Page 92 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Eslin leans in. “How has it been with him?”
I glance between them. “As well as can be expected. We have our final meeting with the lawyers tomorrow. We sign everything, making this marriage like it never happened.”
“Wow,” Tatum breathes. “How does that make you feel? That it’s going to be over?”
I chuckle, more to myself than them. “I might actually miss his crazy pranks. But other than that, this needs to be done before the press gets a hold of the story. It’s gone on long enough.”
“I hear you,” Eslin says softly.
I sit up straighter because this cannot turn into my pre-divorce pity party. “Enough about me. Who are you taking to the party, Eslin?”
She waves me off. “I thought the point of going to one of those things was to meet a masked man who will sweep you off your feet!”
“Well, considering you probably know the medical history of half the masked men who will be in attendance, I think it’s safer to just bring a date. Besides, Coach Jones has been sniffing around lately.”
Eslin’s eyes widen. “Really? Him? No way.”
“Oh yes, honey,” Tatum adds. “He’s always looking at you like he wants to love you in a special way, you hear me?”
Eslin laughs. “I’m certain I don’t know what you two are talking about. Besides, I don’t think I can date him.”
“Why not?” Tatum frowns. “He’s not a patient, right?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Then what?” I press.
But Eslin just goes quiet. Her mouth opens, then closes. “You know what? Never mind. I’m sure I’m trippin’. I might actually give Coach Jones a chance.”
“I, for one, definitely think you should,” Tatum says. “Before I have my arms and legs all over that man like a damn octopus!”
“Eww!” I laugh. “That just sounds excessive.”
Suddenly, the room is filled with the chime of two phones buzzing on the glass coffee table.
Tatum grabs hers first. “Girl…” she says, her eyes glued to the screen.
Eslin picks hers up. Her eyes go wide. “Girl,” she echoes.
“What? What is it?” I ask, standing.
They both look up at me like I’ve just stepped into an ambush.
“Turn on the TV,” Eslin says, eyes serious.
I rush to my desk, grab the remote, and hit the power button. The screen flickers to life, and a live sports feed fills the room. A reporter holds a mic up to Declan, still in his jersey, sweaty and breathless from the match.
He looks into the camera, unblinking.
“I’m missing my wife.”
My glass of water slips from my hand, shattering on the tile. I barely register it.
All the blood drains from my face.
“Is he serious right now? Are you fucking kidding me?!”
Tatum gasps.
