“I should have asked if having the beer around was hard.” Trey looked around, then over at the cooler placed by the food table. “Do you want me to wheel that out of here?”
“I’m good. It’s not like there’s any lack of people to keep me accountable today. I needed this test.” He flexed his hand, knew his fingers were itching to wrap themselves around cool glass. “So what’s the deal with the party, anyway? Just wanting to get rid of some food?”
Trey grinned at that and waved at Cassie. She ran over, braid swinging over one shoulder to thump against her back. She moved with the grace of an athlete, despite not having played sports growing up. She bent over, and Trey whispered in her ear. She straightened, nodded, then headed to where she’d sat earlier to grab her girlie blended drink.
Trey stood and yelled out, “Hey, assholes!” Several of the guys cheered, and Aileen yelled, “Thanks a lot!”
“Sorry. Assholes and pretty ladies.”
“Better!”
He doffed an imaginary hat toward Aileen on the lawn. “Stephen asked what the reason for the party was. I’m sure a lot of you thought it was to welcome him back, which was a nice side benefit, but not the ultimate reason. And you know I like having your ugly mugs around, but a guy wants privacy. So,” he added, sliding an arm around Cassie’s shoulders as she dug one hand into her pocket, “the real reason you’re here is because you’re the first to know—outside of our families—that Cassie agreed to marry me.”
There was dead silence as she pulled her left hand back out of her pocket, flashing a huge rock and grinning like a wild woman.
Then Aileen squealed, Mags clapped, and the guys all rushed Trey like he was defenseless in the pocket. Cheers went up, backs were slapped, and girls gushed over the ring. Stephen went over to hug Cassie first.
“Congratulations, sweetheart.” He squeezed carefully, then took hold of her hand to check out the ring. “Whoa, boy. Guess he really does love you.”
She laughed and punched his shoulder. “You’re just jealous he didn’t get you one first.”
“Guilty.” He kissed her cheek, then moved on to Trey. “You’ve got your hands full with that one.”
“Thank God you dragged me out to that damn club one night and made me wear a Clark Kent disguise.” His friend’s face looked as if it were permanently frozen in a state of shocked bliss. “I can’t really imagine life—the future—without her.”
Stephen nodded and gave his friend a side hug, his eyes finding Mags as she waited to give Cassie a hug. He was beginning to understand that sentiment very well, for several different reasons.
Chapter Seven
Two hours later, night was starting to creep in, and the air started to chill just a bit. Mags seemed content to play lawn games, pausing every so often to check in with him and grab another drink or snack. Her carefree way of interacting with his friends—a few she knew from cleaning their houses—told him everything he needed to know.
He’d been right to pick her. And he would have been miserable any other way.
“Hey, everyone!” Cassie stood up on the wooden picnic bench and waved her hands. “We’ve got stuff to make ice cream sundaes in the kitchen! Come on in and grab one.”
Stephen watched the stampede and waited it out. Mags trailed behind, pausing by his lounger, hands on her hips.
“Not a fan of ice cream?”
“Not a fan of what my trainer will do to me if he finds out I had some.” He held up his bottle of water. “This is pretty much it for me for the evening.”
She waited a beat, then sat down beside him. Her leg pressed against his, and he didn’t shift away like he might have if it had been another woman. He simply sat there, letting her chilly skin warm against his.
“I’m proud of you,” she said quietly. “Temptation was everywhere—in a lot of different forms—and you were good.”
Right now, the temptation to keep his head from turning so his lips could brush against her shoulder was the strongest one of the day. He cleared his throat. “You could get some ice cream. We both don’t have to suffer.”
She glanced over her shoulder, lifted one, and said, “Meh.”
He was ninety-five percent sure she was saying no simply because he couldn’t partake. Though a small part of him felt guilty, the greater part of him was relieved he had someone to keep him honest.
She bumped shoulders with him. “How’s it going? Everyone on board?”
This, he decided, could work in his favor. With a sigh, he said, “Not sure if they’re buying it yet. We might have to put it on a bit thicker if we want to convince them.”
“Oh.” Mouth parted slightly, she nodded slowly. “What . . . I mean . . . okay.”
A few voices sounded behind him, people returning with their bowls of ice cream. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close to him. Her hand landed on his thigh, just above his knee. A simple, platonic gesture meant to even her balance, and yet it felt like his entire leg was on fire from her touch.
He turned his head, just enough that his lips brushed against her temple, and smiled over her shoulder. “Hey, Lambert. What’s kickin’?”
Michael walked around them and sat on the lounger across from them. He scooped a spoonful of ice cream, mounded with whipped cream and syrup, into his mouth before waving his spoon between Stephen and Margaret. With a full mouth, he asked, “What’s up with you two?”
Margaret snorted. “Close your mouth, Michael; that’s disgusting.”
“So you two are acquainted,” Stephen surmised. The way Lambert grinned made Stephen want to kick him in the shin.
“I started cleaning for Michael about six months ago.”
“Any secrets you wanna share with me? Does he leave dirty underwear all over the house?”
Margaret tilted her head up so she could give him a secretive smile. “You know better than anyone that I don’t clean and tell.”
Lambert coughed a little, as if hiding a laugh. “Speaking of that, I got a call saying you were leaving the agency and they’d assign me a new maid. What’s going on?” Spoon stuck in his mouth, Lambert widened his eyes between them. “Oh, man, did he get to you first? I was this close to hitting on you.” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
Mags rolled her eyes. “Sure. And yes, I left the agency. You should request Emily. She’s newer, but quiet and easy to get along with.”
“Will do.” Eyeing the way Stephen’s arm tightened around Margaret, Michael nodded. “Sad you won’t be working anymore, though. I always bragged about you to friends when they’d make fun of how neat my place was.”
Her sharp intake of breath told Stephen she was struggling to keep calm about the thought of lost business. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “The agency wasn’t really working for her,” he told Michael while her fingers dug holes into his thigh. “She’s thinking of going out on her own, but it takes time to organize. Keep her in mind, though, when she does.”
That seemed to relax her breathing. Her hand smoothed over his leg again, and he felt her chest start to rise and fall at a more normal pace.
“Well, if you two lovebirds will excuse me.” Michael stood and jumped down from the first step to the lawn to see what shenanigans were going on down there.
“That was interesting,” Margaret said after a minute.
Stephen turned his head to look at her just as she did the same, and found their noses pressed together.
“Lovebirds!” Trey yelled behind them. “Get a grip and get over here. We’re teaming up for some volleyball. We need Stephen’s height.”
“And Margaret’s . . . spirit,” Cassie added, and made Mags laugh.
They pulled apart, and Stephen wanted to throw something at Trey. Instead, he put on a casual smile and watched her own eyes narrow a bit. “Yeah, coming.” Lowering his voice, he butted his forehead gently against hers. “Let’s go kick some ass.”
***
“That went well,” Stephen said as they walked ba
ck into his house.
“I told Cassie.” She blurted it out, because it was impossible to keep it in any longer. Lie upon lie was building up inside her, churning around in her stomach until she was pretty sure she’d be mainlining antacids for the entirety of the season. “Or she guessed, I suppose, and it felt wrong lying again on top of it all.”
Stephen lifted a shoulder as he let his keys drop to the entry table. Mags sighed and picked them up, putting them on the hook they were meant for. “I’ll probably end up telling Trey and Josiah eventually. I don’t blame you.”
The lack of incrimination had her sighing in relief. “You’re not mad?”
“If you’re going to tell someone the truth, Cassie’s the one to tell. She’ll keep it quiet. It’s not like her to tattle.”
“There was a reporter there.”
“Aileen?” Stephen shook his head. “She’s cool. She knows what’s up for grabs and what is private. I think, since there’s no way to avoid it, I’m going to ask her to do my ‘coming home’ interview. Get it out of the way with someone I trust . . . my team trusts.”
“I can see that.” Mags walked by him and into the family room, flopping down on the sofa. “I’m heading over to Mrs. McGovern’s tomorrow.”
Stephen settled more slowly in his recliner . . . The day’s workout combined with volleyball had taken its toll. Just one more reminder he was getting up there in years . . . at least when it came to the NFL. He couldn’t keep up this pace forever.
And giving up his spot on the team now, while he was still physically able, would kill him.
“What’s wrong?”
He turned his head carefully to look at her. “What?”
“You’re moaning. Sick?” She crawled across the couch—less like a seductress and more like a clumsy puppy, making him smile—and reached over to feel his head. “No fever. Just muscle fatigue from earlier?”
Her hand was cool against his face as she smoothed it down to continue checking for signs of fever. When she reached the underside of his jaw, he cupped his bigger hand over hers to keep it there a second, closing his eyes and savoring.
Then he felt her pulse jump in her wrist and let her go. “Sorry. Felt good.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice was thinner than normal, and he didn’t open his eyes to look at her. If she was wary of him, he wouldn’t want to see the evidence in her eyes. “I think I’m going to head to bed. Do you need anything before I go up?”
“You’re my sobriety partner, Mags, not my servant. I’m okay.”
She trailed a hand over his shoulder as she rounded his chair to leave the room. She carried with her the lemony scent that seemed permanently ingrained in her skin.
***
“Hey, Mrs. M.” Margaret entered the house via the side door with the extra keys she had and set down her cleaning things. “How are you?”
Mrs. M came to meet her, still in slippers, her bright red hair frizzy from sleep. “Sweetheart, I wasn’t expecting you.” Noticing the supplies, she sighed. “Broken up already?”
“What? Oh, no, no.” She came forward to hug her former landlady. “Not at all. I just figured you hadn’t hired a new service or maid yet so I’d pop by and do some cleaning.”
“Problem to solve, hmm?”
Caught, Mags flushed and nodded, grabbing the bucket handle and walking into the kitchen. Mrs. M followed and settled down at the small bistro table in the corner. “I just do my best thinking while I’m cleaning, so I figured I’d come by and give you a once-over. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind? Heavens, no. Who would be stupid enough to complain about having their house cleaned?” She patted the pockets of her robe. “I’ll have to get my checkbook before you go.”
“You can’t pay me,” Margaret reminded her as she donned her blue elbow-length gloves. “That’d be a breach of contract for me. This is just a favor to a good friend.”
“Doesn’t that boyfriend of yours have a house you could be scrubbing? Or are you holding out on that, making sure he doesn’t take advantage of your services?” Mrs. M winked and shuffled over to pour herself a cup of coffee before shuffling back to the table. “Good girl.”
“I clean there all the time. I’m living there. This is just something between us.” She filled the sink with hot, soapy water and started on the dishes from the night before. Normally, she didn’t do dishes. Not part of the service the agency offered. But for Mrs. M, she always did. “We met up with some of his friends the other night. It was . . . good,” she finished, squirting in another few drops of soap before moving the plates in to soak. “They’re good guys. Some are rough around the edges, but they’re all nice people. You’d probably assume differently, if all you saw in the news was the scandals professional athletes seem to find themselves in.”
“There are bad eggs in every basket. Make the whole thing smell rotten. Once you toss those out and let the air do its work, the basket seems to freshen itself back up.”
Mags smiled at that while spritzing down the counter. “Maybe. But it was good to see him with his friends. It’s a different side of him, you know?” More playful, if a bit more geared up at the same time. Stephen at home was relaxed, and while playful and joking, could still have serious moments. Stephen with his friends was a different story. It wasn’t bad, or wrong, exactly. But he seemed to be “on” the whole time. As if he’d bought into the role he was meant to play with his group of friends and couldn’t let it go.
The problem was, she had no clue if she was the reason for the role, or if she was just another layer to the role he’d been building on for years.
Somehow, she assumed the latter.
“Men are always different with their friends. It’s a good thing to see them in their natural habitat, with fellow members of the species. If they can manage to not be apes together, then there’s hope.” Mrs. M sipped her coffee. “Sweetheart, you’ve wiped down that section of the counter three times now. I think it’s clean.”
“Oh. Whoops.” She shot Mrs. M a smile and moved on, but decided to come back to the whole Stephen Harrison public persona situation later. It might have more than a little something to do with maintaining his sobriety.
***
Maybe it was cowardly, but he went to AA without her. In theory, everyone else was able to attend meetings without their significant others.
Not that she was his significant other. But for the sake of the deception . . .
The worst part was he’d wanted her there. His first meeting outside of the rehab center had been hard. So much of his life had returned to normal, and it felt as if walking through those doors was admitting that no, it really wasn’t normal. There was no normal as he knew it anymore. There was BRB and R. Before Rock Bottom, and Recovery. There was, as he knew, no cure. He would always be recovering. The fact that he couldn’t move past a step aggravated him. He was used to having something new to aim at. There was nothing to aim for.
He sent a quick text to his mom letting her know he’d finished the meeting, and smiled when she sent one back immediately with a smiley face and a reminder to FaceTime soon with Margaret. She had more questions for the young woman who had captured her son’s heart.
The small pinch in his chest was for the deception. The soaring feeling . . . that was something else. He ignored that, though.
As he finished up his workout with the team trainer and handed over his food journal to the nutritionist, he grinned smugly when the woman raised a brow at his entries.
“Either you’re not human, or you have the craziest willpower I’ve seen. No cheats, even on designated cheat days, and super foods coming out your ears.” Closing the journal, she pushed her glasses up and watched him. “What’s the change from? Lack of alcohol making it easier to make good choices?”
“Partly.” He took a breath. “And partly my girlfriend helping out.”
That, more than anything, was contributing to his success all the way around. He knew it, and Mags knew it, to
o. She was an organizational wiz in the kitchen, and had his daily meals divided out into individual containers with the times labeled so he didn’t have to think twice about what he was eating, and when.
And when they were home together, she ate what he ate. She grimaced and poked fun at her cooking and lamented about wanting a taco—and he suspected when he was gone she indulged in fast food—but at home she stuck with it for him.
“You’re lucky.” With a smile, the nutritionist handed him back his journal. “Most people aren’t fortunate enough to have a spouse who doesn’t actively get in their way to eat healthy. You’ve got one who goes out of her way to help your success. Keep ahold of that one.”
“I plan to.” The words popped out of his mouth before he realized they were there. They sounded right, but did they mean something more?
***
Margaret propped Stephen’s iPad on the counter with two books and a pot holder. Thank God for Pinterest. She never would have been able to create all these meals with all this weird health food without it.
Some of it had been surprisingly decent, and she could see adding it into her own rotation when she was finished playing food scientist for Stephen. But some of this junk the nutritionist and trainer sent over—the powders and the quantities of supplements and, ugh . . . no.
But for Stephen, she’d do it.
He walked in at that moment, still a little wet from his shower at the gym. Ever since she’d made a simple comment about how she never knew a man’s sweaty shirt could smell so badly—which was a lie, as she’d seen way worse than that cleaning houses . . . it’d been a joke—he’d started showering there and wearing fresh clothes home. She had no clue what he did with the sweaty ones . . . but she had an idea he was sending them out to be cleaned.
“Hey.” He came in and sat down, placing his phone on the counter. She liked that he kept her company, and didn’t just take for granted she was in the kitchen making meals. “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”
Takes Two to Tackle Page 7