Page 16 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“Your Puck Bunny or girlfriend or wife—WAGs, Juniper calls them—is a lucky woman,” I say, speaking out loud what I’d thought at the Knights versus Kings game.
“Don’t you mean my fiancée?” he asks.
Stumbling, I crash into his chest as the song ends because that was not what I expected to hear.
CHAPTER FIVE
The last songwas a lively waltz. The band drops the tempo for a slow dance.
Margo looks up at me with a question in her eyes—one she probably should’ve asked before she claimed that I’m her fiancé.
After seeing the harpies that she calls family, my protective instincts kicked in, possession took over, and that old movie with the line about not putting “Baby in the corner” suddenly made a world of sense.
If any of the guys on the team had a peek into my brain right now, they’d rethink everything they know about me, which turns out is very little. The way I prefer it.
I slide my hand into Margo’s, feeling her soft skin against my calluses. Her warmth thaws something in me that I’ll entertain for tonight and tonight only, and then it’ll be back to business as usual.
We start to move to the beat, rocking and swaying as she finally lets me take the lead so we can dancetogether.
When it seems she’s committed the box step left, together, left, together, right motion to muscle memory, she looks up at me, eyes plaintive, and says, “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I’m starting to get your rhythm.”
I wonder if she means this literally or figuratively.
“You’re doing great.”
She beams like I just gave her a gold star. Like she’s not used to hearing kind words or compliments. Badaszek’s comment after the last game comes to mind. It’s not like the women in her family are overt monsters. They’re the more dangerous kind. The ones who get into a person’s head and make them feel no bigger than an ant or a fly to be swatted. The blood-sucking, vampire kind.
She says, “You’re good at this.”
“You sound surprised. It’s kind of like gliding. Like skating.” The truth is I learned formal dancing before I even put on my first pair of hockey skates.
With a laugh, she asks, “Is your family a bunch of ballroom dancers?”
“Worse.”
I win another laugh and never has a response felt so good. But I toss that in the bin along with thoughts about how nice she feels in my arms and how her smile lights the lamp inside.
“If anyone is watching, they’ll think we’re really engaged,” she says low, eyeing those nearest us.
“You don’t look like anyone in your family.”
“That’s because they take measures …” Margo clears her throat.
“I take that to mean plastic surgery.”
“And dyes, fillers, anything artificial. I get a lot of flack because I prefer the more natural look.”
Turns out I do too.
“My mother grew up poor. Like really poor and took it upon herself to lift the family out of poverty through marriage. New money, like the kind my dad made in the music industry, was the golden ticket. She doesn’t know this, but he left after the ceremony today to fly to a golf tournament in Pebble Beach. Shethinks he has a doctor’s appointment. She shops. He plays golf. ‘The twain shall never meet ...’ Unless absolutely necessary.” She wrinkles her brow. “That should tell you everything you need to know about their relationship.”
New money, old money. The greed it can cause is all the same. I know this first hand.
“Her singular objective is for me to marry rich so someone can take care of me.”
Wren Cabot could start showing she cares.
“Celeste, my older sister, married a foreign investment banker, so he’s always traveling and she’s always spending his money.”
