Whoever she is, she’s sexy and not forgettable.
Marlow waves her in like she’s been waiting for her. “Eslin Saunders, I don’t think you’ve met Tatum Black, our new marketing director.”
Tatum spins toward me, her face lighting up. “Oh! Yes! Coach Saunders! I’ve been meaning to set up a meeting with you since I started!”
I blink, glancing between her and Marlow. “Oh really? Why?”
“Because! You’re the miracle worker everyone’s been raving about! I need to get your story out there—interviews, spotlights, all of it.”
I wave her off. “Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m not that special. Really not worth writing about.”
“I’m fine, by the way,” Marlow cuts in, her dry tone laced with exaggerated patience.
Tatum and I both turn to her and burst out laughing.
“Sorry! You were putting on makeup,” Tatum says. “I figured that was a solid sign you were going to live.”
Marlow rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. I look at her closely, wondering if she’s going to pick up where she left off—before we had company. Because whatever she was about to say, it felt important.
Marlow gets up, crosses the room, and shuts her office door with a quietclick. When she sits back down on the sofa, her expression is all business, but the kind you gossip about over cocktails.
Tatum and I exchange a look. Something’s coming.
I drop to the floor and cross my legs like it’s story time in kindergarten, and Tatum follows suit. We look ridiculous. But, also ready for what’s coming.
And judging by Marlow’s face, this is going to bejuicy.
“So… about that night in Vegas.”
“Oh shit,” I murmur, pressing my hands together under my chin and leaning in like she’s about to recite scripture.
Marlow shoots me a look. Definitely not helping.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Then louder, “Yes. I remember the night in Vegas.”
I glance at Tatum, then back to Marlow. “Wait—doessheknow about that night? About thehusband?”
Marlow shakes her head. “Nope. But I need input, and since you two are the closest thing I’ve got to a real friend circle right now, congratulations. You’re now my stand-in bff’s.”
Tatum hops up, walks over to Marlow’s little bar cart, and pours three glasses of whatever expensive amber magic she finds. She hands them out, then lifts her own with a grin.
“To stand-in BFFs,” she says.
We clink. We sip.
And Marlow begins.
The Vegas story. The hot guy. The pods. The wedding. All of it.
And damn, it's even wilder the second time around.
I’m fanning myself like I’m the one who got married because it’s sexier now, too.
“And you’re seriously saying he’s here?” Tatum half-yells, eyes wide with disbelief. “As in,plays for the Strikers?”
The coincidental run-ins and accidental marriages around this place must be studied. Like, by actual scientists. With charts. And lab coats. Because the level of romantic rendezvous happening here defies logic and basic human scheduling.
This all isn’t just messy. It’s practically a case study in what happens when you trap emotionally unstable adults in close quarters with too much sexual tension and not enough therapy.