Page 40 of The Marriage Game

Hannah and Brooke exchange a look, then, clearly not offended by my assessment of their relationships, both give me smug smiles.

“I guess that’s true about us, sis,” Hannah trills. “Although remind me, Brooke—” she tilts her head in mock thought, “wasn’t it our dear sister here that got her beloved husbandhospitalized while they were dating because he got in a fight with her ex-boyfriend?”

“It was indeed our dear sister here,” Brooke confirms cheerfully. “And wasn’t it also our dear sister here, who, when she was dating our beloved brother-in-law here, got so jealous of one of his prettier coworkers that she started going into his office everyday to have lunch with him, then tried to pay a paralegal to spy on them?”

“It was indeed, Brooke.” Hannah’s grin is broad and obnoxious. “But, of course, there were no games or shenanigans in their dating life. Not like us.”

“Ha. Ha,” I say flatly.

“Perhaps we should go get some breakfast of our own,” Will suggests loudly, shooting me an apologetic look.

“Good idea,” Luke agrees, grabbing Hannah’s hand as if he plans to tug her away if necessary.

“Don’t let the clasp on our extremely fancy rope barrier hit you on the way out,” I tell them dryly.

The four of them drift off, leaving us alone once again.

“I’d forgotten about how jealous you got of Shannon,” Max remarks; he has the audacity to look pleased by the memory.

“Oh please,” I huff. “That was such an exaggeration. I didn’t bring you luncheveryday. And that paralegal approachedmewith the offer to keep an eye on you. She was just trying to make a buck.”

Max laughs, his eyes shining with mirth. “All I remember,” he tells me in a low voice, the laughter disappearing from his countenance, “is how gorgeous you looked in that off-shoulder, lavender sweater you wore that one time you came in.”

A shiver runs down my spine. “Yes, well,” I reply a little breathily, “I suppose I look a little different now than I used to.”

Max’s brow dips in confusion. “I guess so,” he says. “We both do.”

My chin falls to my chest. Not exactly what I was hoping he would say, then again, it’s never wise to try and fish for a compliment that’s undeserved. I’m not as pretty as I once was; it’s unfair for me to expect my husband to lie about that truth simply to spare my feelings.

“Jill,” Max says hesitantly, studying me with a discomfiting intensity, “do you…I mean, you do know that I think you’re beautiful, don’t you?”

My stupid heart flutters in my chest. “Max, you don’t have to do this,” I say softly, even as hope blooms inside me.

“Do what?”

“Compliment me just to make me feel better.” I shrug, attempting to look unconcerned. “I know I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore.”

“A spring chicken?” Max echoes dubiously. “That’s the phrasing you’re using for your younger self?” He shakes his head. “Can’t say I’ve ever found chickens attractive before.”

“Don’t make jokes,” I huff. “You know what I mean.”

Max’s expression turns serious. “Yeah, I do. And truthfully, I don’t know where this is coming from. Do you seriously not know that I think you’re gorgeous?”

I shrug and look away. “Really, Max,” I repeat my instructions, “you don’t have to do this.”

“I think maybe I do,” he says. A second later his hand is on my chin and he’s tilting my face to look up at his. “Jill, believe me, I think you’re beautiful.”

I want to believe him, but years of not hearing much from him on the subject has me questioning his sincerity. His thumb makes a gentle sweeping movement against my cheek, the sensation lulling me closer to accepting his words—but then a flash of movement catches my eye. Bright orange. Dorothy standing not too far off, watching us.

My eyes flutter closed against the flash of hurt that courses through me. Of course. He must have seen her too.That’swhy he suddenly decided to turn on the charm.

I can’t even be mad at him since this whole thing was my idea. I swallow back my emotions and open my eyes.

“Say you believe me,” Max whispers.

Instead of lying, I take a page out of his playbook and turn on the moves for our audience. Leaning forward I press the softest of kisses to his lips.

When I pull away Max is smiling. Our efforts are succeeding—and the man always has loved to win.

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