavernous space.

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