Page 124 of Rule 1: Never Accidentally Marry Your Teammate
“Because it was Noah,” the words come out more angrily than I intend, and I close my eyes and do one of those breathing movements that I always recommend in my videos. “I wanted to spend all my time with him from the moment I met him. I showed him around and threw him a party.” I scratch the back of my neck. “That, um, didn’t go well.”
“I’ve heard about it. Top of the Boston hockey gossip.”
“I know the marriage doesn’t make sense.”
“It must have been confusing.”
“It didn’t feel confusing at the time. My main worry after we got married was that he might not like me.”
My mother snorts. I turn my head, and she attempts a daintier sniff. “That boy loved you.”
“No.”
She stares at me. “Yes. Yes, he did. Definitely.”
I shake my head again. “No, he left.” I narrow my gaze. “You shouldn’t say confusing things to me. I’m sure after a breakup, protocol says you’re supposed to tell me how terrible the other person is.”
“In that case, you can callme rebellious.”
We both laugh, because my mother, Susannah Carrington, is many things, but no one would ever call her rebellious.
“Did he tell you why he was going to leave?”
“He wanted me to be free.” I frown. “Which is silly. He said he didn’t want us to have to pretend to be married and that we were in love.”
“Well, you married someone at your intelligence level,” my mother mutters.
“What did you say?”
“I think I need some of that tea. I seem to have a horse in my throat.”
I give her a hard stare, but she is busy sipping the tea she gave me.
“I bet Noah still loves you. Why don’t you ask him? You still work together.”
“No.”
My mother’s eyes widen. “Why not, Finn?”
Patience is not one of my mother’s top traits. There’s a reason I’m impulsive, after all. I squirm at the note of exasperation in her voice.
“Noah thinks I don’t want to be married to him. Because it was an accident. He thinks I’m being honorable by saying I want to be with him. And he seems to be against that for some reason.” I inhale. “I have an idea.”
“Heaven help me.”
I give her a stern look. “No, you need to help me. Please?”
My mother’s eyes soften. “Of course, dear. Now tell me your plan.”
And so, I do.
Then her eyebrows do a lot of raising, and I do a lot of assuring her that this is what I want.
Then I remember that I still don’t have Noah, and my whole discussion might have been as fanciful as some of the children’s books Vinnie is always giving Stella.
But I’m going to try.
“Mother,” I say. “Can we do some shopping together?”
