Page 40 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
She snorts a laugh. “No, but thank you.”
“Did anyone so much as look at your butt?” I’m only half joking, but my sense of protection over her is no laughing matter. If anything had happened on the way here, I’d never forgive myself.
“Probably not, considering I was sitting on it. I could really use a run.”
“C’mon.” I get to my feet with the pie and throw down some cash.
“Now? I meant going for a run in the morning.”
“Let’s go.”
She doesn’t budge. I drop back into the seat. The server brings over a box and the bill. She must’ve been watching us since we’re the only two people in here who aren’t at the counter nursing coffees.
“If you’re going to tell me the fake marriage thing is off, I understand. They say things happen in threes, so this would be the nail in the coffin.”
My brow wrinkles. “Does that mean more bad things happened?”
“I’m here aren’t I?”
“I thought you wanted to see my pretty face.”
Her smile appears and it’s magnificent. The best thing I’ve seen since Skip Koening’s expression when I blocked his shot, securing the Pittsburg Generals’ loss. No, it’s better than that. Much better than hockey dudes and their plays. For so long, the sport has been my entire life. Dedicating myself to it has saved me and kept me sane. But it’s like all this time I’ve been holding only half of a book—the odd pages. At this very moment, I realize that the other half—the even pages—had been missing. Now I get the full story, but I haven’t read it yet. Am not sure how it goes. But I want to because Margo is the main character.
“I wouldn’t describe your face as pretty. More like rugged.” Margo coughs. “Handsome.”
I haven’t been described that way in a long time. “I have a beard.”
Margo’s shoulder bobs. “Some women like beards.”
“Do you?”
“Undecided. What do you look like without it?”
Like someone who doesn’t want to be recognized. “Can we leave now?”
“Soit’snot off?” she asks without saying a few specific words.
“I apologize that I let you thinkitwas.”
Why do I feel like the marriage of convenience is a lifeline for both of us?
Margo follows me in her rental car that looks like it only plans to make it another twenty miles before going kaput. Thankfully, we only need to drive ten to my condo in Cobbiton. A bunch of the guys on the team own homes in the area, but a few still have condos in a scattering of buildings between here and Omaha. Redd owns one downstairs from me, but then never ended up staying in it. Using SkyBnB, he rents it out to hockey players and staff who’re in the area temporarily. He said Margo can stay there for as long as she needs. I’ll take care of the costs involved.
I have her park in a guest slot and then heft a few bags. She doesn’t ask what my plan is, which is fine because I only just thought it through and called Redd.
When we reach the third floor, she lingers by the elevator. “Beau, I don’t think this is a good idea. I should, um, go?—”
I tap the keypad to unlock the unit and bump the door open. “It’s all yours. I live upstairs. I promise not to stomp.”
“If you live up there, who lives here?”
I offer a quick explanation, then say, “You’ve had a long trip. You should get some sleep.”
She doesn’t argue, likely because the alternatives involve bedding down in her car or going to her parents’ house.
If I were a fake fiancé worth my salt, I’d be taking better care of her. No doubt Mrs. Cabot and Celeste would make that abundantly clear.
After ensuring she’s settled in and everything is secure, I say goodnight. But before I close the door, I say, “Wait. You said things happen in threes. You were evicted and what else?”
