Page 45

45

CONNOR

I ’m going to murder Ford’s Gram.

Everything that led to this godforsaken moment is her fault.

Now I’m driving a goddamn pink Cadillac through the middle of Vegas like some flamingo-suited freak while my wife is actively trying to destroy me.

She’s lounging in the passenger seat like a damn movie star—sunglasses on, one leg propped up, sipping her iced coffee like she isn’t single-handedly ruining my entire reputation.

She taps the dash like she’s greeting an old friend. “Priscilla’s loving this weather.”

I stare at the road. “You need therapy.”

She beams. “Wanda would be proud.”

I grunt in response.

Then she commits the ultimate betrayal. She pulls out her phone and hits the live button.

“Hey, guys!” she chirps into the camera, full of sunshine and smugness. “Live from Vegas with my new hubby, who’s looking mighty fine in this pink ride.”

My soul and dignity are in flames.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

She’s live streaming this. To the internet. To hockey fans.

I’m combusting in the damn driver’s seat.

“Wow, babe. The chat is exploding,” she grins, scrolling casually like my career isn’t extinguishing in real-time.

I debate crashing the Cadillac into the nearest cactus.

She starts reading the comments out loud as we stop at a red light.

@hockeyfan42 : HOLY SHIT IS THAT CONNOR BYRNS?

@puckbunny88 : I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE ATTRACTED TO A MAN IN PINK

@teamchaos : HE LOOKS LIKE HE WANTS TO DIE. LMFAO

@gram4president : LOOKIN’ GOOD, ADOPTED GRANDSON

@alliepayne : Named the car Priscilla. She’s iconic.

@gram4president : TELL PRISCILLA I SAID HI. LOU WOULD’VE LOVED HER. SHE’S GOT THE SAME SLUTTY SPIRIT.

“Oh my God,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “This is my legacy now.”

The light turns green. I press the gas with enough force to peel out. I’m seconds from a coronary.

My wife cranks up the volume on the radio like she’s DJing my funeral.

And what goddamn song plays?

“Like a Virgin” by Madonna.

She gasps. “Oh my God, I LOVE this song!”

She starts swaying to the beat, singing loudly, and running her fingers through her hair like she’s in a 1980s music video.

I grip the steering wheel so hard I’m gonna snap it. “Allie.”

No response.

“Baby.”

Still nothing.

She’s full-on vibing.

“DO. NOT. FUCKING?—”

She turns to me with wild eyes and screams the chorus.

Everyone on the Vegas Strip turns to stare.

I want to disappear.

Spontaneously combust.

Hit by an asteroid.

Anything to get me out of this nightmare.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I swerve into a random parking lot, slam the pink monstrosity into park, and twist toward her, chest heaving.

My patience? Gone. Dead. Buried.

Allie blinks at me, then grins like the goddamn devil. “Problem, husband?”

I reach across the seat and grip her chin. “I’m going to make you regret every second of this.”

Her eyes go wide. Her lips part.

Then she whispers, breathless and smug as hell, “Promise, Daddy?”

Oh, I’ll show her daddy.