The marriage effect, p.1
The Marriage Effect, page 1
part #3 of Washington Wolves Series
The Marriage Effect
Karla Sorensen
Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Other books by Karla Sorensen
About the Author
© 2019- Karla Sorensen
All Rights Reserved
Cover Designer-Najla Qamber Design www.najlaqamberdesigns.com
Interior Design- Indie Girl Promotions
Proofreading- Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This one is for the man I married, for the endless support he’s given me in this crazy endeavor, even if he has terrible title suggestions for every book I work on.
I love you.
1
Paige
I never thought I’d hit a point in my life where I could be standing in the middle of a gorgeous mansion, surrounded by gorgeous football players, and be bored out of my friggin’ mind.
Yet here I was.
“You look bored,” my best friend Allie said from where she stood next to me.
I took a sip of my drink, some delicious lemon-whiskey concoction, and sighed. “What makes you say that?”
“Your fingers are doing that annoying tapping thing they do when you’re planning an escape.”
Sure enough. My fingers were suspended midair, a split second before resuming the rhythmic drumming along the surface of the crystal low ball glass.
“What, pray tell, do you think I’m trying to escape?” I asked her. Some young buck rookie with a puffed-out chest and no neck to speak of strutted across Allie’s living room, gave me a full-body once-over, and then jerked his chin up. I narrowed my eyes dangerously and turned away. That kid wouldn’t know what to do with me if I gave him a laminated sheet with bullet point instructions and a highlighted map of my body.
“Who knows, Paige?” Allie smiled at someone across the room, probably another young buck rookie who wasn’t leering and jerking his chin at her, given that she owned the damn team. “I’ve never been able to figure out what makes you bolt from point A to point B. Like when did you decide to suddenly quit a successful modeling job? Or move from Milan, or before that, from Paris? Or the handful of other European countries you called home? Or dump the dozens of boyfriends who worshiped the ground you walked on?”
I snorted. “If you think they worshiped anything, you’re smokin’ something.”
If I felt like having this conversation—which, I didn’t—I might have been able to tell her that sometimes, I woke up, and everything around me felt stale and musty. That I always hit a point in a job, or an apartment, or a city, or a person, and I desperately needed to fling open the proverbial windows of my life and let in a fresh, bracing breeze.
That desire was what made me up and quit a modeling career that I’d spent the previous ten years building. It’s what made me pack my suitcases, grab the first flight from Milan to Seattle, and move into my best friend’s house that we now shared with her fiancé and his daughter.
Don’t worry, the house was ginormous. I basically had my own wing, if anyone was worried about a lack of privacy.
“You need a job,” she said in lieu of an answer from me.
Even though I wasn’t facing her, my best friend sensed my eye roll, because she poked me in the general area of my kidneys.
“Yeah, right,” I told her. “If I had a job, who would help you set up your fabulous football parties?”
Allie sighed as we watched players and their families fill plates of food from the long table that stretched along the middle of the sprawling deck overlooking Lake Washington.
“I’d hire someone,” she said. “You know, the person whose job it is to help with fabulous football parties.”
“I’m cheaper.”
She glanced sideways at me with a lifted brow.
“You know what I mean,” I clarified.
“Aunt Paige can’t move out,” Faith piped up from behind us. “She’s way better at braiding my hair than you are, Allie.”
I smiled triumphantly. “Yeah, I’m way better at braiding her hair. Did you see the masterpiece I created?”
My little co-conspirator did a twirl in front of us, and Allie laughed. “You’re right, I couldn’t do that.”
When Faith spun a little too fast and bumped into me, I steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “See, all those years of modeling were worth it just to be able to do the fabulous Miss Pierson’s hair.”
That was when my BFF, my ride or die, the woman who knew me best in the world, gave me a look that said she saw through my bullshit like it was cellophane.
“I get what you’re saying,” I told her. “But moving around isn’t a crime, you know. Besides, I’ve been here for almost a year. Shouldn’t that earn me some imaginary points?”
Allie didn’t make eye contact, a sure sign that she was choosing her words carefully.
But her fiancé beat her to it, sneaking an arm around her to snag a piece of perfectly cut red pepper from the tray in front of us. “Do those imaginary points help you move out?”
“Luke,” she chastised.
“It’s fine,” I told her, narrowing my eyes at Luke even though he couldn’t see my face. “He pretends he hates having me here, but he doesn’t.”
“Don’t I?” His voice was dry. “Last week, you walked in when—”
“Okay,” I interrupted. “I remember. No need to remind me. I saw everything I needed to see on that couch, and if I must remind you, I turned around immediately and went back to my room.” Allie’s face was bright red, and I patted her shoulder. “I didn’t see much, I swear.”
She held up her hands. “I’ll drop it. But I think you should find something to do with your time. As much as I love having you here, and Faith does too. You’re such a huge help with her during the season.”
“But,” I drawled.
“But you’ve got your own life to live too,” she said gently.
Allie wasn’t saying anything I didn’t already know or wasn’t already feeling. Normally, I looked without leaping, and given my last leap had landed me in a place surrounded by people I loved desperately, it had taken me longer than normal to feel the itch to move on.
But at the back of my neck, up my spine, and under my skin, that itch was starting to build. My fingers curled up in my palm, ready to grip the window frame and yank it off its hinges. I just didn’t know what I was ready for next.
A player called her name, and Allie gave me a tiny smile before she walked away to talk to him. For a year, I’d been an unofficial fixture with the Washington Wolves, the professional football team she inherited when her dad passed away.
I knew most of the players and a lot of the WAGS too. Their kids called me Auntie Paige, just like Faith did. And it was because I came to all these functions, the random get-togethers that Allie liked to host to keep a strong sense of community among her team. Most owners wouldn’t throw a house party while the team was in the thick of preseason, but this was her way, and it was working.
I tipped my drink back, then grimaced when it was empty. I started toward the bar with a heavy sigh.
The bartender was filling a glass with ice water, and another with the same cocktail I’d just finished when I approached the bar set up along the edge of the deck. Two broad backs were in front of me, one sitting on a stool and one standing.
The guy standing took his drink and walked away. The one on the stool stayed there when the bartender slid a tall glass of water in his direction.
From the back, I tried to place him.
Dark, dark hair, wide shoulders, and a slim waist. A jawline that could cut glass, from the looks of it.
Young Buck Rookie from a few minutes ago sidled up next to me as I approached the bar, clearing his throat as he did. The guy on the stool turned slightly, and I only caught a glimpse of his profile as he glanced toward us.
“What’s up, Red?” YBR asked, puffing out that chest again.
Oh goodie, I so loved the original ones. The ones who decided it didn’t matter to ask my name, and instead, commented on the color of my hair in lieu of a polite greeti
Normally, I’d relish the chance to slice him into ribbons, metaphorically speaking, of course. But today, I was tired.
I set my empty glass onto the bar and sighed.
“Another one?” the bartender asked.
I held up my hand. “Just a second.” With a slight turn, I braced my elbow onto the bar and faced YBR. “I’m Paige,” I told him in as sweet and docile a tone as I was capable of.
He grinned. “I’m Colt.”
“Of course you are,” I murmured. His eyebrows bent in confusion. I patted him on the shoulder. “Colt, you seem … nice. You do. But I’m too old for you, trust me. The me from ten years ago would have been thrilled if you approached me by a bar and called me Red, but the almost thirty-year-old me just … really appreciates a man who will ask me what my name is.”
His grin stayed frozen on his big dopey face. “You already told me your name, though.”
The guy next to me sighed heavily, and the sound was so disgusted, overflowing with the same kind of exhaustion that I was feeling that I almost laughed out loud.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. Nice to meet you, Colt.”
I turned back to the bar, risking a glance at the guy next to me. His profile might have been carved from rock for as much as it gave away. He lifted his water and took another long drink. I didn’t know what it said about my brain, but I felt a tingle of absurd happiness that he was ignoring me completely.
Hello Challenge, my name is Paige.
As I stood there, I heard the sound of Colt shuffling away.
“I think you broke his heart,” the bartender said, flicking her eyes to where Colt had just been standing.
“Highly doubtful,” I answered. “He’s a twentysomething professional football player. I think his heart will mend just fine before the night is over.”
“Another lemon rosemary bourbon sour?” she asked, wiping the surface of the bar with deft movements.
The large frame of the man sitting next to me shifted slightly, and I tilted my head in his direction, wishing I could see his face more clearly.
“What’s he drinking?” I asked.
“He has a name,” his grumbly, rumbly voice answered. “And after that little speech, don’t you think it’s a bit hypocritical that you didn’t ask what it is?”
The second I heard him speak, his name clicked into place in my head.
Of course.
That voice was one not heard often because he stayed under the radar, hated doing any press, and was, without a doubt, one of the best safeties in professional football. The casual football fan wouldn’t have any clue who he was. He could probably walk through most cities in America and not be recognized.
But I recognized his voice all the same. The first time I heard it, I thought that someone yanked it from the pits of hell, but in a really super-duper sexy way.
Before I turned, I pulled a stool out and perched on it. Then I pivoted to the side so I could see him fully.
“Logan Ward,” I said, appreciating the slight start of surprise he gave when that was the next thing out of my mouth. His eyes flicked in my direction, and oh goodness, they were green. That was not something I knew about him, and it pleased me to the depths of my very bored soul to discover it. “See? No hypocrites to be found at this bar.”
He didn’t say anything, only took another drink of his water.
Everything in me screamed to wait, to allow him to be the next to talk, but honestly, I was never the best at listening to the voices in my head that tried to curb my more irrational impulses.
“Do you think I broke Colt’s heart?”
“Nope.”
“Do you think he’ll remember my lesson when he approaches the next woman he wants to talk to?”
“Nope.”
I laughed. “That’s a shame.”
Finally, Logan turned his chin far enough that he was almost, sort of facing me. Now that was a face that a camera would love. Strong jaw, straight nose, eyes so bright and thickly lashed that I was only a little jealous. It was also a face I hadn’t seen very often, save behind his football helmet. He rarely made appearances at the social functions.
“Do you critique every man who approaches you?” he asked.
“No,” I said easily. I shrugged one shoulder. “But the thing is, most women feel like they can’t be honest when a man comes up to us in a social setting and says something stupid or annoying or cheesy. And my thing is, how will they ever learn? We’re taught to smile and be nice and be charming because that’s what a good girl does. But if a guy comes up to me and smacks me on the ass and hands me a drink that he so graciously bought, shouldn’t I be allowed to tell him that I don’t particularly appreciate the gesture?”
Logan answered that with a lifted brow. “Yes, you should.”
“Thank you. If I had daughters, I’d want to teach them to be kind but also be honest about how they should be treated. If I had sons, I’d want to teach them how to be respectful of the people they want to speak to. Do you have sons or daughters, Logan?”
As I spoke, he started shaking his head, the tiniest beginnings of a smile on those firmly sculpted lips. “I have sisters. Lots of them.”
“And you’re not drinking?” I teased.
“I don’t drink.” His mouth settled into a firm line.
He stood, pulling some cash out of his wallet and tucking it into the tip jar.
“Leaving already?” I asked, feeling an irrational tug of disappointment.
“Yup.”
“Aren’t you going to ask my name?” I said.
His eyes stayed steadily on mine as he put his wallet into the back pocket of his dark cut jeans. “Who says I don’t already know it?”
My mouth popped open as he turned and walked away.
I was about to go after him, about to follow the instinctual tug that wanted to keep that particular interaction going, when my cell phone buzzed from the pocket of my dress.
A number I didn’t recognize flashed across the screen, but it was the same East Coast area code where my parents lived.
“This is Paige,” I said, turning away from the noise of the party.
“Paige McKinney?”
“Paige McKinney,” I confirmed.
The man on the other end of the line exhaled heavily. “You’re tough to get a hold of. The last number and address we had on file for you was in Milan.”
I grimaced. If it was a possible modeling job, my agent would’ve been the one to contact me. “Not for the last year or so. Can I ask why you’re trying to track me down?”
“Miss McKinney, my name is Robert Ford, and I represent the estate of your late aunt Emma McKinney.”
My head tilted to the side, and I walked around the side of the deck to find a pocket of quiet. My aunt Emma, crazy though she was, had been one of my favorite people when I was younger. She’d passed away, childless and as kooky as ever, about six months earlier, but this was the first I’d heard about something in regard to her estate.
“Okay. What can I help you with?”
“Well, it’s how I can help you. Your aunt was … unconventional, as you know, and she had very specific wishes in regard to her estate and holdings.”
I found a bench and sank down onto it. Aunt Emma’s “estate” was also known as a living museum to the late 1800s. She’d kept the place, small and immaculate, in a constant state of readiness for Jane Austen’s ghost to pop up from the grave and visit her.
Like, for real.
Her obsession for that time period was in her dress and the things she ate. She eschewed most forms of technology, which was why we’d barely kept in touch when I moved overseas.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “What wishes are those?”
“We were instructed to wait until after the will went through probate and all taxes were paid upon her death to see what was left. The house itself is to be donated to the Delaware Historical Society because of the incredible details she was able to preserve over the years.”
