Page 75 of Married to the Scottish Player
“That’s because you’re still drunk. Obviously.”
Rude. “I can be sober and be okay with this. There’s no need to freak out.” I give her hand a squeeze. “I’m not saying we have to start monogramming towels or announce it to the media, okay? But don’t act like it’s theworstthing in the world that we got drunk and got married.”
Her lips twitch. “Fake married.”
I shrug. “Semantics.”
“No—it was fake married. Like two kids pretending. Happens all the time.”
Sure. Right. Not to me.
“Know what I’m going to do?” I tell her, holding up my left hand. “Check my credit card statement to see if I paid for these.”
I open the credit card app on my phone with the grim determination of someone bracing myself for the charge while Annabelle hovers over my shoulder, chin resting on me.
“What if you paid with cash?”
I roll my eyes as I scroll. “Why would I use cash? What am I, eighty years old?”
“You had cash last night. I remember because you tipped the bartender because his little glass was empty. You gave him one hundred dollars.”
“Rings cost more than a bar tab.”
I swipe through a few pending charges.
And there it is.
Diamond Lab Bridal Pop-Up: $1500Pending
Her gasp is immediate andsodramatic. “Maverick! Th-that’s so much money!”
Pfft. Hardly.
She does not realize I can well afford it. In fact, not once has this woman asked about the money I make, what my place is like, or thought about the benefits of dating a professional athlete—let along being married to one.
Overnight, Annabelle became a WAG, and she doesn’t even know it.
She paces, mumbling about refunds and how it’s illegal to marry someone while they’re intoxicated, as if she’s going to take the pop-up bridal jeweler to small-claims court.
I watch her as I lean back on the bed, rubbing the ring with my thumb.She’s beautiful.Hair a mess, face flushed, pacing barefoot and naked like she owns the place.
She kind of does now—half of it, anyway.
“I’ll pay you back,” she says at last, decision made.
I raise a brow. “Babe.”
“I mean it!”
“You’re not paying me back. That ring is a gift.”
Her mouth falls open. “Fifteen hundred dollars’ worth ofgifts?”
“Technically it’s a wedding present,” I say with authority. “From me. To my wife.”
She groans. “This is a nightmare.”
I laugh. “This is too much to handle before breakfast. Maybe we can go back to the resort and—”
