Page 41 of The Games We Play
Tall.
Blonde.
Bright blue eyes.
The exact opposite of me.
A strange, unfamiliar unease coiled in my stomach.
“Is Mac Ridley home?” she asked, her voice smooth, practiced.
My stomach dropped.Her gaze flicked down, taking in my bare legs, the flannel I wore—Mac’s flannel—that barely covered my breasts.
Who the hell is she?
I forced my expression to stay neutral, though my fingers curled into the fabric at my sides. “Who’s asking?” My voice was even, but my heart was pounding.
The woman cleared her throat, tightening her grip on the yellow folder in her hands.
“I’m Mimi. I know Mac from a few years ago.” A pause. “Is he home?”
She tried to peer around me, her curiosity apparent, but when she didn’t see him, her sharp blue eyes returned to mine.
I swallowed hard, my mind spinning.Why was she here? How did she know Mac?
“No,” I answered, my voice clipped. “He’s grabbing breakfast. He should be back soon.”
Mimi shook her head and extended the folder toward me.
“Can you give this to him?” she asked. “Tell him to take care of it as soon as possible. It’s urgent.”
Urgent.
The word sent a fresh wave of nerves through me.
My hands were unsteady as I reached for it, my fingers brushing the thick envelope.Why am I shaking?
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I nodded stiffly.
She gave me the smallest, barely-there smile before turning on her heel and disappearing down the steps.
I stayed there, frozen, the door still cracked open as I watched her go.
Then, slowly, I shut it.
My breath came shallow, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I didn’t know what made me do it—jealousy? Curiosity?—but my fingers slid beneath the flap, peeling it open before I could stop myself.
A thick stack of papers sat inside. I pulled them halfway out, my eyes scanning the first page.
And that’s when I felt it.
The sharp, sinking heat of realization.
My skin went cold. My vision blurred.
The bold, block letters at the top of the page read:
Decree of Divorce.
