Page 22 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
“If it’s a boy, it could be taken under consideration, but that’s a decision his mother and I would make together.”
My ovaries sing a show tune.
“You’re lucky because you have a nickname, Beau. I rather like it.”
He turns sharply toward me, both eyebrows lifted. Otherwise, I can’t read his expression.
“I’m Margo Leann Cabot since you didn’t ask.”
“I was getting to it. You’re giving me the rapid-fire fourth degree.”
“The expression is third degree.”
“You asked four questions.” He starts walking, ushering me with a single finger tossed in the air. Stabbing a keypad next to a metal door that I didn’t notice, he opens it. Welcoming light spills onto the ground. “Get inside.”
I clear my throat, taken aback by his order. “Excuse me?”
He winces as if realizing how that sounded. “You must be cold with just my thin jacket and your feet must be killing you.”
I stare daggers at my high heels. He’s got that right.
Brushing past him, I say, “Just my luck that I’m fake engaged to the grumpiest goalie in hockey.”
“Who said I’m grumpy?”
“You don’t have to say it.”
“Who said we’re engaged?”
“It’s too late to change our story. I opened the window for that possibility already and the opportunity passed as we fled into the night,” I see breezily, brazenly if only to gauge his response.
The corner of his lip lifts upward. “I think you’ll like our hideout.”
Beau leads the way down a utilitarian hallway lined with pipes and industrial mechanisms that must run the rink.
“I’m not sure how many women you know, but we’re generally not into the creepy basement hallway vibe.” Juniper would totally have my back on this.
He doesn’t respond, but by the shift of his shoulders, I think he knows that I’m flirting.
I’m flirting?
No, I’m teasing him.
I try and fail to convince myself that’s accurate. It would be like a mouse teasing a lion. My sense of self-preservation remains intact even though I very much feel like he’s a lion and I’m a mouse. Better to flirt than get hurt.
Not that he would. If I know one thing about this man other than his full name, it’s that Beau is a protector and would sooner pull out his own toenails than cause someone he cares about physical harm—at least off the ice. But I fear getting hurt by traveling too far down Fantasyland Lane. He’s not actuallymy fiancé. This isn’t a bad night that turned magical and will result in one of the best memories of my life. More than likely, my mother, sisters, and the entourage will sniff out the lie and humiliate me, making this the latest thing I want to forget.
I scurry to keep up with Beau’s long strides. At the hastening of myclick, clack, click, clack, he slows slightly.
“Where are we going?” I ask in anAre we there yet?tone.
“You’ll see.”
“Are these the bowels of the arena?”
“We call them tunnels, not to be confused withthetunnel that exits onto the rink.”
“Are you a mole, burrowing underground?”
