Page 98 of Married to the Scottish Player
At the counter, the clerk gives me a polite smile and doesn’t say a word. Thank God.
Back outside, the sun is hotter than I expected, my T-shirt clinging to my back. The bag in my hand weighs more than it should.Or maybe that’s just what it feels like when you’re carrying around a question mark that might change your entire life.
By the time I reach the apartment again, my fingers ache from clutching the bag too tight.
I pause in the hallway.
Breathe.
Then unlock the door and slip inside.
“Hey. Did you go for a walk?”
“Jesus!” I gasp, practically flinging the bag into the kitchen island as I jump out of my skin.
Maverick’s leaning against the fancy oven, barefoot, shirt slung over his shoulder, a protein shake in one hand. Duffel bag on the marble floor.
I clutch the strap of my purse to my chest like it’s going to slow my heart rate, breathing in and out.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You were gone when I got back.”
“Just needed some air,” I say too quickly. “Um. And to stretch my legs.”
His eyes go to the bag. Then to my eyes.
I smile weakly. “How was your meeting?”
Maverick narrows his eyes, but thankfully doesn’t press. He takes a long pull from his shake. “Meeting was fine. Long. Boring. Agent is pissed I’m not giving interviews right now.”
Oh? “Do you have to?”
“Not about my personal life, no.” He yanks open the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and cracks the seal. “But you know how it is. If I don’t talk, people fill in the blanks.”
I nod slowly, lips pressed together. Peoplearefilling in the blanks. I saw the headlines. I saw the comments. And I’m not a blank anymore.
He shuts the fridge and looks over at me again, like he’s trying to read between the lines. “You okay?”
“Totally fine,” I say.
He eyes the bag still half tucked under my arm. “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh. Just ... deodorant. Tampons. Ibuprofen. Girl stuff.” I put the bag on the counter so he’ll stop asking about it. “Just cramps.”
Phantom cramps.Imaginedcramps. The kind you start noticing the second an app tells you your period is six days late.
He stares at me another beat, like he wants to say more. But then he backs off with a shrug and walks into my personal space to kiss me on the temple. “I’m gonna shower, babe.”
I nearly collapse from relief.
I wait a heartbeat.
One.
Two . . .
When I hear the shower go on, I scurry to the guest bathroom in the hall, knowing it’s going to take him quite a bit of time to shower, and I have a decision to make: call Lucy and ask her what to do—or just take the test myself and not concern Maverick with it.
It could be a nothing burger.
