Page 43 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
Petition for Annulment - Kingston vs. Bennett
This should be routine paperwork, the logical conclusion to an impulsive mistake. But staring at the signature line, all I can think about is how wrong it feels.
Dax
Got the papers too. We should probably discuss this.
Agreed. Your place tonight?
Dax
Jamie's definitely home tonight. Your place?
Yes. 7 p.m.?
Dax
I'll bring dinner.
Of course, that's when I notice Harrison standing in the hallway outside my office, clipboard in hand, watching me through the window with an expression I can't quite read.
He's been doing that more often lately—observing my interactions with players, taking notes during my sessions, appearing at unexpected moments with that calculating look that makes my stomach clench with unease.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and he nods politely before walking away, but something about his demeanor suggests this isn't casual interest in my work.
CHAPTER 10
DAX
I'm standing outside Tessa's apartment door holding two large pizzas and staring at annulment papers that feel like they weigh about three hundred pounds. The logical part of my brain—the part that usually handles contracts and financial decisions—keeps insisting this is routine paperwork. Sign the forms, file them with the court, move forward with whatever this thing between us is becoming.
But the other part of my brain, the part that's been completely hijacked since Vegas, is screaming that signing these papers feels like the stupidest fucking decision I could possibly make.
"Just knock on the door, Kingston," I mutter to myself. "You're here to eat pizza and have an adult conversation about your future. Not to have an existential crisis in a hallway."
I knock, and when Tessa opens the door, something inside my chest does this weird twisting thing that I'm pretty sure isn't medically normal.
She's wearing an oversized Northwestern sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone,and yoga pants that hug her legs in ways that make my brain short-circuit. Her hair is piled up in this messy bun with pieces falling around her face, and she's wearing glasses I've never seen before—black-rimmed and slightly crooked, like she just threw them on.
"Hey," she says, and her smile is soft and genuine, the kind she only gives me when we're alone. "You brought provisions."
"Pepperoni and supreme," I manage, trying to figure out why looking at her like this—completely relaxed and comfortable in her own space—is making my heart feel like it's being squeezed in a vise. "I would’ve brought pineapple too, but I didn’t want you to question all my life choices at once."
“Brave of you to admit you even considered it.” she laughs, stepping aside to let me in.
"Tessa, I saw two different drug deals on the way up here, and I'm pretty sure someone was running a casino out of the laundry room."
"That's just Mrs. Buckley. She hosts poker nights for the senior citizens." She takes one of the pizza boxes from me, her fingers brushing mine. "Very wholesome, actually."
Her apartment is exactly what I expected—small but immaculately organized, with books everywhere and the kind of cozy warmth that comes from someone who's made a real home out of nothing. There are framed photos of her and an older woman who must be her mother, psychology journals stacked neatly on every surface, and a reading nook by the window that looks like the perfect place to curl up with coffee and pretend the world doesn't exist.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, setting the pizza on her small dining table and catching me staring around like I'm memorizing every detail.
"Oh, nothing," I say quickly, because how do I explain that seeing her in her own space is doing something dangerous to my chest? That watching her move around her apartment in comfortable clothes with her guard completely down is making me want things I've never wanted before?
Domestic things. Permanent things. Things that involve waking up here every morning and watching her make coffee in that oversized sweatshirt while she tells me about her dreams from the night before.
Fuck. I'm in so much deeper than I thought.
