Page 36 of Play the Game

At least Emory is outside, putting a few of my boxes into his car so I can drive to his place without cardboard blocking my view.

Or is itourplace?

Gerald clears his raspy throat behind the plexiglass separating his office from the entryway, and I square my shoulders. “I’m moving out. My letter of termination is upstairs on the table.” I place the keys on the counter with a loud clunk.

“You can’t do that. You’re violating your lease agreement.”

I instantly have a headache. If I wasn’t trying to build my credit up so I can be a responsible adult one day and get a loan, I’d leave Gerald high and dry.

I mean, if I was willing to blackmail a random pro hockey player for money, who's to say I wouldn’t skip out on paying this creep rent? But nonetheless…

“I will pay the remainder of my lease agreement as soon as I can.”

“As soon as you can? Does that mean you’ll be late on your dues again? Because I’m telling you, girl…I will turn you into collect?—”

I interrupt him before Emory comes back and inserts himself into something I want him nowhere near. “I’ll pay on time.”

“You better, Ms. Monroe! Or you’ll regret it.”

Asshole.

I shoot him a glare before turning around and running straight into Emory’s hard chest. I wince as his hands fall to my upper arms. When I peer at him from my much shorter frame, he’s glaring at my ex-landlord. My face turns fifty shades of red.Please tell me he didn’t hear that conversation.

“It’s Mrs. Olson,” Emory corrects him, as calm as ever. His fingers tighten against my biceps, and my heart does a weird flip. “I don’t want to hear you threaten my wife again.”

Wife.

A gush of something warm rushes from his fingers wrapped around my arms all the way to my toes.

I’m at a loss for words.

It’s a marriage of convenience. A fraud.

We’re bound by a stupid contract, and there isn’t an ounce of love between us, yet I’m tricked into letting myself believe that his devotion is real.

It’s a swift kick right to my stomach because, God, how I crave to haveoneperson on my side. For once.

“I don’t see a ring on that girl's finger.”

Emory’s entire body tenses, and I panic.

I push on his chest, and he immediately gives me his attention. Anger swirls in his eyes, and instead of being an ocean-blue color, they’re arctic.

Memories begin to surface, and chills run to my arms. The number of times I’ve had to step in between a heated argument, stop someone from fighting—usually someone trying to hurt William—and block a blow so my mother wouldn’t get her lights knocked out is obsolete. Each time I’m reminded of the violence, my stomach clenches.

“Let’s go,” I whisper.

Emory furrows his forehead and glares at Gerald over the top of my head, then grunts. Thankfully, he turns around, and we head out the door, welcomed by the crisp scent of autumn.

After a few painfully awkward seconds, Emory finally asks the question I don’t want to answer. “How much do you owe?”

I know the number off the top of my head, and on the drive over, I worked out my finances for the next year as Emory Olson’s wife, figuring it all out.

“I’ve got it under control,” I say.

We stare at each other for a few long seconds before he accepts my answer and starts in the direction of his car. “Follow me to City Hall.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes.

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