Page 113 of Trade It All

I grin. “I know.”

She rolls her eyes and goes back to grabbing her clutch before I can start anything that ends with us missing the fundraiser entirely.

A few minutes later we are heading downstairs, and I catch myself watching her walk through the foyer carrying her heels in one hand while she laughs about forgetting lipstick.

This. This domestic little nothing. This is somehow more intimate than half the nights we spent tangled in hotel sheets.

I open the front door for her. Walk her down the porch steps. Open the truck door.

She gives me an amused look. "You know I can get in by myself.”

I lean one forearm on the top of the door and look at her. "I know.”

She smiles because she knows arguing is useless and climbs inside.

And because I am apparently incapable of not taking care of her in every possible way now, I lean in after her, reach across her body, and click the seatbelt into place.

Her perfume hits me. Soft and warm and Maddie.

I linger a second longer than necessary.

Her fingers curl lightly around my wrist. “You still buckle me in like I’m five.”

I brush my mouth over hers. “No,” I murmur. “I buckle you in like you’re my wife.”

Her breath catches. And judging by the smile she gives me when I pull back—I’m going to be using that line for the rest of my life.

I hate fundraisers.

I know that makes me sound like an asshole considering this one raises millions for good causes and half the city’s wealthy elite are here throwing money around for charity, but I still hate them.

Because the second we walked in, Maddie got pulled one way by Addy and Penelope and some of the other wives and girlfriends, while I got dragged another by sponsors, donors, former players, and every businessman in a five-hundred-dollar suit who wants ten minutes with the Mustangs’ head coach.

So now I’m separated from my wife. My wife. Still not over saying that.

I nod through conversations I barely hear, shake too many hands, pose for a photo by a silent auction table, and spend the entire time scanning the ballroom every chance I get for one glimpse of blonde hair.

Nothing. I know she’s safe. Know she’s somewhere with the WAGs. That thought almost makes me laugh. Maddie would absolutely hate being called a WAG.

I am one hundred percent using that on her later.

A donor from the children’s hockey camp catches me near the hall and starts talking budget numbers for this summer’s clinic. I listen, nodding in the right places because it’s a cause I actually care about. The camp gives kids opportunities most of them would never have otherwise.

With Paxton called up now, I make a mental note to ask Jake if he wants to help me take on a bigger role there this year.

Maybe we can—My wife’s voice cuts down the hallway. I smile automatically. Then the smile drops. Because something in it is off. She doesn’t sound scared. But she sure as hell doesn’t sound happy.

I excuse myself mid-conversation and head toward the side corridor where the voices are coming from.

Addy and Maddie are standing near one of the donor display tables. They’re facing me. But someone is standing with their back to me between us. Too close. My jaw tightens instantly.

I pick up my pace. Then the woman turns. And every muscle in my body goes rigid.

Camille.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I haven’t seen her since the day I told her to get the hell out of my office months ago. Haven’t spoken to her. Haven’t thought about her outside of occasional relief that she finally took the hint.