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“Because you have a leak in the roof,” I supply, opening the car door for Maggie. Ah, I love new car smell. “I’ll drive on the way there if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever you say, dude.” Such vitriol on her lips, but her eyes tell another story.
The way she rakes her gaze over me…the way her little pink tongue pokes out to drag over that cherry-red lipstick she’s wearing. The way her cheeks flush when we’re near one another. She may not love me, or even like me. I’m pretty sure she downright hates me. But a part of her wants me, and that’s a dangerous place to be.
She slides in the passenger seat, that sleek leather interior cradling her perfect rear end. And the slit on that dress! I don’t know if I’ll survive the rest of the night.
When I jog around to the driver’s side, Maggie’s already buckled in. I hold out my hand and she plops the key fob in my palm. I don’t really need it to start the car, but I put it in my pocket for safekeeping.
“So…this guy from the cereal company?” she begins.
“The CEO of Sunrise Foods, you mean,” I say. “Robert Thornton. And his wife Patricia, remember?”
“Right. Can you explain to me why we’re having dinner at his house?”
I pull out of the driveway and head down our residential street. “Like I’ve said before, he wants to meet you. It’s what bigwigs do.”
“Because he wants to make sure your wife has tamed the playboy?”
“Something like that. Bruce says they’ll only continue with the endorsement deal if they’re convinced I’m a family man.”
She laughs. “So this is kind of an important dinner then?”
“Yes.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see her wicked grin as she lets out an amused sniff. “Got it.”
Lord help me. I don’t like the sound of that sniff. That sniff makes me nervous, especially considering the mood she’s in.
“A happy marriage is a long conversation which always seems too short.”
— ANDRE MAROIS
9
SAWYER
Ilead Maggie up the winding walkway of the Thornton mansion, feeling like we’re about to enter Downton Abbey’s Canadian cousin.
As we approach the front door, I lean in close to her ear. “Remember, best behavior.”
Maggie flashes me a smile that’s sweeter than maple syrup. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be the perfect trophy wife.”
Before I can retort, the door swings open, revealing Robert and Patricia Thornton in all their well-preserved, Botox-enhanced glory.
“Sawyer, my boy!” Robert booms, clapping me on the shoulder. “And this must be the lovely Maggie we’ve heard so much about.”
Patricia’s eyes light up like she’s just spotted the season’s hottest Hermès bag. “Oh, darling! That dress is simply divine. Is it Valentino?”
Maggie blinks, then grins. “Actually, it’s from Target’s clearance rack. But don’t tell anyone—it’ll be our little secret.”
I choke on air, but the Thorntons burst into laughter.
“Oh, I like her,” Patricia coos, ushering us inside.
We’re led into a living room that could double as a modern art museum. Robert heads straight for a bar that looks like it could supply drinks for the entire NHL.
“What’ll it be?” he asks, gesturing to an array of bottles that probably cost more than my first car.
