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“Actually, I think I know you. You play hockey, right? The Warriors?”
Maddox tenses. “Yeah.”
“Maddox Hutton!” Marco shouts, eyes lighting up. “I saw your playoff highlights on TV last night!”
I squeeze the long fingers threaded through mine with a punishing grip when he takes a few seconds too long to reply. I’m not even sure if he was planning on saying anything in the first place.
“That’s me,” he mutters. “Do you want an autograph?”
“That would be great! Thanks.” Marco rushes to his desk and, after searching a couple of drawers, pulls out a pen and a pad of paper. “I don’t watch much hockey, but I think the Warriors made it to the second round, right?”
“Yeah. First game against Arizona is on their turf this Friday night,” Maddox says, and I file that information away for later.
He grabs the pen and paper from him and scrawls something that resembles an MH with a number 21 looped through it and then hands it back.
“Thanks again. I didn’t know you and Braxton knew each other.”
I smile slightly. “We grew up together but just recently reconnected.”
Suddenly, Maddox has his arm over my shoulder and is tucking me into his side. His cologne is familiar, and I breathe it in while sliding my arms around him, one pressed to his stomach and the other his back. He stares at Marco while I look up at him.
“Look, Marco. Braxton is my girl, yeah? She’s precious to me. Can I trust you to take care of her when I’m not here?” He sounds too serious. Too real.
My eyes fall to the ground as an ache rips through my chest.Fake.
“Of course,” Marco says.
“Thank you. I appreciate that. So, Braxton will see you tomorrow, then.”
“Yeah. See you in the morning, Brax. Have a good night.”
I quickly look up and smile at Marco. He looks beyond uncomfortable, and I inwardly wince. This isn’t exactly the kind of situation I would have chosen for us all to fall into.
“You too. Goodnight,” I rush out, snatching my dress from the curtain rod before waving quickly and letting Maddox pull us from the office.
When we reach my office, he shuts the door behind us. Warm breath hits the top of my head, and I look down to avoid his eyes. There’s a spotless white sneaker touching the side of my dirty one. A barely there smile toys with my lips. “Why are you smiling?” he asks softly.
“Your shoes. You still wear sneakers with your dress clothes,” I whisper.
His chest moves with a laugh. “When I can get away with it. Tell me you’re wearing yours with this dress.” He toys with the gold strap, slipping his finger beneath it and rubbing the fabric hanger.
Good God.I’m jealous of a hanger.
“They won’t match,” I choke.
“They’ll match me, though, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave the Nikes on.”
I go to pull away from him, but he tightens his grip, keeping me in place. With a completely dramatic scowl, I say, “Heels it is. Please let go of me so I can get dressed. I don’t want to miss our reservation.”
“You hate heels,” he pushes.
“Oh, let it go.”
“If you wear heels, I’ll end up needing to carry you out of the restaurant by the end of the night because your feet will hurt.”
