Page 21 of Married to the Scottish Player
Wordlessly, I grab a towel off the chair and toss it to her. “I’m not trying to be fun. Just wanted to see if you were impulsive enough to jump in a lake—and you are.”
“I’m not impulsive, but I love a good dare.”
As she towels off, I limp my way over to the Adirondack chairs at the edge of the pier, lowering myself with a wince and a grunt. She follows, plopping down beside me, water still dripping from her legs and pooling at her ankles. The sun’s starting to dip now, the lake catching fire with that golden-hour glow that makes everything feel poetic and serene.
She sighs, content, then peeks over at me. Down at my leg. Up at me. “You gonna tell me what happened to your leg—specifically?”
I glance at her, surprised she asked. “Torn ACL. Surgery last month.” On the mend.
“Ouch.” She leans back, gaze on the horizon. “I’m sorry—I hear that’s tough.”
It is. “I’m at the part where I do physical therapy, obviously have to be careful, but there’s no reason I can’t go back to training when the season starts.”
Annabelle nods. “Right, football. Almost forgot.” Nibbles on her bottom lip. “Is there any reason you’re here alone? Anyone missing you at home?”
Is she asking if I have a girlfriend?Or a wife?
I hold up my left hand and flash my fourth finger. “Not a soul.”
Annabelle arches a brow. “That’s not exactly proof. For all I know, you’ve got a whole wife, three kids, and a minivan.”
I would never own a fucking minivan.“What about you? Anyone coming to check in? Maybe a boyfriend who might drive out here looking to throw hands?”
“Throw hands?” Eye roll. “Stop. I hate it when men fight.”
That doesn’t answer the question, but I don’t press her.
She pulls her towel tighter, adjusting herself in the chair. “I broke up with someone recently,” she offers. “He was a drip, and I realized it was a waste of time.”
“Waste of time?” I ask. “How?”
Annabelle twists the edge of her towel in her hands, gaze fixed on the lake. “You ever date someone who felt like wallpaper?”
I blink. “I have no idea what that means.”
She lifts one shoulder. “He was there. Bland. Safe. Said the right things. Liked the right shows. Kissed the right way. But it was all so ...beige. I kept waiting for some kind of spark.” Her hand waves through the air. “But it never showed up.”
I consider that. “So you dumped him because he was boring?”
“I dumped him becauseIwas boring when I was with him,” she says. “I didn’t like the version of myself that showed up for that relationship. She was agreeable. Predictable. That’s not me.”
I smirk. “No shit.”
She bumps my arm. “Shut up.”
“Is that why you’re here this weekend?”
“Probably.” Annabelle sighs. “As you know, my best friend Lucy found Harris and she’s jetting off to Arizona and going on fancy dates and getting laid and they’re screwing constantly and I’m so happy for her—but also jealous?” She laughs. “I needed a reset ...”
We fall into silence again, but this time, it’s charged. The kind that makes you hyperaware of how close someone’s shoulder is to yours. Theway their hair smells faintly of lake water and vanilla shampoo. The fact that even though this whole day has been a fucked-up, chaotic accident—
Somewhere on the lake, a loon calls. Boat engines echo against the trees. The wind blows.
“This place is magic, isn’t it?” Annabelle says at last.
I raise a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
