Page 50 of Margo and the Faux Good Luck Beau
It’s a strange feeling, once again being the center of attention when I’d worked hard to be the guy alone at the other end of the ice. But there’s nothing odd about Margo wrapping her arms around me in a birthday hug. It feels perfect. Right. Meant to be.
We don’t eat the fake cake, but she did pick up two from Busy Bee. One has extra icing and the other is just the sponge layered together.
And just like that, we have an inside joke.
She also got me a jar of Honey Butter, which means she must understand the intention when I call her that.
“Happy birthday, Old Man,” Ted claps me on the back.
“Wait. How old are you?” Margo asks.
“Shouldn’t you know that?” asks a woman I’d wager Margo didn’t invite.
She’s slender with sharp features, a stark contrast to her sister in every way except they have the same nose. Celeste arches a sculpted eyebrow.
“What are you doing here?” Margo asks.
“Tsk. Tsk,” she says obnoxiously. “Where are your manners, sis?”
Margo says, “This is a private party.”
“But I’m your maid of honor. Surely you’d invited me to your fiancé’s birthday celebration?”
Margo starts to object, but Celeste cuts across her. “Seems strange that you don’t even know how old your fiancé is.”
She chokes out, “Actually, Juniper is my maid of honor.”
Celeste narrows her eyes. “If there’s a wedding.”
The room is dead silent, a first for a rowdy bunch of hockey players except for the occasions when Badaszek or Vohn shut us down.
I know most people would be embarrassed. Likely Margo is. But I’m just as mad as a mule chewing hornets—Badaszek says that’s what I look like under my helmet.
Preparing to come to her defense again, Margo lengthens her spine and lifts her chin. Maybe she’s got this.
“My fiancé is twenty-nine. Hardly what I’d call old.”
Celeste scoffs. “A little old for you, no? You’re only twenty-three, little sister.”
“I’ll be twenty-four at the end of the month.”
This is news to me. Also, Margo is far more mature than Celeste who clearly takes pleasure in trying to cut her sister down.
Someone in the room whistles.
Another says, “Honey Butter.”
Margo wears a secret smile as if she realizes I may have mentioned her in a roundabout way, my way, to the guys.
Micah doesn’t skip a beat when he asks, “When are you tying the knot?”
“St. Patrick’s Day,” I answer.
“That’s the day before a game,” Badaszek says.
I nod and lock eyes with Margo. “I’ll be there.”
“We all will,” Hayden says.
