Anna Sugden - A Perfect Strategy

His bitter laugh echoed around the garage. That was one play he hadn’t read at all.

Scott walked through the house, turning on lights. He kicked off his shoes in the front hall, then went into the living room and flicked on the flat-screen. Relieved to have noise—he didn’t care what channel was on—he padded to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. Then headed for his den.

The silence was the worst. For the past couple months, his kids had hung out here a lot, particularly while their mom was traveling. But this week, they’d both headed back to college early—Angela had wanted to get a head start on her third-year projects and Wayne had football practice.

Leaving Scott alone in a house he’d never really felt was home. He’d bought it for Celine when he became captain. A thank-you for all the sacrifices she’d made and the fantastic job she’d done with their kids. While his responsibilities at the rink and with the team had taken up more time, she’d decorated, extended and remodeled, until it was perfect.

And it was. Perfectly color coordinated. Perfectly furnished. Probably perfectly freaking feng shuied, too. All he knew was that other than in his den—where she’d given him free rein—he felt like he was in a show house.

He’d have been happy to give it to her when they split up, but she’d wanted a sleek apartment in the city. Less bother while she was traveling. Not wanting to get rid of the family home while his kids still technically lived there, he’d agreed to hold on to it until Wayne graduated. But he couldn’t bring himself to use more than a few rooms.

In his den, he dropped onto the sofa and turned on the Yankees game. Top of the fifth, and they were beating the Red Sox by four runs. Good news, but not enough to distract him. Maybe he’d sit in bed and read. The latest Robert Crais was next up on his nightstand; Elvis Cole was always good for taking his mind off things.

Scott walked back through the house, turning off lights and the TV in the living room. The thick vellum invitation on the mantel caught his attention.

Crap. He’d forgotten all about J.B. and Issy’s reception. The pair had been married during the play-offs in a quickie civil ceremony but were having a full-blown celebration now that the successful Cup run was over and players were heading to New Jersey for their preseason preparations.

Scott was glad for J.B., but he wasn’t looking forward to attending yet another function stag. At least there would be plenty of Cats and their families there, so he wouldn’t be stuck making small talk with people he didn’t know.

That brought to mind the earlier conversation over dinner. He was out of a job.

He’d never not known where he was headed. He hated feeling rudderless.

Damn it. Why hadn’t he seen this coming?

As he walked upstairs, he stopped to look at the family pictures that lined the wall. One for each year he and Celine had been married. For the first time he noticed that the writing had been on this wall, literally, if he’d bothered to notice. The happy smiles had become stilted over the years. The body language more brittle. He and Celine had been wrapped in each other’s arms on their first anniversary, but by the final picture, taken last summer, they were as far apart as physically possible, with their kids almost like a buffer between them.

The truth was that he missed his kids and hockey more than he missed his wife.

Scott sank onto the top step and rested his elbows on his knees, staring into the glass of red wine like it held all the answers.

Unfortunately, it didn’t.

* * *

SAPPHIRE HOULIHAN’S LIFE WAS, to quote Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way. She had a fabulous career, running her own successful management consultancy. She was healthy and fit and had finally lost the extra ten pounds she’d been carrying since college. Though after the one or two...okay...several to-die-for desserts she’d eaten at this wedding reception, she’d probably put half of those pounds back on. She had a busy social life and an active sex life, with absolutely no strings attached to either.

Everything was just how she liked it. Simple, straightforward, easy to manage.

So why did she feel so...restless? Unsettled?

Sapphie sipped her champagne and looked around the glittering ballroom. Her Louboutined foot tapped to the rock beat of an oldie but goody. The party was in full swing.

Her heart warmed to see her childhood friend Isabelle Brandine—no, Isabelle Larocque now—dancing with her husband, Jean Baptiste. Issy looked so happy. Who’d have thought a playboy hockey player, and a vacation fling at that, would turn out to be The One for conservative Issy.

Of course, there was the little matter of baby Sophia—currently being cooed over by J.B.’s mom—the result of that fling and an unfortunately timed bout of food poisoning. Sapphie believed her goddaughter was the catalyst for bringing Issy and J.B. together. So, despite a troubled path, their story had a happy ending.

If anyone deserved that happiness, it was Issy. Inseparable from the time they could crawl, Issy and Sapphie had grown up in a poor town in North Carolina. Because their parents had preferred partying over responsibility, the two friends had had to be the “grown-ups” in their respective households: looking after their siblings, making sure what little money their folks brought in kept a roof over their heads and food on the table.

When they’d escaped at eighteen, headed for college and better things, Issy had done everything she could to build a stable, financially secure life for herself, with the hope of settling down with a nice, responsible man to raise a family. Everything she hadn’t had as a child.

Sapphie deposited her empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and snagged a fresh drink. She sighed.

That definitely wasn’t the life Sapphie wanted. Marriage, kids, a mortgage—no way. She’d had enough of responsibility and commitment growing up and was determined never to be tied to any person or any place. She depended on no one but herself. She controlled her life and cherished her freedom.

Sapphie didn’t own an apartment but kept three serviced condos—one on each coast and another in Chicago—convenient pieds-à-terre for when she flew back and forth across the country to see her clients. No cleaning, no maintenance, no worries.

As for dating, Issy teased her about having “a guy in every port.” Not quite true, but Sapphie didn’t go out with any man for long. That way she didn’t encourage expectations that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fulfill. Like the apartments, it suited her perfectly.

Sapphie pushed away from the pillar she’d been leaning against and sat at an empty table. The late nights she’d put in recently for her biggest client, Marty Antonelli—not to mention the red-eye she’d taken from LA to get here to help Issy with the party—were catching up with her. She had a room at the hotel until Monday and planned to take advantage of the spa to pamper herself.

Perhaps she’d sneak away and get an early night. Eight hours’ sleep sounded heavenly.

Taylor “Mad Dog” Madden sat beside her. “How soon can I cut out of here without offending the happy couple?”

The Ice Cats’ defenseman was a close friend and also one of J.B.’s groomsmen.

“I was wondering the same thing. Do you think we’re getting ol—” Sapphie broke off when she saw his face, tight with anger. “What’s put a bug up your butt?”

“Nothing.” He slammed his beer bottle on the table, then stared out at the dance floor, arms crossed.

She followed his gaze and spotted a familiar, pretty blonde talking to a slight man with thinning dark hair. “Oh. Lizzie came with someone.”