FAKE SHOT

Boston Rebels Series

Book 2

JULIA CONNORS
 Contents

Chapter 1
JULES
Chapter 2
COLT
Chapter 3
JULES
Chapter 4
COLT
Chapter 5
JULES
Chapter 6
COLT
Chapter 7
JULES
Chapter 8
COLT
Chapter 9
JULES
Chapter 10
COLT
Chapter 11
JULES
Chapter 12
COLT
Chapter 13
JULES
Chapter 14
COLT
Chapter 15
JULES
Chapter 16
COLT
Chapter 17
JULES
Chapter 18
JULES
Chapter 19
COLT
Chapter 20
JULES
Chapter 21
COLT
Chapter 22
JULES
Chapter 23
COLT
Chapter 24
JULES
Chapter 25
COLT
Chapter 26
JULES
Chapter 27
COLT
Chapter 28
COLT
Chapter 29
JULES
Chapter 30
JULES
Chapter 31
JULES
Chapter 32
COLT
Chapter 33
JULES
Chapter 34
COLT
Chapter 35
COLT
Chapter 36
JULES
Chapter 37
COLT
Chapter 38
JULES
Chapter 39
COLT
Chapter 40
JULES
Chapter 41
COLT
Chapter 42
JULES
Chapter 43
COLT
Epilogue
CROSS-CHECKED
Books by Julia Connors
Acknowledgments
Afterword
About the Author
© 2024 Julia Connors
All Rights Reserved

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To the women who have built up walls
to protect themselves,
and to the men who prove
it’s safe to take them down.
 Chapter One
JULES

6 Years Ago
Las Vegas, NV

F rom my spot at the edge of the craps table, I take another sip of my
whiskey sour. I should have picked a sweeter drink, because then I’d be
able to tell if it’s the drink turning my stomach, or if it’s the way the woman
in the barely-there pink dress is hanging all over Colt.
“She’s a less pretty version of you,” Brock Lester says as he leans into
my side. Clearly, I’m failing in my attempt not to stare at Colt and tonight’s
woman du jour.
She can’t be much older than me, and while her hair is light brown with
blond highlights and not a shiny blond like mine, there’s enough of a
resemblance for a comparison. And it’s that fact that hurts.
All those excuses I’ve made for years—that I’m too young for him or
that I’m not his type—to explain why he’s not interested in me, they’re all
lies in the wake of tonight’s evidence. It’s not my age or that I’m not his
type. It’s just me. Whatever the reason, he’s just not into me, and he never
will be.
I know I need to accept that . . . probably should have accepted it years
ago, but I can barely remember a time when I didn’t love Colt. From the
time I was old enough to be interested in boys, my brother’s best friend and
teammate was the only one I had eyes for. It didn’t matter that he was eight
years older than me or that he’s always treated me like a little sister. I’ve
been too stubborn to quit on my feelings for him, because I’m entirely
certain we could be perfect together if only he’d open his eyes and see me.
Tilting the drink against my lips, I drain the glass before I turn toward
Brock. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you’re not,” he says, a low chuckle following his words. “But if
you want to make him jealous, you just let me know.”
I narrow my eyes at him, telling myself it’s because I’m trying to make
sense of his meaning rather than because my vision is getting the slightest
bit unfocused.
“And why would I do that?” I attempt to keep my voice indifferent, the
way I have all night as the NHL’s resident bad boy has shamelessly flirted
with me. But my disinterest only seems to have increased his dedication to
getting my attention.
“Because we could have a lot of fun together.” The backs of his
knuckles trail along the outside of my thigh, and even though he’s not my
type, it sends a shiver of excitement up my back. Around us, the large and
now very drunk group of hockey players who have congregated in Las
Vegas for All-Star Weekend, along with their wives and girlfriends and a
fair number of puck bunnies, are loud and laughing and paying us no mind.
I’m fairly certain I’m not cool enough to be here.
Audrey and I convinced our brother, Jameson, to bring us to All-Star
Weekend with him—even though we’d each be missing a couple of days of
our college classes—so we could enjoy a weekend of sun and relaxation,
and attend the game. As an agent, he represents several of the players,
including Colt, who’s a goalie for the Boston Rebels, a young center named
Alex Ivanov, who’s having a stellar second year in New York, and a
defenseman from Ottawa named Tom Bonovono.
When the players headed out tonight after the post-game dinner, Audrey
went back to the hotel because she’s very pregnant and always exhausted.
And even though I could have hung out with her in the hotel room,
watching movies and raiding the snacks in the mini bar like we’d done the
last two nights, I felt like going out.
The funny thing about being a freshman in college is that you get used
to making your own decisions about how you spend your nights, and I’d
forgotten what it was like to need to ask my brother’s permission. Luckily,
he didn’t put up a fight about me coming out with them, even though, at
nineteen, I’m not technically old enough to be at the gaming tables, and I’m
definitely not supposed to be drinking.
Like I suspected, no one has asked for my ID because I put on some
makeup and a slinky dress with high heels, and I walked in with a group of
the best players in professional hockey. As we moved through the doors of
the casino earlier, Colt slung his arm over my shoulder to usher me in with
the group, making sure I didn’t get left behind. That moment had given me
all kinds of hope.
But that was hours ago, before that woman in the pink dress started
hanging all over him. He hasn’t looked at me since.
Except when—about an hour ago—Jameson told him he was going with
a few of the players to a strip club. He claimed it was to “make sure no one
got in trouble,” and while I believe him, it also feels like these are grown
men who should be responsible for themselves. Then he asked Colt to
“keep an eye on me.”
Unlike his players, I don’t need a fucking babysitter.
“Are you thinking it over?” Brock asks, and it’s only then that I realize
I’ve been completely lost in my thoughts about how I’ll never be anything
more than a kid in Colt’s eyes—someone he needs to take care of when my
big brother isn’t around.
He’s never going to see you as more.
“Yeah, I’m considering it . . .” I bite my lip as I flag down the waitress
assigned to our private VIP area. Then I order another whiskey sour
because I’m afraid to change my drink order. I’ve never been drunk before,
but I’ve heard horror stories about mixing alcohols, and sticking with the
same drink feels safe.
He leans in again. “You’re way too beautiful and sweet to be spending
this weekend alone, Jules.” My name is a caress coming off his tongue, and
his warm breath glides along my bare shoulder, wrapping me in the promise
of companionship.
I’ve dated here and there just to see what all the fuss is about, but I’ve
never had a boyfriend because I’ve held on to this stupid childhood crush
way past its expiration date. I’ve also never had sex, nor drank too much,
nor made a single bad decision.
And suddenly, three drinks in, all these rites of passage that other people
my age have typically experienced make me feel like I need to grow up.
And moving on from this ridiculous crush, with someone who is not Colt,
feels like the first monumental step toward actual adulthood.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask. Notching my index finger behind
his belt buckle, I relish his sharp intake of breath and the way he half closes
his eyelids as he looks down at me.
And then I let Brock wrap his arm along my lower back, grip my hip,
and pull me against him, whispering promises about all the dirty things he
wants to do to me. I’m seriously considering his suggestions because, hell,
someone needs to take my virginity. I have an incredibly good-looking,
highly attentive man standing right here, offering to spend this weekend
making sure I have “fun.” And he’s rebuffed every other woman who’s tried
to talk to him tonight, focusing all his energy on me because, unlike Colt,
he’s clearly into me. Would I be a fool to turn him down?
Before I can agree, Colt’s next to us, one hand on my shoulder and one
hand on the neck of Brock’s button down as he pulls him away and tells
him to mind his fucking manners with “Flynn’s baby sister.”
Of course he has to go and make me feel and sound like a goddamn
child—I don’t know why I’m just now realizing that this is how he views
me. I’m so pissed off I could cry, but I have years of experience hiding my
anger and frustration and so instead, I stand taller and square my shoulders
as I turn to face him.
“I can make my own decisions about whose company I keep.”
“I told Jameson I’d be responsible for you tonight,” he says, looking
down at me, “and I’m headed to my room. So I’ll take you to yours on my
way.”
“I’m fine here for now. I can find my way back to my own room,” I tell
him. In the dim light of the casino, it’s impossible to tell what time it is. It
could be ten at night or three in the morning, I have no idea. But I do know
that I’m not tired, and I want to stay out longer. Mostly, though, I want him
to stop treating me like a child.
Colt reaches out, gripping my elbow in a way that’s not painful, but is
definitely meant to show me he’s not playing. “Let’s go.”
“I’m fine here, Dad.” I spit the word at him, hating how much I sound
like a little brat. But who the hell does he think he is?
He leans in close, and I force myself not to notice the way he smells
tangy and spicy, or the way his hard chest feels pressed up against my arm
and shoulder as he says, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.
Either way, I’m seeing you back to your room like I promised your brother I
would. Should I throw you over my shoulder, or can you walk out of here
like a good girl?”
I grind my teeth together in frustration. Of all the times I’ve imagined
words of affirmation like that coming from his mouth, it was never in a
situation like this.
“I’ll see myself up to my own room,” I say, turning to walk away
without even saying goodbye to Brock. I don’t want him to notice the anger
creeping up my skin, leaving my chest, neck, and face flushed, or my eyes
watering from the embarrassment.
Colt’s on my heels as I speed through the lobby of the hotel and
approach the elevator. After hitting the button, I turn to tell him he doesn’t
need to follow me, and I’m completely blindsided by the puck bunny in the
pink dress standing there under his arm.
There’s no way Colt doesn’t know I’ve had a crush on him for years.
And the fact that he’s standing here with another woman, taking her up to
his room—not an ounce of subtlety or shame, not even having her follow a
few minutes later to spare my feelings in this situation—tells me what I’ve
suspected all night.
He doesn’t give a shit about me, except as his best friend’s baby sister.
And given how I feel about him, that’s utterly heartbreaking.
We ride the elevator in silence, my eyes on the floor the whole time. I
don’t want to see how he’s looking at her or what he’s doing that’s making
her giggle. When we hit the sixteenth floor and the doors open, I zoom out
of the elevator like I’m turbo charged.
I’m sliding the key card into my door and pushing it open—hoping I
can make it inside before he sees the tears that have started falling—when
he passes behind me on the way to his room a few doors down. “’Night,
Tink.”
I slip into the dark room almost silently, determined not to wake Audrey
up, and slide my back down the door as I crumple to the floor, completely
and totally crushed.
And that’s when my phone lights up with a text. When I tap on it,
there’s a photo of Brock, his lips wrapped around the straw sticking out of a
whiskey sour, one of his light brown eyebrows raised as his hair falls across
his forehead. He’s stupidly attractive. Whereas Colt’s all muscle with fair
skin and a chiseled square jaw, Brock’s thinner with darker skin and a more
refined bone structure that showcases his cheekbones and his slightly
pointed chin.
BROCK
This whiskey sour isn’t going to drink itself.

I’m about to respond and ask him how he got my number when I
remember that he put contact info in my phone when he first started flirting
with me, saying, “in case you ever need it.” I glance up at the top of the
screen, and what I didn’t realize at the time was that he also sent himself a
text from my phone that says, simply: Jules Flynn.
I press my lips together to hold back the smile, not that there’s anyone
to see it. Audrey’s consistent breathing is a sure sign she’s dead asleep in
her bed on the other side of the bathroom wall.
I should go put my pajamas on and climb into my bed and let myself
have a good cry through the heartbreak that was inevitable. There was never
a world where Colt was going to feel the same way about me. I knew it, and
I held on anyway.
Or . . . I could go into the bathroom, wipe these tears away, and go out
and have fun.
And as the image of that woman wrapped around Colt filters back into
my mind, I don’t feel sad. I feel angry.
I deserve to move on, with someone who is interested in me. Colt
doesn’t deserve the love I’ve been saving for him. Neither does Brock, but I
can go back down there with no expectations that there will be any feelings
involved—we’re just having fun. And isn’t that what a nineteen-year-old
college freshman should be doing?
Slipping into the bathroom, I shut the door as quietly as possible,
wetting a washcloth, and wiping away the evidence of how hard this night
has been on my heart.
JULES
I’ll be back down in ten minutes.
BROCK
I was hoping you’d say that.
JULES
Enjoy my drink, and order me another.
 Brock sends another selfie of him smiling and holding up an already
empty glass.
BROCK
I just ordered us both another. Get your cute ass back here quickly or
I might have to drink both of them too.

As I smile, it feels like it might be the first time in too long. I’m serious
by nature, and because I’ve loved Colt for as long as I can remember, I
never really flirt with other guys. But this—the attention and the longing—
feels good.
I leave the hotel room hoping that by the time I get back downstairs, the
red stain of embarrassment and tears from earlier will no longer be visible
through the concealer I just reapplied. And as the elevator descends, I make
myself a promise: Those were the last tears I’ll ever cry for Mathieu
Coltier. Any feelings I had for him are officially dead.
It’s time to move on.
 Chapter Two
COLT

Present Day

“Y outhe need another?” Tiana asks as she glances up and sees me standing at
entrance to the galley in the back of the plane. Her voice is soft in
the silence, but I don’t miss the notes of sympathy—and there’s nothing
I hate more than someone feeling bad for me. I’m no one’s charity case.
“Please.” Even though I’m known for being the loud and crazy one, I keep
my voice quiet. Behind me, the airplane is dark, and my teammates are still
sleeping on our overnight flight back to Boston after tonight’s win in our last
regular-season game. We clinched our playoff spot a while ago, and I can’t wait
to have the next week off from games and travel before the first round starts.
As she turns and pulls out one of the sleek metal storage drawers, I stand
here gritting my teeth. There was a time when I loved being on the road—the
flights with my teammates, the hotel stays in different cities every night, and
the endless stream of women. But maybe I really am the old man my
teammates jokingly accuse me of becoming because, lately, the week-long road
trips have me questioning how much longer I can do this.
For now, the perks of being the longest-running goalie in the NHL still
outweigh the drawbacks. But I find myself wondering more and more often
what it would be like to not be on the road for half the year. To eat meals at
home, and sleep in my own bed every night. Lonely. It would be fucking lonely.
But the allure of my brand-new bed—in all its expensive, advanced-
technology memory foam glory—is all I can think about as Tiana hands me two
fresh bags of ice. Literally all I want in the world is to get home and crawl into
bed.
I make my way back to my seat, rest the bags of ice on my knees, then
recline until I’m lying almost vertical. I used to be able to sleep on these
overnight flights, no problem. I’d be so exhausted coming out of those games, I
could just close my eyes and drift off in these big, comfortable chairs the
minute they dimmed the lights. But that was before everything hurt . . . before I
started feeling way older than my age.
“You need to see the fucking trainer about your knees, not the flight
attendant,” Drew mumbles from beside me.
Turning my head toward my seat mate, I find that he’s no longer asleep.
“Most judges wear robes.”
“Dude, it’s not a judgment, it’s a fact. We’re about to start fighting for the
Cup. You need to be in the best shape you’ve ever been in.”
I love it when these younger players talk to me like they know shit. Drew
Jenkins has been in the league for six years, but it’s his first year with the
Boston Rebels. For some players who come to the NHL out of college, like
Drew did, six years can be an entire career. The conventional wisdom used to
be that by thirty, you were on your way to retiring. Even though Drew’s career
is finally taking off, he should know his place.
“Please, regale me with your knowledge about winning the Cup.” He rolls
his eyes in response to my dry tone, but I continue. “Once you’ve won two, like
I have, I might listen. And once you’ve been in the league for over a decade,
you can tell me how to take care of myself. But for now, it’s past your bedtime.
Go back to sleep.”
I don’t know why it brings me such joy to give him shit. Maybe I really am
the overgrown child that my best friend and agent’s youngest sister, Jules,
constantly accuses me of being. I can’t seem to stop antagonizing her either. To
be fair, I’m only like this with people I care about.
If I don’t like you, you don’t exist. Period.
And as if the universe is trying to fuck with me, a text from my brother
immediately follows that thought.
GABRIEL
I need to know if you’re coming. It’s Mom and Dad’s 50th anniversary.
Please tell me you’ll be there.
GABRIEL
It’s been fifteen years. You have to be over this by now.
 It’s five in the morning, which means we’ll be landing in Boston soon, and
somewhere outside of Montreal, Gabriel probably just finished a shift at the
hospital. He’s an ER doctor, because of course he is.
I stop pucks from going into a net, and he saves lives.
I power off my phone so I won’t be inundated with his messages—once he
gets started, the texts just roll in. Drew’s watching me with interest, but this
isn’t a conversation I want to have. So I close my eyes and turn my head away
from him. Maybe I can catch a few minutes of sleep before we land.

“Y ouwe’re
sure you don’t want to come to breakfast with us?” Zach Reid asks as
wheeling our suitcases across the tarmac toward the parking lot at
the private airport we flew into.
“Yeah,” I say. “Positive. The only thing I want to do right now is sleep.”
“You didn’t sleep at all on the plane, did you?” Drew asks.
“Not a wink.”
“You’re too old to pull all-nighters,” Ronan McCabe, our team captain,
says.
“No shit, Cap.” I glance over at McCabe, and his lips are pressed into a thin
line. I know he worries about how many years I have left in me. We’ve played
together for a decade already, but I’ve got five years on him. I’ve never played
anywhere but Boston, and I count myself lucky.
There are guys like Drew who have moved around at the end of every
contract—though Boston just signed him for another six years, so he should be
here for a while. Which is good, since he lives with and has a kid with
Jameson’s other sister, Audrey.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” McCabe says. As always, his voice is a low
growl.
This is an old argument, so I say the same thing I do every time. “Why?
You’re our captain.”
He side-eyes me. “So are you.”
I’m not technically a captain, because the NHL’s rules don’t allow
goaltenders to hold that role for logistical reasons—there would be too many
delays if the goalie had to leave the crease every time he wanted to talk to the
refs about a call.
So instead, McCabe took on that distinction, while I settled for the very
unofficial title of “off-ice captain.” Sure, the guys generally look up to me
because I’ve been here longer than anyone else, but McCabe is the one whose
grumpy ass gets to lead this team officially.
He never treats me as anything less than an equal, but it still sucks
sometimes knowing that I’ll never see that “C” on my jersey. Of all the things
I’ve accomplished in my years in the league, I’m not sure anything would mean
more than knowing my teammates, coaching staff, and the organization felt I
was worthy of the title.
I roll my eyes and press the button on my key fob to open the trunk of my
Porsche Cayenne. It’s rained while we’ve been gone, and my baby needs to be
washed. I’ll drop her off with the valet in my building when I get home so she
can get detailed.
Once I sling my suitcase into the trunk, I shut the liftgate and say goodbye
to my teammates. As good as breakfast sounds right now, I need sleep more
than anything.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m exiting the tunnel onto the surface roads leading
to the Seaport, having navigated what would normally be a much longer drive
in a short time thanks to the early Sunday morning lack of traffic. And that’s
when I realize I never turned my phone back on. While waiting for a light, I
power it up and set it on the charger. As it syncs up with my car, I see that I
have 42 text notifications and 2 missed calls, which is not normal for 7 a.m. on
a Sunday morning.
Most of the texts are from my brother, so I ignore those for now. But both
calls are from the head of maintenance at my building, and that can’t be good.

“H ow could it possibly be this bad?” I ask Andy as I walk down the

hallway from my front door toward my living room.
On the right, the entire ceiling above my kitchen has collapsed—
drywall, plaster, insulation, and water cover every surface. Through what used
to be a ceiling, you can see broken, soaked wood flooring, and the corner of
either my washing machine or dryer is poking through, but is held in place by
the splintered floor and the steel beams that support it. The walls of the kitchen
are soaking wet, and the top cabinets look like they might fall off at any
moment. As it is, we’re standing in at least an inch of water that’s spread down
the hallway.
“It’s hard to know how long the water ran after the washing machine hose
burst. But based on the damage, it seems like maybe it’s been running for
days.”
We stop walking when we reach the wide stairs that lead to my sunken
living room, which appears to have served as a waterfall area for the water to
collect there. My couches are soaked, and the wooden table that normally sits
between them is floating like a boat in several inches of water.
“Is it even safe to be standing here?” I ask him. “Given that the ceiling of
my second floor collapsed, what’s stopping this area from collapsing into the
condo below us?”
“Luckily, not enough water has soaked through this floor to cause that kind
of collapse,” he says as he stands next to me in the blue uniform of our
building’s maintenance crew.
“Just enough for my downstairs neighbor to notice water leaking?”
“Exactly. Thankfully, they noticed when they did, or it could have been a
whole lot worse. We probably should get out of here,” he says. “I just wanted
you to see what we’re into. The power’s off indefinitely, and the cleanup crew
is on their way here. But . . .”
“But what?” I ask when he doesn’t finish the sentence.
“When I’ve seen damage this extensive before, it takes a long time to
repair.”
“How long?”
“Months, probably.”
“Months?” I practically yell the question. What the hell? All I wanted was
to come home, go to sleep, and enjoy this next week of no travel before we
start our road to the Cup—because this year, this team . . . we have a serious
shot at this. I don’t have time for this shit.
“Yeah. Everything the water touched will need to be ripped out. It takes
time to dry things out so you don’t have a mold problem. Your electrical in all
these rooms will probably need to be rewired. You’ll need new studs, walls,
floors, ceilings, insulation . . . new everything, really. It’ll be more like a
rebuild than a remodel.”
“How could one burst washing machine hose cause this much damage?”
“It wasn’t a slow leak, Colt. Water was coming out of that thing for at least
a day or two. Think how quickly your washing machine fills up when you turn
it on, and now imagine all that water running out of a hose for that long.” He
nods his chin toward my front door, and I follow him to my entryway and out
into the hallway.
“How far did the damage spread? Am I going to be repairing my neighbors’
places too?”
 “It seems like we caught it before it got too far. Aside from the Millers
below you, no one else has mentioned any damage. But you should call your
insurance company because they’ll need to come in and do an estimate. They
always try to low-ball you, so you might want to have a contractor here with
you when they come in.”
I tilt my head all the way back and exhale, trying to release some of the
tension in my neck and shoulders.
“Should I stick around for when the cleanup crew gets here?”
“You can. Or I can just have them take pictures of everything they have to
dispose of, if you don’t want to wait around.”
“I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, so if I can get out of here and
come back later, I’d appreciate it.”
“Sure. I’ll take care of it. Just text or call if you need me.”
“Thanks, Andy,” I say as I turn toward the elevator, rolling my suitcase
behind me. I’m almost too tired to think, so I dial the one person who I’ve
trusted to think for me over the past decade.
Two rings, and then Jameson growls, “It’s seven o’clock on Sunday
morning.”
“Yeah, and I need a huge favor.”
 Chapter Three
JULES

“Y ou seriously slayed,” Audrey whispers as she leans toward me.

We’re standing together at the front of the room, with the heads of
four other nonprofits who are all looking for start-up funding.
“I didn’t do that alone. You were awesome too.”
“All I did,” she says quietly, tucking a piece of her long dark hair
behind her ear while we wait for the applause to die down, “was talk a bit
about the financials. It was your passion for this program that’s going to get
us some funding.”
She might be right, but I couldn’t do this without her. I tell her as much
as I loop my arm behind her back and squeeze her to my side in a quick
hug.
The host thanks all of us for presenting and then welcomes each
nonprofit to take a seat at the tables around the room. While the first half of
the evening was a typical pitch fest where we had to sell the work of our
nonprofit, the second half of the evening is an opportunity for potential
donors to stop by and chat with us over drinks and hors d’oeuvres if they’re
interested.
There’s an excited energy coursing through me as we take our seats. I
don’t get nervous, and when it comes to my work, I almost never second-
guess myself. I have an acute sixth sense about what’s going to succeed in
our business, and this nonprofit that we’ve started as a spin-off of our
company is no different. When I meet the right donor, I’ll know.
 The first two people who come talk to us both express interest in
investing in Our House, the all-female design and construction company
we’ve built together over the past few years.
“It’s so weird,” I say to Audrey as the second man leaves. “We were
perfectly clear about what we were looking for in terms of donors, and at no
point did we indicate that we were looking for investors for Our House.
This whole event is for nonprofits.”
Her response is practically a snort. “They must know a good business
opportunity when they see one. But do they really think we’d turn over
ownership of any portion of our company to a man, when the whole basis
for our company is that we’re entirely female owned and operated?”
“Maybe . . .” I bite the corner of my lip. “I don’t know, maybe the
purpose of our nonprofit would be clearer if we could get a video
testimonial from someone like Rosie?”
“Think she’d say yes if you asked her again?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrug, thinking about the first woman I mentored. I
met her when our friend, Morgan, who now runs all our business’s social
media, suggested partnering with trade schools to help develop a pipeline of
qualified female contractors to work with us.
Even though we’re the same age, Rosie’s life experience makes me feel
like a damn baby. She’s had it hard and risen above it—going to electrical
school as soon as her daughter was old enough for kindergarten—because
she’s determined to break past cycles of abuse and poverty to provide a
better life for her child. As soon as she finished trade school, I hired her and
arranged for her to complete her required hours of work experience with
our master electrician, Jessica, so she could earn her journeyman license.
Rosie was the first person I mentored, back at the beginning of our
program, which we’re now trying to turn into a full-fledged nonprofit so we
can help even more people.
“She might be more open to it now than she was when I first asked her,”
I say.
“Maybe you can try. Because if we can show that kind of first-hand
testimonial, those success stories, I think it’ll be even more clear how this
work has the potential to change lives.”
I start to respond, but a man I recognize as the third donor we were
hoping to talk to strides up and takes a seat at the high-top table we’re
sitting at. “You’re looking for a large-scale donation, is that right?”
 “We like to think of it as an investment in women, and an opportunity to
improve their job options,” Audrey says.
“So then . . .” His voice has the hard edge of someone used to talking
about money, but his face is full of interest. He’s handsome in that way
older men often are—when they’ve grown comfortable with who they’ve
become and are confident in their own skin—but our age difference doesn’t
intimidate me. The fact that I’ve accomplished so much by my mid-
twenties makes me that much more sure of myself. “ . . . tell me more about
how this enriches lives.”
“Trade jobs offer steady and dependable work, and yet there’s a
shortage of qualified people in almost every construction-related skilled
trade. Women make up less than 10% of people in these industries. Our
goal is to help bridge that gap—to make sure that there are enough skilled
tradespeople by helping to get more women into these professions.”
His eyes slide down my body and then back up to my face. He’s most
likely sizing me up, rather than checking me out, but either way, it gives off
a slimy vibe that makes me question if he’s the type of person I want to
work with.
“I’m intrigued. I want to know more about the success rate of people
you’ve mentored and what my role would be as a donor. I have a few
hundred grand I’d be interested in donating to the right nonprofit as long as
my input is considered in how the money is used. I’d like to talk more about
this.” He glances at his watch, which I’m fairly certain costs more than my
brand-new truck. “But I’m supposed to be on a flight to Ireland in like forty
minutes.”
“Shouldn’t you already be at the airport, then?” Audrey asks, and he
coughs out a laugh.
“I just have to get to the helipad a few blocks away, and it’ll take me
straight to the jet. Don’t worry about me,” he says. I’m so focused on not
cringing at his condescending tone that I almost don’t notice when he turns
his attention back to me. “I’ll be back at the end of the week. Maybe we can
meet for lunch on Saturday to discuss this further?”
“We already have plans during the day,” I say pleasantly as I gesture
between Audrey and me, trying to remind him that she’s part of the
conversation. The way he keeps his eyes trained on me makes me think he’s
missing my cues.
“Dinner it is, then.”
 “I don’t—” I start, ready to tell him dinner won’t work for us because I
know Audrey’s going to be busy that night, but it’s a surprise I can’t ruin for
her.
“Dinner is perfect.” She smiles brightly as she hands him our business
card. “Feel free to email or text the details. We appreciate your time.”
Once he’s gone, I turn toward Audrey. “What the hell? We don’t want
him involved in this.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because he said the magic words: a few
hundred grand.”
“He’s too pompous for my taste.”
“He’s got three hundred grand he’s willing to sign away, and you’re
surprised he’s pompous? Who cares, as long as he’s also interested in giving
us money to further a mission we care about deeply? Let’s hear what he has
to say, and then we can decide.”
“Fine,” I say, having accepted long ago that I’m incapable of saying no
to my siblings. Since I’m the only person who knows the surprise Drew has
up his sleeve, I know full-well there is no we when it comes to this dinner
meeting—I’ll go alone.
The event wraps up quickly after that, and when Audrey and I part on
the sidewalk, we say the same thing we always say: “Text me when you’re
home.”
She heads toward the Back Bay condo she now shares with Drew and
their son, Graham, and I head toward our family brownstone in the South
End that, until recently, I shared with both my siblings and my nephew. But
Jameson moved in with his fiancée, Lauren, and her two kids a year ago,
and Audrey and Graham moved in with Drew five months ago.
As if he knew I was just thinking about him, my phone rings and
Jameson’s name pops up on the screen. “Hey,” I say as I make my way into
Copley Square, headed toward the bridge over the Mass Pike that will take
me into the South End.
“Hey, I thought you’d be home.”
“Audrey and I just gave a pitch to some potential donors⁠—”
“For the nonprofit?” Jameson’s question cuts me off. He’s technically a
silent owner of Our House, and even though he remains 100% uninvolved
in the day-to-day, he does like to know what’s going on.
“Yes, for the nonprofit, not the business.”
 “Remind me why I can’t be your investor in that?” he says. He’s been
an agent for several of the NHL’s best players for many years. Given how
many players he represents, he makes more than the highest paid players in
the league. And he’s nothing if not generous, but Audrey and I want this
program to stand on its own merit, not because our brother invested in it.
“We don’t need to have this conversation again. Anyway, I’m on my
way home now,” I say, coming to a stop at one of the crosswalks in Copley
Square. “Are you there?”
“Yeah. See you in a few minutes.”
The traffic light changes, and I start to move with the after-work crowd
across the crosswalk. Once I hit the tree-lined streets of the South End,
some of the noise of the city fades away. I inhale the early-spring scent—
the trees, with their leaves finally blossoming, and the tulips and daffodils
that line people’s small planting areas in front of the brick row houses. The
days are finally getting longer and warmer, and I already can’t wait for the
first really nice day.
Audrey’s text that she’s arrived home safely comes right as I take the
steps to our row house, so I let her know I’m home too. And when I shut the
heavy wood and glass front door behind me, all I can see of Jameson is his
dark dress pants and his crisp light blue button down, because his head is
shoved into my refrigerator.
“Why are there no leftovers?” he calls out, standing fully and turning
toward me.
“I haven’t felt like cooking lately.” I shrug out of my long cardigan and
hang it on the hook by the door.
“Life not stressful enough?” he teases.
It’s always been the joke in our family that you can tell if I’ve had a
stressful day by how much I cook that night. But the truth is, cooking is my
love language, and without my family around to enjoy the food, there’s far
less pleasure in it. I still cook for our weekly family dinners, but I find
myself making something simple or ordering out more often than not on the
weekdays.
“What’s the point, if there’s no one here to eat it?” Setting my bag on
the counter, I reach up to grab a glass off the open shelf above it. I spent so
long talking tonight that I’m parched.
“I might have a solution for that,” Jameson says as he shuts the
refrigerator door.
 My face scrunches up in confusion as I try to figure out what he’s
talking about. “A solution to what?”
“To not having anyone here to eat your cooking.”
Pausing mid-step on my way toward the water dispenser, I turn my head
slowly and look at my brother. “What are you talking about?”
Oh god, please don’t let something be wrong with him and Lauren. I
send the plea up to the universe, even though the thought is ridiculous. But
he’s standing in my kitchen asking about leftovers instead of going home
after work to her . . . so for the briefest moment I’m worried he means he’s
moving back into his old apartment on our third floor. But no . . . I’ve never
known him to be this happy, and Lauren has the quiet confidence of
knowing he’d do anything for her or her daughters. They’re solid.
“I need a favor.”
“The last time you asked me for a favor, I ended up remodeling
Lauren’s entire house.” I place the empty glass on the counter and fold my
arms across my chest, a small smile on my lips.
“And look how that turned out,” he says.
Our lives all changed for the better when Lauren moved back to Boston.
Not only is she now one of my closest friends and my future sister-in-law,
but I also gained her sister, Paige, and her cousin, Morgan, as close friends.
Combined with Audrey, we have a very tight-knit circle—they’re part of
the family we’ve built in the aftermath of losing both our parents. “I don’t
need any more friends, Jameson. What’s the favor?”
“I . . .” He pauses and then shoves his hands in his pockets as the next
words come tumbling out in a jumbled rush that’s entirely unlike my
brother’s normal air of calm confidence. “. . . told Colt he could stay in my
old apartment for a couple months.”
“You . . . what?” My heart races as the reality of the situation settles like
lead in my stomach.
No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
“His entire condo flooded. He came home yesterday to a partially
collapsed second floor and six inches of water in his first floor. It’s totally
uninhabitable. He needs a place to stay while his condo is fully gutted and
remodeled.”
“How about he rents something?” That man is the highest paid player
on the team, and he’s had lucrative endorsement deals since I was a kid. It’s
not like he can’t afford it.
 “He’s about to start the playoffs, Jules. Finding a place to rent,
furnishing it . . . he doesn’t have time for that shit. He just needs a place to
stay when he’s not traveling for hockey.”
“So find him a furnished apartment to rent for a couple of months.”
Distance is what makes our relationship work. Having him in my space,
where I can’t avoid him, is a no-go.
“I have a furnished apartment he can stay in. Why would we go through
the trouble of looking for other places? Neither of us has time for that.
Colt’s in New York today and tomorrow filming a commercial for one of
his brand endorsements. We have Drew and Audrey’s party this weekend,
and then Lauren and I are heading up to Blackstone with the kids for a few
days next week to visit Jackson,” he says, referring to one of Lauren’s best
friends who owns a ski mountain in New Hampshire with her husband,
Nate. “I told him I’d help him move in on Wednesday once he’s back.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, trying not to let my thoughts
escape my mouth. My family always accuses me of not having a filter. If
only they knew the things I don’t say.
“You can’t just offer up that apartment like that, Jameson. It’s not like
it’s separate from this house.”
After our mom died and our father left a note under an empty bottle of
scotch saying he “couldn’t do this anymore,” Jameson retired from the NHL
to become a sports agent, and to serve as Audrey’s and my guardian. He
raised us in our family’s brownstone, trying to give us as much stability as
possible after a few years of hell.
And then when we were both in college, he remodeled our house and
created a one-bedroom apartment for himself on the third floor. But to get
to it, you have to come in through our entryway, which with our open floor
plan basically means you walk into our living room and kitchen, and then
go up two flights on the central staircase, right past the second-floor
bedrooms. This wasn’t a problem when it was my brother living on the third
floor, and Audrey, Graham, and me living on the first two floors.
“It’s just Colt.” Jameson says it dismissively, and my nostrils flare as I
try not to react to that statement.
Just Colt.
To Jameson, Colt is family. He has no idea about my complex emotions
around the man—how I went from idolizing him when I was younger, to a
terrible crush that just about ruined me, to doing everything I can to avoid
him. Since Vegas, I’ve used sarcasm as a defense mechanism. But there
isn’t enough sarcasm in the world for me to be willing to be around him
without my entire family there to serve as a buffer.
“No.” I pick my glass up off the counter and walk around the table to
the sink.
“Jules, I need you to be okay with this,” he says from behind me, his
voice placating like he’s talking to an unreasonable teenager. I stare out the
window above the sink, looking at the back of the brownstone across the
alley behind our house.
How do I tell him I can’t live with Colt, without also telling him that
everything that happened in Vegas was a result of feelings I had for him
back then?
“Why? This is Colt’s problem to deal with, not mine.”
“I don’t see why it’s a big deal,” he says, exasperation creeping into his
tone.
I can’t tell him the truth, so instead I say, “He’s a grown man. He can
find his own damn accommodations. Stop babying him.”
Colt’s got the kind of golden retriever energy that draws people to him,
makes them want to do things for him. He and Jameson were best friends as
teammates, and since Jameson became his agent, he’s basically managed
Colt’s life—gotten him out of trouble, made him a fortune with
endorsement deals, and brought him into our family since he doesn’t seem
to have much of a relationship with his own back in Canada.
“I’m not babying him, Jules. He’s a grown-ass adult. But like I said
before, he doesn’t have time to find a place. He’s leaving next week for his
first playoff games, and I can’t risk anything taking his focus away from
hockey right now,” Jameson says.
I hold in my questions about whether Colt could spend less time being a
man-whore and use that time to find his own place instead—because I do
have a filter, even if no one believes it.
“There’s too much on the line,” Jameson says when the dubious look on
my face must speak for me, “for his career, and for the whole team.”
Well, fuck. Even as much as I hate hockey—or have said I do since the
All-Star Game in Vegas—I don’t want to be responsible for this screwing
with his focus and the Rebels ending an amazing season at the beginning of
the playoffs. I know how important this is.
 “Just until playoffs are over, then.” I sigh. A few weeks. I can manage
that, right? “After that, if his condo isn’t inhabitable, he needs to find his
own place.”
Jameson reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Thank you, Jules.”
“Tell him to stay out of my way. I don’t want him in my space.” Can’t
have him in my space is more like it.
“I’ll mention that.”
“Jameson, make sure he understands it. He can stay in your apartment,
but aside from coming in and out, I don’t want him around.” My words are
practically a desperate plea, and he eyes me like he’s trying to figure out
what’s going through my head.
For the past six years, Colt and I have bantered as he tries to antagonize
me, but I’ve never indicated that I don’t want him around. It’s always been
easier to keep him at a distance, pretend like he’s just another older brother
to me. I don’t want to think about how the truth would change things
between him and Jameson. I can’t be responsible for that.
“I will. And I’ll make this up to you,” he says.
I sigh again, thinking about everything my brother has sacrificed for me
in the past, and how in comparison, this is a small ask. There’s nothing I
wouldn’t do for him.
“You already have.”
 Chapter Four
COLT

“Y ou couldn’t have hired a fucking moving company for this?”

Jameson says through clenched teeth as we carry my mattress across
the gleaming black marble entryway of the high rise that houses my
condo.
“We’re moving a bed and some suitcases. We don’t need a moving
company.” I readjust my grip because this king-size mattress is heavy as
hell. “Or are you too weak in your old age to carry heavy shit?”
“Fuck you,” he spits out.
We met during our rookie year on the Rebels together, but he’s a few
years older than me because he came to the NHL after college, whereas I
came up directly through the Canadian league. And I never let him live
down the age difference.
“Really, though,” I say, as we walk slowly across the lobby, “if you
need me to get someone else to help, just let me know. I should have asked
Jules. She’s probably stronger than you, old man.”
Jameson leans forward on the mattress, pressing it into my chest so that
I almost stumble backward and lose my balance. Almost.
I just laugh and then ask, “Can we carry this outside now, or do you
need to whine some more?”
“Is this how you say thank you for fixing your problems?” Jameson’s
voice is low and raspy in his annoyance, which only fuels my desire to piss
him off.
 “Save that tone for your family, asshat. I’m immune.”
“I don’t know why I still put up with you,” he mutters as we continue
moving across the lobby. The doorman rushes to prop open the glass doors,
and he follows us out to the truck so he can open the back like he did when
we brought my suitcases out. Once we load the mattress in, I tip the
doorman and we’re on our way.
“I can’t believe how much damage there was from a busted hose,”
Jameson says, shaking his head before he looks over his shoulder and pulls
out into traffic.
My entire first floor was already gutted by the restoration company, and
it was pretty shocking to walk into. The glass doors to my balcony were
wide open and fans were placed strategically around the space to dry
everything out. It smelled faintly dank, like moisture without mildew.
Thank God. The upstairs was significantly better, with the bedrooms at least
being mostly unaffected. Some water had seeped through the doorways and
caused damage to the floors, but the walls and all the furniture were fine. I
was able to pack up most of my clothes and my personal belongings from
my bedroom and bring my brand-new bed with me.
“Yeah, the insurance guy is coming by this week to take a look at
everything and let me know what they’ll cover.”
“Did you find a contractor yet?”
“I was going to ask Jules and Audrey,” I tell him, even though that
should be obvious.
He gives a dismissive snort. “Good luck with that.”
“Why? I’m practically family,” I say. There’s no one else I’d trust like I
trust them.
“That’s why Jules won’t do it,” he says. “She doesn’t work with friends
and family.”
“Bullshit. Isn’t she renovating Drew’s mom’s house right now?” Drew’s
practically married to their sister, Audrey, so he’s both a friend and a family
member.
“Yeah, but that was a favor to Audrey.”
“Okay, well, she renovated Lauren’s house last year⁠—”
“That was a favor to me.” He and Lauren weren’t even dating yet when
they started the remodel on her house, but I’m pretty sure he’d been secretly
pining over her for years before she moved back to Boston.
 Slowing the moving truck down, he waits to make a left turn that will
take us out of the Seaport.
“So you can ask Jules to renovate my place as a favor too.”
“I’m fresh out of favors with her,” he says. “Letting you stay in my old
apartment has already exceeded her good will.”
“Why?” I ask, pulling a pack of Hot Tamales out of the bag that sits on
the bench seat between Jameson and me. “I’m awesome. She’ll love having
me around.”
The sound that comes from the back of his throat is practically a snort.
“I don’t think she sees it that way.” He glances at me with one eyebrow
raised before looking back at the road and then making the turn.
What the hell? People love spending time with me.
“How does she see it, then?” I toss some of the cinnamon candies into
my mouth. I’d offer him some, but I know he hates them.
“Jules is a very private person,” he says cautiously.
Of his two sisters, I think she’s the one he’s always worried about.
Audrey got pregnant in college and didn’t tell anyone who the father was,
then finished architecture school and started Our House with Jules—but he
didn’t seem to worry about her. Audrey is a straight shooter; you always
know where you stand with her.
Jules, on the other hand, is much harder to read. She’s brazen and comes
across as a bit brash. She seems kind of like a badass, but I think there’s a
lot more below the surface—especially because she’s got a complicated
past that she never wants to talk about.
“I’ve known her since she was, like, ten,” I remind him. It’s funny to
think that when I met her, she was all long, gangly limbs, and perpetually
covered in construction dust. All she wanted to do was build shit.
“That doesn’t mean you know her.” Jameson’s words give me pause,
because when you think of someone like family, you think you know them.
It makes me wonder what I don’t know.
“Okay, so she’s a private person,” I say, suddenly feeling tentative. I’m
not used to being told to get lost. Quite the opposite. Women, especially,
seem to love me. “I can stay out of her hair if that’s what she wants, or
needs, or whatever.”
“Can you, though?” Jameson asks.
“Of course I can. I’m not used to having people around constantly,
either.” I’ve lived by myself since I moved to Boston when I was nineteen.
In that time, I haven’t had a roommate or even a serious girlfriend. I’m used
to having my own space, too.
“And you can’t parade a different woman through there every fucking
night. You know that, right?”
“Won’t be a problem.” Why does it bother me that he’s judging my
reputation? It’s not like everyone else doesn’t do the exact same thing.
“Also, you’re judgy as fuck now that you’ve settled down into a serious
relationship.”
“You came by your reputation honestly, Colt. Don’t make this about me.
I’m just making sure you’re not going to make Jules uncomfortable by
having a string of different women there every night.”
“Scout’s honor,” I say sarcastically, holding three fingers in the air.
Jameson barks out a laugh. “I’ve never met anyone who was less of a
Boy Scout.”
“Just because you were always better at hiding your womanizing
doesn’t make you a Boy Scout either.”
“No, but the difference is, I understand the meaning of discretion.”
“You sure it wasn’t because you lived with your little sisters, so it
wasn’t like you could bring women home all the time?”
“Speaking of, I have a feeling my old space is going to feel small for
you pretty quickly.”
It’s true that the one-bedroom apartment is significantly smaller than
anywhere I’ve lived as an adult. It’s smaller than his old place too—the
sleek apartment he had downtown before he retired to move back into his
family home and essentially be a parent for his sisters. But I’ll only be there
for a couple of months.
“And,” he continues, “I told Jules that you’d only stay until the playoffs
are over. After that, if you can’t move back into your place while they finish
the remodel, I told her you’d find a different arrangement.”
“The fuck?” I groan. The thought of having to look for a place once
playoffs are over feels kind of overwhelming. Then again, if we go all the
way, maybe they’ll be done with my condo by the time it’s over. Or done
enough that I can live through the finishing touches?
“Sorry. But it’s her place, and she’s doing you a favor letting you stay
there.”
“Don’t you own that house?”
 Jameson releases a deep sigh as he turns the van onto a side street.
“Technically.”
“And you don’t feel like you can let your best friend stay there for a few
more weeks after the playoffs are over.”
I glance over in time to see his jaw flex like he’s biting back his words.
“We’ll see what happens. Maybe you’ll play like shit and be out after the
first round.”
“Asshole,” I mutter. He just broke the first rule of playoff superstition.
There’s no if. We only talk about the Cup like we’re going to win it.
“But if you go all the way, and there’s only a short time before your
place is ready, then we’ll see.”
“Maybe Jules will love having me around,” I suggest, but he only snorts
in response, his eyes sliding to the side to look at me like I’m an idiot.

W esuitcases
got my bed moved into Jameson’s old apartment and carried all my
and my few boxes upstairs. It’s freaking hot out, as our
unusually warm spring has taken an even warmer turn, so now there’s sweat
trickling down my back. I adjust the thermostat so the air-conditioning
comes on before we carry his old bed downstairs.
“Graham’s old room should be totally empty, and we can store it in
there,” he tells me as we move the mattress from the third floor down to the
second, where Audrey and Graham used to live. It was only a few months
ago that I was helping carry their boxes and Graham’s bedroom furniture
out when we moved them in with Drew. “Jules moved up here to Audrey’s
old room.”
She’d lived in the bedroom on the first floor since she moved home
from college, which makes me realize how much has changed for her in the
last year with Jameson moving out, and Audrey and Graham leaving shortly
after.
Setting the mattress down as we stop in front of Graham’s closed
bedroom, Jameson reaches out to open it, but it’s locked.
“That’s weird,” he says. “Hold on, there’s a Jack and Jill bathroom
between the two bedrooms, so I’ll go through Jules’s room and open the
door.”
 A few seconds later, a loud, “What the hell?” comes from the other side
of the door.
“What’s wrong?” I call out.
Jameson opens the door, and behind him is what can only be described
as a Kardashian-level closet. There’s a chandelier made up of some sort of
flat, shiny shells hanging from the high ceiling. The walls and ceiling are a
deep gray, and the floor-to-ceiling built-ins are painted to match. Natural
light floods the room through the sheer floor-length curtains hanging in
front of the windows, bathing the enormous island with a shiny wooden
countertop in the middle of the room in a soft, glowing light. Between the
windows on the far side of the room is a tall floor mirror, trimmed in ornate
gold and leaning back against the wall.
“Is this . . . Jules’s closet?” I ask.
“I have no fucking idea. Last time I saw this room was when we moved
Audrey and Graham into Drew’s place,” Jameson says. “It was barren, and
still the same pale blue we painted it before Graham was born.”
My eyes scan the room again, and I can’t reconcile this space with what
I know of Jules. I’ve rarely seen her in anything besides jeans, T-shirts, and
flannels, or leggings and sweatshirts. And while there are obviously
portions of this closet dedicated to those essential parts of her wardrobe,
there are also a lot of really nice items hanging up here. There are entire
shelves of handbags, sunglasses, and necklaces, half a wall of shoes that are
far from her typical work boots, and tons of built-in drawers that I can only
imagine house more items.
“This is a pretty big change,” I say, and it feels like a huge
understatement.
“I got bored and needed a project.” Jules’s voice comes from the
hallway behind me, and both Jameson and I jump before turning to face her.
She has a distinctly annoyed look on her face, and I feel like she’s caught us
snooping through her underwear drawer or something. “And it’s not like
this space was being used for anything else.”
She crosses her arms under her chest and leans back against the exposed
brick wall at the top of the stairs, but her mouth twists to one side, and
Jameson’s words from the truck come back to me: Jules is a very private
person. Her raised eyebrow and the way she tilts her chin as she looks at us
asks the question without her having to say it.
 “We thought this room was empty, and we were going to store
Jameson’s old bed in here,” I say. “We didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s just a closet, Jules,” Jameson adds, and I can tell it was the wrong
thing to say by the way her eyes narrow in on him.
“Usually, when doors are locked, that means you shouldn’t enter.” Her
gaze sweeps from her brother to me before she points at the ceiling of the
second floor. “Your space is up there. Do I need to build you a special
exterior staircase up the back of the house so you can find your way?” Her
tone is sarcastic, and I want to believe she’s teasing, but it feels like there’s
more to it than that.
“Jesus, Jules,” Jameson mutters, and it’s a phrase I’ve heard him use a
lot when she says something out of pocket.
“Nah, it’s fine.” I shrug it off. “It’s her house, and Jules made it clear
that she wants her personal space. No big deal.”
I’m not sure if this really is no big deal, or if I’m just acting like it is.
There’s something under the surface of her comments—some hostility that I
didn’t expect and wasn’t prepared for.
“Is there somewhere else we can put the bed for now?” Jameson asks.
“How about in the storage room in the basement?” she asks.
“It won’t be in your way?”
Jules converted the walkout basement into a sleek office for Our House,
and the back part was a playroom for Graham. I’ve only been down there a
handful of times, but I remember that storage room off the playroom being
pretty small, and this is a king-size bed.
“If it is, I’ll put it on the floor in the playroom and let the kids jump on
it like it’s a trampoline every time they’re over.”
“Don’t you dare,” Jameson says, and I’m guessing he doesn’t want the
twins getting any ideas about jumping on beds since they just moved into
regular twin beds recently.
Jules rolls her eyes. “If it’s in my way, I’ll just move it. It’s only for a
few weeks.”
 Chapter Five
JULES

“I can’t really explain why, but I just don’t think he’s the right person for
this,” I tell Audrey.
She scrunches her eyebrows together, forming the worry line
between them that I used to tease her would become a permanent feature.
But she’s a lighter, happier person now that Drew’s in her life, so I see that
look a lot less these days.
“You have to have a reason,” she says. “You can’t just cancel the dinner
and kiss three hundred thousand dollars goodbye because your spidey sense
is tingling.”
The laugh rips out of me so quickly it’s practically a bark. It’s not like I
think there’s some imminent danger, but as I glance at my phone where it
sits between us on our kitchen table, his text with the restaurant details for
Saturday night still lighting it up, something is telling me that Jerome
Watson is not a man I want to be heavily involved in a project I care so
much about. No matter how much money he has.
“He seemed like he’s the kind of guy who’d try to throw his money and
his weight around,” I say, “and I don’t have the time or energy to deal with
some guy’s ego. Working with him just doesn’t feel right.”
“Business is about more than feelings, Jules. You know that. Speaking
of feelings, how’s it going living with Colt?”
A deep sigh rattles around in my throat and comes out sounding like a
growl, but I’m secretly glad she’s changed the subject. I’ve been so
paranoid I’ll let it slip that she’s not going to make it to dinner Saturday
night.
“It’s fine, I guess. I mean, he just moved in today, so I haven’t really
seen him.” Except for the closet debacle, but I haven’t told Audrey that I
redid the closet because . . . I don’t know why, really. She knows I’ve
updated her bedroom, adding decorative molding and paint, before I moved
into it, but I’ve kept the closet just for myself . . . my own secret little safe
space that I can retreat to.
“Are you . . . sure you’re okay having him here?”
“Audrey, it’s fine,” I insist, halfway regretting that I told my sister
everything. But we made a pact when our dad left that we’d always be
100% honest with each other. She’s shared her biggest secrets with me, and
I tell her (almost) everything too. “I made it clear that he needs to stay in his
own space upstairs. Besides, he’ll be gone soon enough.”
“Hmmm.” The skepticism rolls around in the back of her throat, and
that worry line appears between her eyebrows again. I know exactly where
her mind is.
“It’s going to be fine. I promise.”
“It’s just . . . you haven’t spent any time with him alone since⁠—”
“I know,” I say, not wanting to talk about Vegas right now. Or ever,
really. “Bad decisions were made, but I was in a different place then. Yes,
my crush on him back then led me to make stupid choices, but that was a
long time ago. I’m not going to lose control or be reckless.”
“I’m not worried about your decision-making abilities.” She gives me a
sad smile. She should be, though. Because the only place in my life where I
feel reckless and out of control is when I’m around Colt. Even now. Even
though it’s been years since I had feelings for him. “I’m worried about your
heart.”
“What heart?” I joke, but her smile doesn’t brighten. “Audrey, I have
zero feelings for him and total control over my emotions. It’s going to be
fine.”
I’ve set up my entire life so that I can avoid the kind of terrible choices I
made in Vegas, when my jealousy and heartbreak, combined with too much
alcohol, led me straight into the arms of someone who, as it turns out, I
should not have trusted.
“I worry about you, you know. Especially with how closed-off you’ve
made yourself since⁠—”
 “There’s no need to worry,” I remind her. “I am who I am, and I’m fine
with it. I don’t want to date. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t ever again
want to feel like I’ve lost control.”
“I know . . .” she trails off when her phone buzzes, and she glances
down at it on our kitchen table. We’ve been sitting here for half an hour,
having a post-work debrief after I got home late from a job site and she
finished up some house plans she was working on downstairs in the Our
House office.
I watch her read the message, then she says, “Alright, I have to run.
Graham’s baseball practice is wrapping up, and I told Drew I’d pick up
dinner before they got home.” Now that it’s spring, Graham has hung up his
skates for the season and is trying a new sport.
“Oh! You said you’d send me his game schedule. Don’t forget, okay?”
“Are you just asking because I told you how hot his coach is?” she asks,
a hopeful glint in her eyes. I’m not sure she and my friends will ever stop
suggesting guys to me, even though they know I don’t date.
“No.” I drag the word out. “But I’ve gone to almost every practice and
scrimmage for Graham’s hockey team over the last two years he’s played.
Of course I’m going to his baseball games as well.”
Audrey’s smile is practically a smirk. “Uh huh.” She says it like she’s
trying to put ideas in my head, even though we both know it won’t work.
“Since I don’t want kids, the whole hot single-dad thing doesn’t really
hold any appeal.”
“You might feel differently when you see him,” she teases.
“He’ll still have a kid.”
“Hey, you’re great with kids.”
“I’m an amazing aunt. That doesn’t mean I want my own children. But
don’t worry, I’ll enjoy the eye candy during the games,” I promise her.
Audrey laughs as she slides her phone into her back pocket before
carrying her coffee mug to the sink.
“Just leave it,” I say. “The dishwasher’s full of clean dishes, so I’ll add
it in after I’ve put them away.”
“Alright. Thanks again for being open to this dinner with Jerome. We’ll
find the right donors, but to do so, we have to consider all our options.”
Once I say goodbye to my sister, I realize that I’m starving. I haven’t
eaten anything since midday when I sat out on the lawn of Drew’s mom’s
house, enjoying the lovely streak of warm spring weather and eating my
sub. We’re almost done with the renovations that will allow her to continue
living at home safely and comfortably as her Parkinson’s disease
progresses, and then we’ll be starting a new project next week.
I turn to the fridge and start pulling out ingredients that I think will
make a decent pasta dish. Half an hour later, I’ve got a bowl big enough to
feed a family. I don’t know why I can’t make anything in portion sizes
appropriate for one person. After years of cooking for Jameson, Audrey,
and Graham, I guess I’m still figuring it out. At least this way, I’ll have
leftovers for the next few days . . . or until Jameson stops by again.
I’m grating some fresh parmesan over the bowl of pasta with Italian
sausage, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, and baby spinach in a white
wine, garlic, and butter sauce, when the front door opens and my head
snaps up.
For some reason, I’m expecting to see Audrey, even though she already
texted me that she arrived home safely. It’s like my brain still hasn’t quite
accepted that she doesn’t live here anymore. Instead, Colt walks through the
door—and despite my earlier conversation with my sister, my brain
definitely hasn’t registered the fact that he does live here now.
Across the kitchen and entryway, our eyes meet. Then he looks away,
his short-sleeve t-shirt stretching across the wide expanse of his upper back
as he turns to lock the door behind him. It’s one of those fancy T-shirts that
probably cost $200 on Newbury Street, whereas I’m standing here in the
leggings and old Our House T-shirt I changed into after I got home from the
job site.
“What smells so good?” he asks.
“Just some pasta I whipped up.”
“Hmm.” Turning to face me, that smirk he’s so famous for graces his
lips. It’s the one he flashes for fans and photographs, the one that so easily
gets him into women’s pants. Colt’s got the easy-going attitude of someone
who always gets what he wants in life. “That’s an awfully big bowl of
pasta. You having company over?”
I suspect he knows I don’t have anyone coming over and is teasing me
so he can offer to help me eat it. But that question rubs at me in a way that
makes me feel kind of raw. As much of my life as I spent wishing I had
some privacy—which I never had with Jameson and Audrey, and eventually
Graham, always around—I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to live in
this big house all alone once they each moved out. Moved on.
 It makes me feel like I’m stagnant, while everyone else is growing.
Which doesn’t even make sense, because I’m happy with my life. I’ve
got great friends, an amazing family, and a job I love. It’s exactly the life I
wanted to create for myself, and it’s perfect for me. Safe and stable, just
how I like things.
“Maybe . . .” I say, a heavy dose of sarcasm in my voice, “I just have a
really big appetite.”
He looks me up and down, like he doubts I could eat half this much. His
lips curve back into a small smile when he says, “Maybe you’re just really
stubborn.”
“You know I’m stubborn, Colt,” I say as I fold my arms across my chest,
hugging my T-shirt to me and wishing I had better armor against his charm.
“This isn’t news.”
“Listen,” he says, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his jeans
like he knows how awkward this is for me. “I’m sorry Jameson and I went
into your closet earlier today. We thought it was just an empty room at this
point. We didn’t know you’d made it into part of your living space.” He
swallows, his throat bobbing in a way that makes him look guilty.
It shouldn’t be a big deal if he went into my closet . . . but if he started
poking around, he’d find things I most definitely wouldn’t want him to see.
“It’s fine, Colt. You didn’t know. Just . . . stay out of there now that you
do, okay?”
“Sure thing, Tink.”
Grinding my teeth together, I try not to let the old nickname from my
childhood grate on me. No one ever calls me that anymore, except him—
and I’m pretty sure he does it to piss me off.
I was a pre-teen when Colt and Jameson started playing together on the
Rebels. Being eight years older than me, he’s always treated me like his kid
sister. He teased me mercilessly, probably because I was so easy to get a
rise out of, but I secretly basked in the attention.
Then I hit puberty, and as I morphed into a teenager—growing six
inches and adding some curves—he continued to treat me like I was a little
kid, when all I wanted was for him to see that I was growing up.
“You can stop calling me that any day now,” I say, hugging my arms
even tighter across my chest.
To his credit, while he still teases me, he no longer treats me like I’m a
kid. Which is good, because I operate power tools and boss people around
for a living. I’m not inclined to take crap from someone whose only
purpose in life is to prevent rubber pucks from going into a net.
“Nah,” he says with a shrug, “you’ll always be Tinker Bell to me—a
tiny blonde spitfire with a temper when she doesn’t get her way.” His smile
is affectionate, like he’s remembering how tenacious I was as a kid. Telling
me no, or that something was too hard, or that I needed to be older to do
something, in my mind that only meant that I needed to try harder. Giving
up wasn’t in my vernacular. Still isn’t.
“I’m hardly tiny, Colt.” I’m five feet nine inches tall, and muscular.
Most guys are intimidated by my height and the fact that I can usually lift
more than they can. Not Colt, though. He’s got at least six inches on me,
and I probably couldn’t even lift his warm-up weight.
He steps a little closer so that I have to tilt my head back to see him. If it
weren’t Colt, I would be intimidated as hell by a guy this large hulking over
me like this.
“You’re still kind of tiny to me.” His voice is low and gravelly in a way
that has butterflies shooting through my abdomen. I don’t even recognize
his tone . . . it’s like he’s talking to someone else. Someone he most
definitely doesn’t see as a little sister.
“Sit down,” I say with an exaggerated sigh as I briefly consider all the
bad decisions someone could easily make with a guy like Colt. I lightly
push against his chest with one hand while stepping back and moving
toward the counter where I set the huge bowl of food. “I need help eating
all this pasta.”
What I really need is for him to be farther from me, like at the far end of
the table, so I can forget the way I felt just now with him that close. How I
could barely breathe because of the proximity. How I wanted him to take
one step closer, even while I assured myself I did not want that.
It’s just Colt, I repeat Jameson’s words in my head.
And if Colt is known for anything besides playing hockey, it’s the
constant rotation of puck bunnies in and out of his life. It’s like he can’t
help but talk to women like he’s trying to get them into his bed. I’m about
to tell him to cut that shit out—because we antagonize each other, we don’t
flirt—when he interrupts my thoughts by asking, “Can I get us some
drinks? What do you want?”
“Just water,” I tell him.
“Water it is,” he says as he moves to grab two glasses from the shelf.
 “There’s some beer in the fridge if you want it,” I tell him.
He gives me a look I can’t quite read but wish I could, and then he says,
“Water’s fine.”
I take two large flat bowls and dish heaping piles of pasta into both,
then grate some extra parmesan onto each while he fills our water glasses.
“So, you guys aren’t practicing this week?” I ask as we sit across from
each other at the farmhouse table that takes up the middle of my kitchen. I
get up early for work and basically want to know if he might be meandering
through my space in the mornings. Do I need to put clothes on after my
shower when I go downstairs to get my coffee, or can I go wrapped in my
towel like normal?
“Coach gave us a few days off so we could rest and gear up for the
playoffs, but yeah, we’re back to practicing tomorrow.”
“What time do you guys practice? Early morning?” For someone whose
brother played in the NHL, I know shockingly little about how it all works.
Jameson had his own place when he was playing for the Boston Rebels, so I
have no idea what his schedule was like back then. By the time our mom
died, our dad left us, and Jameson moved home, he had retired from the
NHL.
“Nah, we usually don’t take the ice until around ten. So I get there about
two hours before to get ready.”
“Of course it takes you two hours to get ready, pretty boy.” I roll my
eyes as I fall into the pattern of teasing him that’s become our norm. We
never have real conversations; we just needle each other, which is exactly
how I like it.
Digging his fork into the pasta, he looks up at me with a grin, one
eyebrow cocked as he opens his mouth to respond, and then his phone
vibrates on the table next to him. He glances down, then back up at me
quickly before declining the call.
When he looks up again, his easy-going demeanor has been replaced
with the hard lines of a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes staring off past
me.
“Everything okay?” I ask, when he doesn’t say anything.
He shakes his head. “Yeah, just a phone call I’ve been avoiding.”
Oh, I know all about those, I think to myself. It’s been over two months
since my dad reached out, which means I’m due. These longer stretches
with no contact are both a relief, and also incredibly anxiety inducing—like
knowing something bad will happen, but not knowing when, or how, or
where.
I’m not sure how to respond to Colt’s comment, but I guess I don’t need
to because that devil-may-care grin is back, and he says, “So, to get ready
for practice . . .” And then he’s off on a tear, explaining the ins and outs of
what he brings to the rink, the protein-packed breakfast he eats once he gets
there, and the warmup exercises and pre-practice workout he completes.
But I’m only half listening, because inside, my mind is playing back the
way I watched his face go from easy-going, to hardened and angry, back to
the cocky player I’ve always known him to be. And all I keep hearing, over
and over, is the way my therapist assured me that we all wear masks. The
hard part, she said, is knowing when we’re safe to take them off.
 Chapter Six
COLT

“I ’llyougettheyoucostsmyforestimate for the actual construction, and Colt will get

replacing the furniture and decor that was ruined,”
Jules says, her voice all-business in the way that leaves no room for
argument as she walks the insurance adjuster to the door.
I’m relieved that when I’d told her the adjuster was coming, she’d
insisted I have a contractor with me. And since I haven’t hired one, she
agreed to come with me so that I didn’t get fleeced.
Luckily, she’s totally taken charge and been such a boss the whole time
the adjuster has been here. I have a newfound respect for her as I watch her
in her element.
“I’ll take that into account when I put together the estimate,” the guy
says in response. I can tell that he doesn’t like having to justify his numbers
with Jules, but she’s not putting up with any bullshit when it comes to the
lowball offer he wanted to give me for what it would cost to fix all the
damage in my condo.
“I’m sure we’ll make it work,” Jules says, but the subtext is clear: I’m
sure I’ll get my way.
She shuts the door behind him, and turns to face me, opening her
mouth, but I cut her off with, “Thank God you were here. For real, Jules, I
don’t know what I would have done without you. When he started talking
numbers and materials . . . ” I huff out a laugh as I shrug, because it really
was all above my head. I’ve never even thought about shit like this, much
less had to answer questions about the type of kitchen countertop I had—
who the fuck knows? They were black?—or the myriad of other details he
asked me about.
“You were completely useless,” she says with a laugh. “How could
anyone know so little about their own house?”
“Again, it’s just a place to live. It’s not like this condo holds sentimental
value,” I tell her as she walks over to the wall of sliding doors and stops
where they open onto the balcony, with Boston Harbor stretching out in the
background.
She releases a deep sigh. “But with a view like this . . .”
“The view is literally why I bought it,” I say as I walk over behind her.
“Can you see that tiny white speck on the island out in the Harbor?” I
stretch my arm out over her shoulder and past her head so she can follow
where I’m pointing.
“Umm hum.” The sound emanates from her rib cage, and I feel the
rattle against my chest because I’m way too close to her. I quickly step back
half a foot.
“That’s Boston Light. It’s the oldest continuously used lighthouse in the
country. From here, you can see it lit up at night. Apparently, it’s like a
normal hundred-watt light bulb, but it can be seen twenty-five miles out to
sea.”
She looks up at me over my shoulder, and I ignore the way the smooth
skin of her cheeks is faintly pink and the way her lips shine like she just
licked them. Fuck, why am I noticing her like this? She’s my best friend’s
little sister and my roommate. Not that she’s so little now, but I would never
go there.
“How do you know that?” she asks, her voice low and breathy.
“My real estate agent told me when I came to see the place before
signing the papers.”
She clears her throat. “Karen sure got lucky with you. You must have
been the easiest client she ever made half a million dollars off.”
“How do you know what she made?”
“Because when I called her to see if she had any photos, she sent me the
original listing with the sales price. I work with real estate agents all the
time; I know what their commission is.”
Jules was a champ when we arrived. As soon as she saw the condition
of the place, she called my real estate agent herself, asking for the original
listing with all the written details about the condo, including all the pictures.
She had it in her inbox before the insurance adjuster even got here.
“Hmm. Seems like you’re more interested in this property than you’re
letting on. You sure you don’t want this project?” I ask, even though I know
she’s going to turn me down.
“Working for friends is never a good idea.”
“You remodeled Lauren’s entire house, and she’s one of your best
friends.”
She crosses her arms under her chest, which she does a lot—almost like
she’s giving herself a little supportive hug. But standing over her shoulder, I
can’t help but notice the way it pushes her cleavage up into the scoop
neckline of the clean T-shirt she changed into when she got home from
work. She turns her head back toward the windows and stares out at the
view. “Lauren’s renovation was different.”
“How so?”
“Because first, we weren’t friends when I started that project—it’s how
I met her. And second, Jameson called in the only favor that would
convince me to take on that job.”
“What favor could you have owed him that equated to remodeling an
entire house?”
Her shoulders stiffen, and her neck elongates, making her seem even
taller than she is. “He said the one word that would get me to do anything
for him . . .” She stops speaking, and I wait her out, wondering if she’s
going to admit whatever it is to me. “. . . Vegas.”
“Shit, Jules,” I mutter, dropping my head so low it almost touches her
shoulder. I want to wrap her in my arms as I repeat what I told her that
morning in Vegas. But I don’t touch her. I can’t. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“Oh yeah?” Her voice is tight. “Then whose was it?”
I’m about to say “Mine” to admit to the guilt I’ve been carrying around
for years, but my damn phone rings, the sound piercing the silence. Jules
jumps, and I step back, cursing as I glance down at the screen in my hand
and wishing I’d turned off the ringer after the inspector called to tell me he
was here.
Or maybe I just need to block this number?
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I have to answer this.” I don’t want to talk to my
brother, but I usually end up answering the phone in case he’s calling to tell
me something’s wrong with my parents. After not answering last night, I
can’t let the call go again.
“No problem. I’ll just . . . check out the view from out there.”
“Hey.” My voice is clipped while watching her walk through the open
glass doors and across the large balcony. I turn and walk farther into my
condo, hoping the noise of the fans still circulating air inside will drown out
my conversation.
“So are you coming, or not?”
My nostrils flare and my chest expands as I take a deep breath, standing
there leaning against the door frame, wondering why my brother just can’t
let this damn trip go.
“I told you,” I say, my voice flat, “I don’t know.”
“It’s two weeks away. If you want to come, I need to reserve one of the
rooms at the bed-and-breakfast for you.
“I don’t know. The league makes the schedule; I have no control over
it.”
“Well, it looks like even if you win your first series, you’d have that
weekend off before advancing to the next round.”
I watch Jules as she stares out at the horizon, and I think about what
Jameson said about her being an incredibly private person. I wonder if I’m
making her uncomfortable right now—having this conversation with my
brother while she’s trying not to listen. I guess I could have shut the doors
behind her, but that felt even more rude. “Even if we’re not playing that
weekend, it doesn’t mean I can come up.”
“Just decide, Mathieu. You don’t have to be so wishy-washy all the
time.”
“Listen, you’re asking me to make a decision about something that I
can’t make a decision about yet. I don’t know what our practice or travel
schedule will be. It will depend on whether we win the series early, or go all
seven games. So when I know, I’ll let you know.”
This conversation is already taking longer than I’d planned on allowing.
“It’s been fifteen years⁠—”
“Yeah,” I cut him off, my voice heavy on the sarcasm, “you don’t need
to keep reminding me. For the last time—if I can come up, I will. I’ll talk to
you later.”
I hang up the phone, then close my eyes and take a deep, slow breath—
the kind my Zenned-out teammate Zach is always encouraging me to use as
a calming mechanism. When I open my eyes, Jules is leaning with her back
against the railing, her cool blue eyes assessing me in a way that makes me
wonder what she sees.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she says. I can tell she’s curious
while trying not to be nosey, and she confirms it when she asks, “Want to
talk about it?”
My gaze stays locked on her, and I say nothing for a moment, then I
clear my throat. “Nah, it’s fine.”
“Okay.” She raises those perfectly arched eyebrows. “But I’m here if
you change your mind.”
I’m oddly touched that she cares enough to offer, but simultaneously
terrified to open up to anyone about my brother. “We should go.” I nod my
chin toward the glass doors, then turn to head back into my condo.
Adrenaline has me already across the now-dry plywood subfloor of the
living room and taking the few steps up to the dining room when I hear her
shut and lock the doors to the balcony. I pause, trying to get a handle on my
emotions before turning to face her. I know I don’t owe her an explanation,
but for some reason, I feel like I should give her one all the same. “I don’t
normally get worked up like this. My brother’s just . . . an asshole.”
She freezes. “You have a brother?” Her eyebrows dip with the question,
like she’s trying to figure out how she’s known me since she was ten years
old and didn’t know I had a brother.
I’m a very public person—somewhat showy, always smiling, happy to
raise a ruckus. But there’s a whole other part of my life that almost no one
knows about. As time went on and my status rose to one of the best players
in the league, I often worried that my past would resurface. And I’m not
sure how it hasn’t. Someone could have sold this story to the tabloids and
made a small fortune, except obviously the small town I grew up in is
protecting one of their own.
“Yeah. We . . . don’t get along well.” I try not to think about how he
used to be my best friend. He was the role model I looked up to before he
double-crossed me.
“Do you see him much?”
“I haven’t seen him in almost fifteen years.”
Her mouth drops open. “What about when you go home to visit your
family?”
 I never talk about this. I don’t want to talk about this. But somehow, as
she walks across my barren living room, with her look of concern, those big
blue eyes boring into me and her light blond ponytail falling over one
shoulder, I want to talk to her about it.
“I . . .” I struggle over the words, because I don’t even know how to
explain everything that went down after I left for the NHL. I don’t want to
revisit this, but I’m also so damn tired of it living rent free in my head. And
it makes me wonder if talking about it would help me stop thinking about
it? “I had a big falling out with my brother after I moved to Boston. There
was . . . a lot of drama, and I haven’t been home since.”
“So when do you see your parents?” Her voice is casual as she comes to
a stop in front of me, but I can tell by the way she squints her eyes at me
that she recognizes the significance of this conversation.
“They come down to Boston a couple times a year,” I tell her. And now
it’s my turn to try to decipher the look that passes over her face. “What’s
that look?”
She glances up at me, and now that she’s only feet away, I can see that
her eyes are glassy. Holy shit, did I say something?
“It’s nothing,” she says, shaking her head and moving to walk past me.
“So tell me more about your brother.”
I grab her wrist, gently enough that she could break free and keep
walking if she wanted to, but instead she freezes.
“Not until you tell me why you just had that look on your face,” I say,
instantly regretting it—because if she tells me, I’m not sure I’m prepared to
say anything more about Gabriel in return.
“It’s nothing, Colt.” She glances away again, and her throat bobs as she
swallows.
It’s not nothing, and my voice indicates that I know she’s lying about
this. “Jules.”
She looks back at me. “I was just thinking about my own parents, and
that feels shitty because here you are telling me about your situation and
I’m bringing my own experiences into the conversation when it’s not even
relevant.”
“Of course it’s relevant. There’s nothing wrong with you bringing up
your parents when we’re talking about family relationships. What were you
thinking about, exactly?”
 Her words are quiet when she says, “I was thinking about what I
wouldn’t give to see my mom again or have my dad back in my life . . . if
he could be the person he was before she got sick.”
I barely knew Jules and Audrey before their mom died and it wasn’t too
long afterward that their dad left. But once Jameson retired to stay home
with his half-sisters, I spent a lot more time with them. Jules was probably
twelve or thirteen then, and she was way more torn up about their dad
leaving than either Audrey or Jameson were.
Jules was always his favorite. Jameson used to say how she’d follow
him around on job sites, with her pink steel-toed work boots and tool belt,
and everyone called her Tinker Bell because with her light blond hair, it was
like Tink following Peter Pan around. At the time, I didn’t realize how apt
the Peter Pan analogy was.
“What was he like, before she got sick?” I ask. Jameson never talks
about his father. I only know him as the asshole who walked out on his two
teenage daughters, and from what I can gather, he wasn’t much of a father
to any of them before that. Jameson was much closer to his stepmom and
his two younger half-sisters than to his dad.
“He was . . .” Jules sighs and looks at the ceiling. “He was always kind
of a hard-ass. Like, he was this salty old Irish guy who worked long,
physical hours and came home to unwind with too much alcohol. But he
was also sweet in his own way. He’d pick up a charm bracelet for me
because it had a hammer on it, or bring me saltwater taffy if he saw it in a
candy store. And he loved that I wanted to learn how to do what he did.
Carpentry has always been second nature to me. I always knew I wanted to
be able to create things with my hands, and he ate that up. He loved
showing me how to do things.” She pulls her lower lip between her teeth
quickly, her eyes getting a sad, distant look, and says,“I guess I loved that
he paid attention to me.”
She’s all piss and vinegar most of the time, but I get the sense that Jules
could use a good hug and a shoulder to cry on—not that she’d want me to
fill that role.
Honestly, she has always been a bit of an enigma. As a kid, she loved
any moment of my attention, but as an adult, she’s always kept me at a
distance. She’s endlessly sarcastic and clearly disapproves of my reputation,
but . . . I don’t know. I like that she doesn’t give a shit what people think of
her. It’s something we have in common.
 “Anyway,” she says before I have a chance to respond, “this isn’t about
me and my issues. So, tell me about your brother.”
Fuck.
I glance down then, realizing that I’m still holding her wrist. Clinging to
it is more like it. I let it go so quickly it’s almost like I push her away. She
takes it in stride, though, sliding her hand into her back pocket, her elbow
jutting out to the side where it’s bent. In the light filtering through the floor-
to-ceiling windows behind her, I can see the little pieces of her arm hair
standing on end, like she’s cold—but with the power turned off and no air-
conditioning, it’s sticky-hot in here.
“My brother . . .” The pause stretches indefinitely as I run through the
million ways I could finish that sentence. But I don’t want to share
everything and I sure as hell don’t want to talk about Cheri. “We were really
close growing up. But after I left for the NHL, he did something that broke
my trust and forever ruined our relationship.”
She searches my face, looking for clues, and it’s a relief when she gives
me a quick nod, like she understands I don’t want to give any specifics
about what he did. “Forever is a really long time.”
“Yeah . . . I know.” I’m a pretty open and trusting guy. I generally try to
see the best in people. But if you fuck with me—if you break my trust or go
back on your promises—I’m not big on giving second chances.
I know the old adage is, fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice,
shame on me. But I’ve never understood why you’d give someone a chance
to fool you a second time. I’d rather live by the philosophy, when people
show you who they really are, believe them. And Gabriel showed me who
he really was.
“I’m not saying that you should forgive someone who broke your trust.”
She says the words slowly, with a caution that tells me she’s really thinking
about how to say this. It’s so at odds with the ‘Jules has no filter’ refrain I
often hear from her siblings. “But . . . couldn’t you still go home to see your
parents, and just not see your brother?”
My parents didn’t side with Gabriel. But they also didn’t side with me.
And I didn’t make them choose, as I imagine that choosing between your
own children is the kind of thing that would break a person. I know they
spoke to us individually, letting me know that what happened wasn’t my
fault, and letting him know that what he did wasn’t okay.
 But as soon as their grandson came along, it sure seemed like all was
forgiven. How could it not be? And how could I expect that they’d cut
Gabriel and Cheri out of their lives when there was a child involved? Even
if, for a very brief time, I thought that growing baby was mine.
“My parents and I have worked out a system for seeing each other. It’s
fine.” I even see my nephew occasionally, when they bring him down to
Boston with them for a game. He might be the reason I lost my girlfriend
and my brother in one fell swoop, but he’s blameless. I don’t think he even
knows the history, which is for the best. “But now my brother wants me to
come home for my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary.”
“Fiftieth?” Her jaw drops open.
“Yeah, they got married right out of high school, then struggled to have
kids. Gabriel wasn’t born until they were married for almost ten years, and
they had me four years later.”
“Fifty years, and you’re not sure if you’re going up for that?” She
sounds like she’s trying to comprehend why I would miss it.
“My parents are the only people in my hometown I want to see. And I
do see them. I don’t want to go to some big party.”
“I get that,” she says, then takes a deep breath. “I really do. But half of
life is showing up, Colt. Sometimes you have to be there for the people you
love. Even when it’s hard. Even when you don’t want to . . . even when it
hurts.” Her eyes are glassy again, and I wonder about all the ways she’s
sacrificed and shown up for the people she loved in the past.
“I don’t know what happened between you and your brother,” she
continues, “and I’m not trying to diminish how big of a deal it was. But
think about what it would mean to your parents to have you there for this
special occasion.”
I know she’s right.
This shouldn’t still affect me this much, because I’ve moved on. But in
my mind, part of moving on meant never having to see that backstabbing
asshole again.
I created the space I needed to heal from what Gabriel and Cheri did,
and today, they no longer mean anything to me. And yet, I continue to let
them influence my decisions about what I do now, fifteen years after the
fact.
It would mean the world to my parents to have me there. Why can’t I be
the bigger person and just show up? It’s only for one night.
 “I’ll think about it,” I say.
“You don’t have to forgive in order to forget, Colt.” She studies me
intently. “You just make the choice to move on.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding my chin toward the entryway to indicate we
should go. “Maybe.”
 Chapter Seven
JULES

I come downstairs wearing the dark blue sundress I bought for today and
Colt side-eyes me when I walk into the kitchen to grab my keys and
purse.
“What?” I ask, wondering why I still let his teasing comments and
disapproving looks get to me.
“Nothing,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “You just seem . . . dressed
up.”
“I’m literally wearing a sundress, which is what people do when it’s
eighty degrees and they’re going to a party.”
“You never wear dresses.” His voice is tight, like he’s annoyed or
upset.
I look him up and down, noticing how his tight polo clings to every
muscle in his upper body and how his belt and khakis rest on his hips, his
pants showing every curve of his muscular thighs. He’s not going to this
party super casual, so why is he making it sound like I’m overdressed?
“Are you . . .” I’m about to ask him if he’s mad for some reason, but
when I fold my arms under my chest, his eyes slide from my face down my
body. Ohhh. The realization that he’s checking me out does thrilling and
terrifying things to my body. “. . . bothered that I’m wearing a dress?”
“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ at the end of the word, and then reaches for the
back door and holds it open for me. “I loaded all the food into the backseat
of your truck.”
 “Thank you. I could have helped. You didn’t have to do it when I was
changing.” I’d spent most of the morning in the kitchen, and he’d helped
me get all the food packed into insulated carrying bags we were going to
load into my car on our way out.
“I didn’t mind.” He follows me down the steps, then reaches past me to
open the rear door of my truck so I can see the food he’s carefully set up. “I
still don’t understand why you did all the cooking for Drew and Audrey’s
party, though. Couldn’t they just have had it catered?”
"I like to cook, so I offered.” Even from where he stands behind me, I
can feel his head turn toward me, assessing. It's like his eyes are boring into
the side of my head and I don't dare turn to look at him because our faces
would be too close. I’m always aware of his proximity, always trying to
keep some distance between us. It’s better for me that way.
"What is it that you like about cooking?" Colt asks, his voice soft and
curious.
I don't know how to answer that question—it’s so innocent, and so
deeply personal at the same time. I don't know how to explain that I like
feeling needed. That in a time when everything in our lives was so volatile,
cooking was the thing I could do to contribute to our new little family once
it was just Jameson, Audrey, and me. It was the way I could show my older
siblings I loved them and wanted to take care of them like they were taking
care of me. The bigger the meal, the more it forced us to slow down, to
spend quality time together while enjoying the food I’d prepared.
“I don't know,” I say, standing there awkwardly, because there’s no way
to move from the space between him and the truck door without coming
much closer to him. "I've just always liked it.”
"I never really learned how to cook,” he admits.
“What do you do for food then?" I ask.
“I eat out a lot. And I'm remarkably good at making grilled cheese
sandwiches."
I snort out a laugh and, without thinking, I look up at him over my
shoulder. Just like I expected, our faces are way too close. His breath softly
skims my skin as he exhales in surprise. And yet, he doesn’t step back; he
keeps me trapped here, looking down at me like I’m a stranger and he’s
trying to figure out how he knows me.
“Grilled cheese? Really?” I tease, trying to distract from the way my
whole body flushes under his gaze.
 "Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat. "I can make, like, 50 different
variations."
“Now that I'd like to see."
“Anytime,” he says. “You've cooked for me lots of times. I'm happy to
make grilled cheese for you."
It’s such a small gesture, but with his eyes on mine, it feels like he’s
offering up something that he’s never given anyone. And it makes me
wonder, once again, if maybe all I've seen of him until now is what he
wanted me to see . . . the same version of himself that he shows everyone
else.
And then I realize that this is just wishful thinking—just me
romanticizing Colt the way I used to do when I was a teenager—so I force
my thoughts away from that possibility and, instead, I glance at the
backseat of my car again and tell him, "I like grilled cheese.”
“Noted. Ready to go?”
“Yep.” I slip under his arm, trying to ignore the way he smells as I
squeeze past him—that combination of something tangy like orange, with
deep, spicy notes of clove and cinnamon. The scent is so familiar it
threatens to make me forget why, for years, I’ve made sure to keep my
distance.
But as I walk around to the driver’s side of the car, I take a deep breath
of the heavy city air and promise myself I won’t let my thoughts drift in that
direction again. I’m stronger than that now.
The first thing Colt says when he hops into the passenger seat is, “I’ll be
in charge of music.” Without even asking, he plugs his phone in and taps
the “Connect” option on the screen, which overrides my phone’s wireless
sync and brings his apps up on my dashboard.
“We’ll be there in, like, ten minutes,” I say. “We could have just listened
to the radio.”
“You have crap taste in music, Jules. No thanks.”
“What’s wrong with country and classic rock?” I ask as I wait for him to
buckle his seatbelt. This is an old argument, and I’m pretty sure he’s the one
with terrible taste in music. I don’t understand how he listens to pop all the
time. He also likes those crazy remixes by “famous” DJs I’ve never heard
of, but it all sounds pretty much the same to me.
“I’ll play Taylor,” he says.
“Her old stuff?” I ask, hopeful. Country Taylor I can get into.
 He scoffs and taps the screen to start one of his playlists. And as the
music fills the space, I have to admit that I don’t hate this new song. But I
won’t give him the satisfaction of telling him that.
We listen in silence as we pull out onto the city streets, but traffic is
heavy for a Saturday midday. It’s like the warm weather has brought every
person in Boston outside, and they’re all walking across the streets
whenever and wherever they feel like, instead of only at the crosswalks. As
a result, we’re inching our way across Copley Square instead of actually
driving, and it’s taking us three times as long as if we’d walked. Which we
couldn’t do with all this food . . . but it’s still frustrating.
We’re finally pulling onto Drew and Audrey’s street when a text
notification pops up on my screen. Figuring it’s Audrey, who said she’d text
me when they were back from taking Graham for a bike ride, I instinctively
reach up and tap the notification.
But the minute the robotic sound of my car reading the text fills the
space, I realize my mistake. Hey big guy, I’m in town tonight. My hotel bed
is going to feel very lonely if you’re not in it.
“Fuck.” Colt exhales the word. “What the hell, Jules?”
“I’m sorry.” Even if I could look over at him while driving, I wouldn’t.
I’d be afraid of what he’d see on my face—some combination of
embarrassment at hearing the contents of that text, and disappointment that
this is who he is when he could be such a better person. You gave up hoping
he’d change long ago, I remind myself. “I was waiting for a text from
Audrey, and I forgot your phone was synced up, not mine.”
Another text notification pops up on the screen, and I glance at it long
enough to catch the sender’s name. Bambi San Francisco Mile High Club.
A laugh bursts out of me.
“Do you even know her last name, or is that how you keep track of the
women you’ve slept with?” I’m careful to keep my tone amused. He clears
his throat but doesn’t say anything. “I’d love to see your contacts
sometime,” I say with another forced laugh. “I bet the women all follow the
same formula: first name, a location, and something notable about the sex.”
His lack of response tells me I hit the nail on the head. Finally, once I’m
parked and have turned off the car, he opens his mouth to respond. But I’m
suddenly deeply uncomfortable—wishing I didn’t know this about him and
hoping that I didn’t go too far with the teasing—so I pick my phone up off
the charging station and say, “Alright, I’m going to let Audrey know we’re
here with the food.”

o . . .” Lauren says, her voice dragging out the vowel like it’s a mile
“S long as she gives me a conspiratorial look. “How’s it going living
with Colt?”
“It’s fine.” I roll my eyes, hating that I have to keep having this
conversation. At least she and Morgan don’t know about my past feelings
for Colt, as I’ve only ever shared that with Audrey. So I tell them the same
thing I told my sister. “I haven’t seen him that much.”
“Doesn’t he live in your house?” Morgan asks, then eyes Lauren like
maybe her cousin misinformed her.
I glance around the party to make sure no one else is within earshot. I
don’t need my brother or any of Colt’s teammates listening in. “Yeah, but
he’s in Jameson’s old apartment on the third floor, so aside from him
coming and going, I don’t really see him. Except when we had dinner
together the first night he moved in, and when I went to his condo to check
out the damage. And he helped me pack up the food for this party and bring
it over. But other than that . . .”
“So in the last four days, you’ve hung out three times?” Lauren laughs.
“We haven’t hung out. I fed him because, as always, I made too much
food. Then I helped make sure the insurance adjuster didn’t screw him over,
and he helped me carry some stuff here.”
“Sounds like you two are becoming friends,” Morgan says, tapping her
finger on my forearm, like she’s trying to get me to admit we’re besties
now. Never going to happen.
She must see something in the look that crosses my face, because
Lauren follows up with, “Or is he still trying to rile you up every chance he
gets?”
“He’s still Colt.” I shrug. “And tigers don’t change their stripes.”
Though to be fair, he hasn’t been needling me quite as much, but maybe
that’s just because he’s living in my house and doesn’t want to bite the hand
that feeds him, sometimes literally.
 “Well, if you ever need to get away from him, you’re always welcome
at my place,” Morgan tells me. She lives in a top-floor condo on Newbury
Street that her dad bought a long time ago, around the same time my dad
bought our place in the South End, before real estate in Boston was as
insane as it is now. “And also, you need to get out more. We should go out
more, now that we’re the only single ones.”
“Paige is still single,” I say, referring to Lauren’s sister. “Isn’t she?”
“Paige is married to her job. Where is she today, anyway?” Morgan asks
Lauren as she pulls her strawberry blonde hair behind her shoulders. It’s
warm in here, even with the air-conditioning on—probably because there
are a lot of us in Drew and Audrey’s home, and many of the people here are
huge hockey players who probably run hot because of their muscle mass.
And speaking of muscle, Colt walks past us just then, his biceps curled
as he holds two drinks in each of his massive hands. “Ladies.” He dips his
chin at us. “And Jules.”
And there he is . . . Forget the Colt who shared secrets about his brother
and checked me out because I was wearing a dress. No, the Colt who lives
to piss me off is back.
I roll my eyes and, not waiting for Lauren’s answer about Paige’s
whereabouts, I say to my friends, “I’m going to go find Audrey.”
The party's in full swing and yet I haven’t seen my sister since she went
to “take a quick shower” right when Colt and I arrived. I approach the
kitchen island, intending to ask Drew where Audrey is, when Jameson asks
him the same question.
“Still getting ready,” Drew tells him right as the buzzer rings, signaling
even more people are arriving. He seems entirely unbothered by the fact
that she’s still in her bedroom despite the fact that most of his team and both
our families are already here. Colt ambles up next to me and starts handing
out drinks.
“I'm going to go check on her,” I tell Drew and turn toward the hallway
that leads to their bedroom. I'm only a couple of steps into the hallway
when Graham runs up to me.
“Auntie Jules,” he says with a big smile, “are you excited?”
I bend down and ruffle his hair, giving him a kiss on his forehead and
inhaling his scent, noting that he’s losing that little kid smell he’s always
had. I hate how fast he’s growing up, and I miss having him and Audrey in
my house. Everything is changing too fast.
 “I’m so excited,” I tell him. “And you're doing such a good job at
keeping this a secret. I can't wait to see your mom's reaction. Just keep your
sweatshirt on for a couple more minutes, and I'll make sure your mom gets
out here so you can take it off and surprise her.”
He gives me a nod and another giddy smile, and then he heads back to
the party as I continue down the hall. Two quick knocks on their bedroom
door and Audrey calls, “Come in.”
I push open the door to find their huge king-size bed littered with
several outfits she must have tried on and discarded. Now, she stands in
front of the floor-length mirror in a black sundress with tiny satin straps
over her shoulders. Her hair is down in loose, dark waves and her skin is
glowing. I can’t help but smile as I watch her looking at her reflection,
happy with what she sees.
Audrey was already a badass single mom before Drew came back into
her life, but one of the best changes since they got together is that not only
is she happy in their relationship, but she’s also more confident in herself as
well.
“Hey,” I say, “you almost ready? Everyone's already here, so I just
wanted to check and see how you were doing?”
In the mirror, Audrey’s big blue eyes meet mine and she sighs. “I’m
being a terrible host, aren't I?” She lets out a little laugh. “I was so sweaty
after our walk on the Esplanade with Graham earlier, I had to shower. And
then of course it took me forever to dry my hair. And now I feel like I'm
sweaty again from the heat of the hairdryer.”
I smile at her. “You look gorgeous—like you're glowing. You’re not
sweaty at all.”
“Thank you,” she tells me. “I know I can always count on you for an
honest opinion, so I appreciate that.”
I laugh a little to myself. As if I would tell Audrey she looked sweaty—
even if it were true, which it isn’t—when I know Drew is about to propose
to her!
“Alright,” I say, “so are we going out to the party now?”
“Yeah,” she says, fluffing her hair one last time. “I just need to make
sure I turned my curling iron off.”
“I’ll do it for you so you can head out and say hi to everyone.”
As soon as she leaves the bedroom, I rush into her bathroom to unplug
the curling iron, because I'm determined not to miss the moment. And as I
come back down the hallway to the kitchen, Drew is kissing Audrey's
forehead and then turning her away from him. Beyond them, Graham
already has his sweatshirt off and is walking around in a t-shirt that says,
Dad wants to know if you'll marry him. He’s adorable with his shoulders
back and head held high, like he wants to make sure the whole shirt is
exposed so no one misses the message. I pull my phone out and snap a few
quick pictures, because I know Audrey will love being able to see this later.
Audrey wanders from Drew over to some of his and Colt's teammates,
and is chatting with them, completely oblivious to the fact that her son is
walking around with a proposal on his chest.
I come up beside Drew where he stands leaning against the kitchen
island and ask him quietly, “How long do you think it'll take her to
notice?”
“No idea,” he says with a small laugh, “but I probably should stick close
to her, so I'm there when she does notice.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“I’ll be shocked if someone doesn't accidentally spoil it,” he says.
“Nah, everyone's going to love it so much, they wouldn't dare ruin the
surprise.”
“You didn't tell Colt, did you?” he asks, but his eyes focus in on Audrey
as she chats with his sister and his mom.
“I told you I wouldn't tell anyone,” I remind him. I had to lie to Colt this
morning when he flat out asked if there was something special about this
party, and if I thought Drew was going to propose to Audrey.
“Well, you do live with the man,” he says with a shrug of his shoulder
while his eyes search the room for Graham.
I snort. “Not by choice. And it doesn't mean I swap secrets with him.”
His words are low and quiet when he says, “I don't need to know
anything about what you two are swapping.”
I slap his arm hard as the earlier text message from Bambi flashes
through my mind. “Ew, stop it,” I say through a laugh. “That's so gross.”
Teenage me would have been thrilled that someone thought Colt might
be interested in me like that. Adult me knows better. Not only is Colt the
most notorious playboy in the NHL—as that earlier text message from
Bambi reminded me—he has major Peter Pan syndrome. And the last thing
I need in my life is another man who refuses to grow up.
 “Let's just hope he knows how to keep it cool when he sees Graham's
shirt,” Drew says.
“Your message in the group chat was very clear. You’ve got a surprise
planned, and when people realize what it is, they need to not act suspicious.
I’m sure most people have guessed.” I nudge him in the side as I watch
Graham approaching Audrey where she stands talking to Jameson. “Go on,
get your girl.”
Holding up my phone, I try to be as discreet as possible, filming him
walking over toward Audrey. This scene has me all up in my feelings. I'm
so happy for my sister—that Drew found his way back into her life, that she
was willing to trust him, that he’s such an amazing dad to Graham. And I
watch as other people at the party start to notice Graham's shirt. Lauren's
hand flies to her mouth, which has Morgan swiveling her head to see what
she’s looking at.
And then I'm looking for Colt. When I find him, his eyes are wide and
he's looking at me like he’s amused and half wants to murder me. His lips
move silently as he mouths, “Liar.”
Oh, if only you knew half the things I haven’t told you.
And then my eyes are back on my phone, making sure it’s still focused
on Audrey as we’re all waiting for her to notice, waiting to see her happier
than she's ever been before. She deserves this. She deserves the family she's
always wanted after six years of being a single mom.
Graham seems to get tired of Audrey not noticing his shirt, so he walks
up right behind her and asks her to tie his shoe for him. As she turns and
looks down at him, her gasp fills the room because her eyes have finally
landed on her son's shirt. She spins around looking for Drew and he drops
to one knee directly behind her, the ring box already out in his hand.
My eyes fill with tears as my sister's hand flies to her chest, her own
eyes filling with tears as she stares down at her future husband. I know
she’s shocked, because even though Drew has been saying for months that
he's going to marry her, I suspect she thought that it would be a more
private proposal. I suspect she would have wanted it to be.
But from his knee, Drew explains his rationale for proposing in a room
full of people, telling her that we have all been there for them as they found
their way back to each other. And then he’s pouring his heart out, telling her
all about the life he envisions for them. “Because none of it, from the
happiest moments to the most difficult, would mean anything if you weren’t
by my side. And when I finally watch you walk down the aisle to me, and
when we grow our family, and when I’m too old to play hockey and you’re
exhausted from all our kids . . . we’re still going to be surrounded by the
people who are in this room right now.”
My sister says yes to Drew, and then he stands and is pulling her into a
hug and whispering something in her ear. And when I glance down at
Graham, he has the biggest smile on his face as he watches his parents
commit themselves to each other. He’s so happy, but he also looks proud
that he’s had a role in not only bringing them back together, but also in this
proposal. That’s when I see how intentional Drew’s choice really was. He
couldn’t propose to Audrey without Graham being involved, without all of
us here, because he’s right—we’re all so completely wrapped up in each
other’s lives, it wouldn’t have been right if we weren’t all present for this
moment.
 Chapter Eight
COLT

M ost of my teammates have gone home already. It’s basically just family
left at this point, and I glance around, looking for Jules so I can tell her
I’m going to walk home. It feels like it would be rude to leave without
letting her know since we drove over together, but I don’t want to cut her
time with her family short.
She’s standing in the dining room talking to her sister and friends. The
late afternoon sun is getting lower on the horizon and shining right through
the windows of Drew’s fifth-floor Back Bay condo. Golden light reflects off
her skin like she’s being illuminated by a spotlight, her collarbones and the
swell of her breasts appear almost bronze. Her ash blond hair is lit up like a
halo framing her pretty face, and her blue eyes are more intense. It’s nearly
impossible to look away from her.
An entirely unexpected wave of longing pools in my groin and spreads
from there, making my stomach flip over and my dick start to harden. It
catches me so off guard that I’m rooted to my spot in the living room.
It takes everything I have to remind myself that not only am I not
attracted to Jules—who is objectively gorgeous but is like a little sister to
me—but I don’t even like blondes. And besides, I wouldn’t do that to my
best friend. That’s an unforgivable line I’m never crossing.
I close my eyes while I stand rooted in place, trying to wash away her
image and forget the way it felt just now when my eyes landed on her. I
need to stop noticing her like this.
 But when I open my eyes again, her gaze locks on mine and she’s
looking at me with her eyebrows raised. Her lips part and her chest swells
—I can’t tell if she’s going to say something or is just taking a breath. Then
Morgan turns to her, grabbing her forearm as she speaks, and Jules looks
over at her, breaking the moment.
Holy shit, what was that?
I pull at the buttons on my polo, because suddenly the neckline of this
shirt feels entirely too tight, but they’re already unbuttoned. So, why does it
feel like I can’t quite breathe, then?
I need to get out of here, so I head straight to Jules to say goodbye.
“Hey,” I say as I approach. “I’m going to walk home. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait,” she says, “I need to get going too. I’ll give you a ride.”
“You don’t want to stay and hang out with your family?” I ask, as if
putting the suggestion out there will change her mind. I need it to change
her mind, because now that she’s only a foot away, that feeling of not being
able to breathe is back in full force.
“I have a business dinner I need to get ready for,” she says.
“On a Saturday?”
“Oh my god,” Audrey gasps from the other side of the table. “In all the
excitement, I totally forgot about the dinner. Alright.” She exhales with a
quick sigh. “I’m sure Drew will be okay with me slipping away for a few
hours tonight . . .”
Jules laughs, but it’s a tight, uncomfortable sound that’s nothing like her
usual laugh. “You are not going to this dinner, Audrey. You never were. It’s
fine, I always knew I was going alone.”
I’m trying to track what they’re talking about and having marginal
success.
“You knew this was happening? Is that why you didn’t want to schedule
dinner for tonight? Because you knew I wouldn’t be able to come with
you?”
Okay, this is making a little more sense. But Jules is tough, so the fact
that she doesn’t want to go to this dinner alone has me on edge. There must
be a reason.
“It’s fine,” Jules says. “I’m sure he won’t bite.”
“Who won’t bite?” I don’t intend the question to come out like a
protective growl, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re trying to get
the words out through a clenched jaw. What the hell is wrong with me?
 “We were supposed to meet with a potential donor for our nonprofit
tonight,” Audrey tells me. “And now Jules is going to have to go alone
because obviously . . .” she trails off, her cheeks getting pink.
“Obviously, she needs to stay so she and Drew can celebrate once
Graham goes to bed.” Jules snickers, and normally I’d be laughing too, but
I’m still focused on how uneasy she seems. The way goosebumps spread
across her chest and arms when she said it was fine, and that she was sure
this asshole wouldn’t bite.
“Is it a problem . . . you going alone?” I ask, taking half a step closer so
I’m standing right next to her.
“No. He just makes me a little uncomfortable.”
My chin tilts down as I look at her, trying to force her to make eye
contact so I can get a sense of what she’s feeling, but she doesn’t look up.
“And why are you meeting with him on a Saturday night?” I ask again.
Most men I know don’t take a woman out on a Saturday night because they
want to talk business.
She sweeps her hand through the air. “Something about traveling for
work, and this was the first available time when he was back in town.”
“Sounds like a date to me.”
“He probably hopes it is,” Audrey teases.
I don’t think she notices the way Jules tenses up again, but from where I
stand, looking down at her, I see the way her shoulder muscles stiffen and
her jaw clenches before she relaxes enough to say, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s
a business meeting.”
“Let me know if you need someone to go with you.” My words are
quiet, so low I don’t think Audrey can hear them from a few feet away, and
Morgan’s already turned and is talking to Lauren and Jameson.
Jules finally glances up at me. “It’s. Fine.” There’s barely any sound as
the words leave her lips, and I understand that she’s asking me to drop this.
She probably doesn’t want Audrey to feel bad about not going.
I give her a curt nod before saying, “Okay, so you want to head out?”
“Yeah, can you just help me carry what’s left of the food down?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll take care of it so you can say goodbye to everyone.”
In my experience, the Flynns take freaking forever to say goodbye when
they’re leaving a party—they’ve obviously never heard of an “Irish
goodbye.” Which is fine, because it will give me a little physical distance
and a few minutes to process why I’m so keyed up about Jules going to this
dinner.
“You want to help me carry the food?” I ask Jameson as I leave the
dining room.
“Sure,” he says, giving Lauren a quick kiss on her forehead before he
turns to follow me to the kitchen island that divides the two rooms.
We grab two of the insulated food carriers, and as I trudge down the
stairs in front of Jameson, he asks, “So, how’s it going living with Jules?”
The skin on the back of my neck prickles as I pray he isn’t asking
because he noticed how I was looking at her a minute ago. “She hasn’t
killed me yet, so I think we’re good so far.”
His low rumble of laughter sets me at ease. “She’ll warm up to you
being around. Just don’t piss her off.”
“I’ve been pissing her off for over a decade; it’s kind of my thing.”
“Nah, trust me. If you actually pissed her off, you’d know it.”
As we reach the bottom of the first floor, I look over my shoulder and
am about to respond to his comment, when we hear Drew’s voice from
above us. “Why didn’t you idiots take the elevator?”
“It’s not like we’re carrying furniture,” I say, the sarcasm heavy in my
voice. We look up and watch Drew as he comes down a flight of stairs,
around the landing on the third floor, and down the next flight of stairs,
carrying one of the insulated food bags we must have missed.
“I just thought with your old knees, you might need to take the lift
down.”
“The lift? Are you fucking British now?” Jameson says.
I half-listen as they give each other shit while we walk a block over to
where Jules parked her truck, but I’m mostly in my own head about why
I’m suddenly noticing Jules in a very non-sisterly way. When we get to the
truck, I realize that I didn’t get the keys from her. I set the bag on the
sidewalk and pull out my phone to call her, but then she’s sidling up next to
me, the blue fabric of her sundress flowing around her muscular thighs.
“God, you guys walk fast,” she says, her chest heaving in a way that
makes it impossible for me not to notice the swell of her breasts above the
low neckline of her dress—again. I glance up quickly and Drew’s smirking
at me. He clearly just caught me checking her out, but thankfully, Jameson
doesn’t seem to have noticed.
 Shit. What the hell is wrong with me? This is not who I am. She’s my
best friend’s little sister, for Christ’s sake. Maybe it’s just been too long
since I had sex? I wasn’t planning on calling Bambi in response to that text
she sent earlier, but . . . maybe I should? Maybe then I wouldn’t be keyed
up and noticing Jules like this?
I busy myself loading the bags as she says goodbye to her brother and
future brother-in-law, and then we hop into her truck to head home.
Needing some air so I’m not surrounded by her sweet scent—she smells
like vanilla or a cupcake or something—I roll down the window. The car is
quiet as we drive, both of us seemingly lost in thought, until her phone
rings. She glances at the screen briefly, her eyebrows raising when she sees
the name Rosie Perot.
“I have to answer this,” she says before accepting the call. “Hey, Rosie!
What’s up?”
“I got your text.”
“The one I sent almost a week ago?” Jules teases.
“Yeah, I needed to think about it.”
“And . . .?”
“I think I’m ready to do this. What did you have in mind?” Rosie’s
voice is nervous, like she’s trying to be brave, and I’m wondering who this
woman is and what the hell is going on.
I listen for a bit as Jules describes filming a video testimonial for the
mentoring program she and Audrey started, and how she’s hoping Rosie
will share how the mentoring impacted her personally and professionally.
“Do you think . . .” Rosie pauses, and Jules turns the steering wheel,
guiding us home as she waits patiently for her to continue. “. . . could we
maybe film it from my good side?”
I’m curious what she means about her “good side.” The fact that Jules is
quick to agree makes me think it’s something that’s really important to
Rosie.
“We can do whatever makes you most comfortable,” Jules says. “Your
story is so powerful. You are such a badass and you deserve recognition for
everything you’ve been through and the choices you’re making now and
how far you’ve come as a result. But I know how hard it’s going to be for
you to tell this story, and I want you to know how proud I am that you’re
doing this. You’re going to be helping so many other women.”
 “I’m doing this to help you,” Rosie says, “so that you can help more
people, like you helped me. This testimonial isn’t going to be about me. It’s
going to be about you and everything you’ve done to change my life.”
Jules sighs. “I wish you could see how your strength is what got you
where you are. I just helped smooth out the path a bit. That’s what the
mentoring program is all about.” Her voice has the hoarse quality of
someone who’s close to tears.
Even though I knew she and Audrey had started this mentoring
program, I didn’t know much about the impact it had until now. By the
sound of it, the experience has changed Rosie’s life.
“Well, I was considering dropping out of electrical school before I met
you, because I just couldn’t see a place in the industry for myself.” Rosie’s
response is full of gratitude as it carries through the speakers in Jules’s
truck. “You’re the one who made me believe it was possible. So if you’re
uncomfortable being the hero in my story, maybe we shouldn’t record it.”
Jules swallows audibly, as Rosie waits for her reply. And for the first
time ever, I realize that maybe Jules isn’t comfortable with people’s
attention on her. It makes me wonder if maybe her sassy and sarcastic
personality is just a deflection technique that covers up for . . . I don’t even
know? Some insecurity?
She’s always taking care of others—helping Audrey raise Graham,
cooking for her family, remodeling Lauren’s house as a favor to her brother,
even coming to my condo when the adjuster was there so I didn’t get taken
to the cleaners with the cost of renovations. I never recognized this side of
her before, but it’s so damn clear now, as I listen to the way this woman
practically idolizes her for the help she’s provided and how Jules is hesitant
for Rosie to talk about that aspect of the program.
“I think we should record it and see how it goes,” Jules says finally.
“Just remember that it’s the mentoring program that should be in the
spotlight, not me.”
Because I can’t seem to take my eyes off her, I notice the pink creeping
into her cheeks.
“Girl, you are the mentoring program,” Rosie insists. “This thing
wouldn’t exist without you. Audrey’s incredible, and the women you
partner us with on job sites are wonderful . . . but without you? None of this
would have happened.”
 “It wasn’t even my idea,” Jules insists. “My friend, Morgan, suggested
it.”
“Doesn’t matter. You ran with it and built it into what it is, and you
deserve recognition for that, too.”
Jules forces another deep swallow, like her throat is thick from being
choked up.
“Thanks, babe,” she says. “I’ll be in touch with more details when we’re
ready to record.”
They say their goodbyes, and when she disconnects the call, I ask, “Is
this the reason you’re going to this dinner tonight? Because more donations
will help people like Rosie?”
“Yeah, that and because I told Audrey I would.”
“But if you’re not comfortable around this guy, why go?”
“I’m not uncomfortable around him. He’s just . . .” She sighs. “Have
you ever met someone who was so focused on you that they ignored
everyone else around you?”
“You just described every woman I’ve ever met.” I’m half-teasing, but
also . . . not.
She huffs out a laugh and her hand flies to the base of her throat. “Oh
my god, Colt, I can’t breathe. There isn’t enough oxygen in here for me and
your ego.”
“My ego’s not the only thing about me that’s huge.” She shakes her
head, her eyes staying on the road, but she’s smiling. “Anyway, I do know a
thing or two about unwanted attention. Is that what you’re getting from this
guy?”
“Sort of? I hated the way he was so focused on me during our
conversation that he basically dismissed Audrey, like she wasn’t there or
didn’t matter.”
“Did she notice this?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not a big deal. I’m going to go meet with him
tonight because it’s important to her that we at least hear what he has to
offer. Besides, the food at La Gallina is amazing, so at least I’ll enjoy my
dinner, even if it’s a terrible conversation.”
It’s like a rock is sitting on my stomach, pressing it down and making
me sick. She’s doing this because it’s what she thinks Audrey needs her to
do. I wonder if there’s anything she wouldn’t do for her siblings.
 “I don’t think Audrey would want you to go to this meeting if she knew
how much you were dreading it.”
“I’m not dreading it,” she says as she pulls into the alley and slips into
the parking spot near the back door before turning toward me. Her lips
spread across her bright white teeth in a tight smile. “It’ll be fine. So
anyway, what are your plans tonight?”
“I’m meeting a friend for drinks,” I tell her, the idea forming in my
mind as the words come out of my mouth.
“Oh? Where are you going?” The question is asked like an afterthought
as she reaches for the door handle.
“La Gallina.”
She freezes, then looks over at me. “Colt.” My name is spoken like a
warning to not get involved. “I don’t need you there to protect me, or
whatever ridiculous notion you have in your head right now.”
Like hell she doesn’t. My mom raised me better than to let a woman
walk into a situation where she’s clearly not comfortable, without some sort
of backup. This is just about protecting her, I assure myself.
“It’s just drinks, Jules. Don’t read too much into it.”
 Chapter Nine
JULES

I ’m halfway through my appetizer when Colt walks into La Gallina with

Zach Reid, one of the team’s new defensemen. Zach does not look
pleased to be at this upscale tapas restaurant, and it makes me wonder
where he’d rather be instead. Probably home with his new girlfriend.
My eyes follow them as they walk over to the bar, which isn’t as packed
now with the dinner crowd as it’ll be later tonight when the bar fully fills in.
Colt pulls out his seat and angles it so his side is to the bar and he’s facing
Zach, with me right in his line of sight.
The way he sits there looking all broody with his eyes narrowed in on
our table has me feeling quite flustered. It has nothing to do with the way
his black shirt clings to his muscular chest beneath the open lapels of his tan
tailored suit, or the way he’s styled his dark blonde hair, and how his beard
is neatly trimmed close to his face. No, it’s the way his eyebrows form a
straight line above each of those dark eyes as he scowls in my direction.
I don’t know why he’s bothered to come here and act all pissed off
about it. It’s not like I want him to witness what’s sure to be an awkward
dinner. In fact, as we headed into my house earlier, I specifically asked him
not to come. There are at least thirty other restaurants on Newbury Street
where he could have met Zach for a drink.
My eyes must have lingered on Colt for too long, because Jerome
Waters casually glances over his shoulder.
 “Oh, look,” he says as he turns back toward me. “The most overpaid
player in professional hockey is here.”
I can’t hold back my laugh, both because it’s something I’d say myself,
and because the disdain comes out sounding more like jealousy.
“Not a Rebels fan?” I ask.
“Lifelong Rebels fan, actually.” Taking his napkin off his lap, he dabs
the corner of his mouth. And that’s when I realize he hasn’t done his
homework, because if he had, he’d know I was related to Jameson Flynn,
and every Rebels fan knows he’s a retired player and Colt’s best friend. “I
just happen to think we could take the nine million dollars a year that’s
currently going to pay that man’s salary and signing bonuses and spend it
on newer players, instead of wasting it financing the end of his career.”
I don’t know where the overwhelming desire to defend Colt comes
from, but it rears up in me, coursing through my blood like lava. I’m about
to open my mouth and start spewing statistics about Colt’s save percentage
(best in the league) and number of shutouts this season (second highest in
the league).
He might be nearing the end of his career, I want to tell Jerome, but he’s
performing better than almost any other goalie. I catch myself just in time.
“Well, now,” I say, my voice thick as I force myself to sound friendly
and professional, even though I’m not feeling it. “Since we’re not here to
talk hockey, tell me more about what interests you in our nonprofit.”
“I think you have this backward.” He gives me a sly smile, almost a
smirk, as he rests his elbows on the table in front of him, steepling his
fingertips as he peers over them at me, his dark eyes narrowed. “I think
you’re supposed to be telling me why I should be interested in donating to
your cause.”
There’s a teasing quality to his voice, but it feels disingenuous. I can’t
shake the feeling that no matter what I say, he’ll want a harder sell. That he
won’t be happy until I’m begging him to donate, which is the last thing in
the world I’m likely to do. I’d eat my own vomit before I’d pander to a man
like that.
“I told you when we met,” I say, “we have an amazing program for
mentoring females who are entering the trades, but the need far outpaces
what we can provide, and we require additional funds to grow the
program.”
 “I guess I still don’t understand why women need this special mentoring
that men don’t get.”
“Workplace studies on underrepresented populations—which, in
construction, women are—all show the same thing. Access to more
experienced people who have had similar work experiences, and can answer
questions and guide them, improves the way people feel about their jobs
and increases the likelihood of them staying in the profession.”
I wish I could tell him the types of questions we’ve gotten, like, “How
do I hide a used tampon in a portable toilet so every guy on the job site
doesn’t know I’m on my period?” or “What do I say to a co-worker who
says my ass looks cute in my jeans?” or “How do I handle it when the guys
joke about me being a diversity hire because I’m the only woman?”
Maybe then he’d better understand how those small things, time and
time again, make working in this field particularly challenging. It’s why
women need the support and guidance of other women. Not because they’re
less qualified or lesscapable, but because they’re an underrepresented
population trying to carve out a spot without feeling marginalized.
Instead, I continue, “Men have plenty of opportunities for that type of
unofficial mentorship in their field. Everywhere they look, they have role
models, other people who have walked a similar path in their profession and
can help guide them. It’s not the same for women. Since they make up
roughly ten percent of the construction-related industry, it is very possible
they may not even work with another woman. So, it’s much harder for them
to find mentors who can help guide them through the unique experience of
being a female in a male-dominated industry. Intentional mentorship will
help attract and retain females in this profession, which is needed.”
He leans in, an eyebrow raised as his gaze slides from my blond hair in
its loose bun on top of my head, down my face, and then down to my
blazer. “Did you have female mentors like that when you went through
trade school or first started in construction?”
“I didn’t go to trade school. I learned pretty much everything I know
from my father, and then passed the test and got my license as soon as I was
old enough. I was lucky that way, I guess.”
There was nothing lucky about working with my dad. He made sure I
learned every lesson the hard way, so I’d always remember why things
needed to be done a certain way. There were a lot of things in life Jimmy
Flynn wasn’t good at—being a husband and a father chief among them. But
if there was any area in his life where he gave nothing less than his best, it
was his work. Until the alcoholism fully consumed him, anyway.
“But many of the women I work with,” I tell him, hoping he can
understand that this isn’t about me at all; it’s about opening up opportunities
for women in general and making sure there are enough qualified people in
the trades, “really struggled to get to where they are now, and I want to help
smooth that road out as much as I can for women who are just getting into
the profession.”
“Here’s the thing. The real world,” Jerome says his voice harsh, “isn’t
always woman-friendly, and I’m not sure we’re doing women any favors,
especially in this industry, if we try to make the schooling or training
process less rigorous⁠—”
“I didn’t say anything about making it less rigorous,” I interrupt him,
my voice equally forceful and my words slow so he can absorb their
meaning. “I said that we needed mentoring to make sure that women feel
supported as they join this male-dominated industry.”
“When I was at MIT a few decades ago”—he leans forward again in
what I can only describe as an antagonistic stance—“women said the same
thing about being outnumbered by men. And you know what? They
developed a thicker skin and they’re all extremely successful now.”
“Well, when I was at MIT a few years ago, that wasn’t my experience.
Male and female enrollment is almost equal now, and I didn’t feel the need
to develop a thicker skin because of . . . I don’t even know what you’re
describing? Institutionalized sexism? And yet, I’ve still managed to be
extremely successful in a male-dominated industry.”
My mom used to say, “You fight with a pig and you both get dirty, but
the pig likes it.” And that’s exactly how this conversation feels. Like he’s
baiting me into an argument I don’t even want to be part of, but I feel the
need to fight anyway.
I watch as his eyes slide to my ringless right hand. “You went to MIT?”
“I graduated summa cum laude with a degree in structural engineering.
And before you ask, I don’t wear my brass rat,” I say, referring to the
custom class ring MIT students get at a ceremony in the spring of their
sophomore year, “because I work with my hands all day.”
Not to mention, the ring is kind of gaudy and masculine, and I don’t
have the insecurity that would make me feel the need to flaunt my degree to
gain credibility.
 He sits back in his chair, relaxing as a small smile plays on his lips. I
feel like I just passed a test, but instead of feeling victorious, I feel dirty—
because I just rolled around in the mud with a pig.
My gaze flicks over to Colt again, and though he’s talking to Zach, his
eyes are still on me. I can feel the flush creeping back into my cheeks as he
catches me looking at him for the third time in the past ten minutes, so I
quickly look back at Jerome, who’s eyeing me with what I assume is
newfound respect.
“So,” I say, giving him a broad smile. “Let’s talk a bit more about that
donation.”
His eyes track from my face down my body, and I don’t miss how they
linger on my breasts even while I’m wearing an oversized blazer with a
full-coverage tank top beneath. Some people might bask in this kind of
open admiration, but I hate every second of this man’s attention on me. I
want people’s opinions of me to be based on my accomplishments, not on
my looks. And Jerome Waters can’t seem to tell the difference.
He glances around the restaurant, where it’s getting more crowded. His
lips curve up to one side as he leans closer. “How about we get our dinner
to go, take it back to my place, and figure out how you’re going to”—he
raises an eyebrow—“spend my money?”
I take a deep breath and focus on not throwing up the bile that’s
traveling into my esophagus or delivering my fist straight into his jaw.
Boston’s a small city where word travels fast, so I know I need to keep it
professional.
“I’d say it was nice doing business with you, Jerome,” I say as I stand,
my chair pushing back across the tile floor in a way that leads other nearby
diners to glance over at the noise. I keep my voice as pleasant as possible
when I say, “But we both know that isn’t true.”
“C’mon,” he says, his tone feigning friendliness as he quickly stands
and steps toward me. He drops his voice low, his words come out like an
angry growl. “You’re making a scene, and I don’t do scenes. So here’s what
you’re going to do—fucking smile while I throw some money on the table
to cover our bill, and we’ll walk out of here together so neither of us looks
like an asshole.”
Tilting my chin up, I lock my eyes on his as I slide my tongue along the
back of my teeth.
“I don’t think so.”
 His hand grasps my wrist before I can step away, and his grip is so
painfully tight it brings tears to my eyes. “Alright, bitch⁠—”
Colt’s voice is deadly, and not the least bit quiet, as he appears out of
nowhere. “Take your hand off my fiancée, or I’ll remove it from your
fucking body.”
We both spin toward him in surprise, and Jerome lets go of my wrist.
Colt pulls me under his arm and into his side so he’s wrapped protectively
around me.
“Let’s go, Tink.” And then he guides me out of the restaurant.
I’m fairly sure my mouth is hanging open in shock as we walk out that
door together. What the fuck just happened?
 Chapter Ten
COLT

J ules has her head tucked into me, like she’s trying to hide her face in my
side as I steer her toward the doors of the restaurant. I can feel her
shaking against me, so I glance over my shoulder, and that asshole she was
with is pulling his wallet out like he’s in a rush to pay so he can follow us.
I have no intention of letting him talk to Jules. Ever. So the minute we
hit the warm outdoor air, I’m steering her around the corner of the building
and into the narrow alley that runs alongside the restaurant.
When I guide her to the brick wall, she leans her shoulders back against
it. Her chest is rising and falling quickly, her breath coming out in short
pants like she can’t quite get oxygen as she looks up at me with glassy eyes.
“Breathe, Tink.”
Being as gentle as I can, I take the wrist that asshole grabbed and turn it
over between my fingers, searching for any signs of an injury. Aside from
some redness in the area, which will probably turn to a bruise tomorrow,
she looks like she’s okay. My eyes skim along her upper body on the way to
her face. Her chest is no longer rising and falling rapidly. In fact, it’s like
she’s not breathing at all.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Is this fear? Is she hurt? Is she pissed at me?
Her full pink lips part, but no sound comes out, and she’s still not
breathing. I plant one hand on the brick wall behind her and lean down so
we’re face to face. I’m trying to ignore the way her porcelain skin is
glowing from the floodlights above us, the way her high cheekbones are
edged in pink above her sharp jawline, the way her incredibly full lips are
glossy like she just licked them, and the way her head, tilted back against
the brick, leaves the long column of her neck exposed. She smells and looks
like dessert.
“Hey, I’m going to need you to take a breath before you pass out.”
Nothing. No inhale, no sigh, no sign that she even heard me except for
the way her eyes widen as she gazes up at my face.
Just then, I hear her name being called from the street. Her breath is a
sharp gasp—at least she’s fucking breathing now—as we both turn our
heads in the direction of the sound. The asshat from the restaurant hasn’t
seen us yet, so I bring my hand up to the side of her face and guide her head
back so she’s looking at me.
“I’m about to do something we’re both going to regret,” I tell her, “but
it’s the only way he’s not going to try to talk to you right now and the only
thing that will prevent me from killing him. Try to sell it, okay?”
Then my mouth is descending on hers, and to my surprise there’s only
the briefest moment of hesitation on her part before she’s wrapping her
arms around my neck and opening her lips for me, pulling my lower lip
between her teeth, and sucking it into her mouth.
My body presses forward, anchoring her between me and that brick
wall, and the low groan that slips out of her throat reverberates between us.
It should be the wake-up call I need—the warning signal that I’m about to
cross a line I can’t come back from. Instead, it’s the spark that lights a fire I
have no desire to put out.
Because Jules Flynn isn’t kissing me, she’s devouring me—fucking my
mouth so thoroughly that I’m pretty sure I’ll never again want to kiss
anyone but her.
My fingers dig into her hips, pulling her toward me even as my body
pushes her into that wall, and then I’m sliding both my hands around her,
cupping her ass and lifting. She tightens her arms around my neck, bringing
her legs up and wrapping them around my hips, pulling me tight against her
center. And the feel of my cock pressed between us has me hard and aching
for her, my hips instinctively moving forward to create the friction we both
need.
Her hum of approval reverberates through us both, fueling that fire. I’m
acting on instinct rather than logic as I stand in this alley with Jules
wrapped around me, practically dry humping her up against a wall. And I
have no intention of stopping.
I bring one hand up to her face, tracing the line of her jaw with my
thumb as my fingers work their way into the hair at the base of her head.
Until now, I’ve never felt like I’m not in charge when it comes to sex. But
there is no doubt in my mind that, in this moment, Jules owns me, and I’d
gladly give her anything she wanted.
Legs tightening around my waist, she slides her center along me. My
fingers tighten on her ass in response, and more than anything in the world,
I want to remove the clothes that stand between us.
And then I hear, “Put the fucking phone away,” and I pull back from
Jules, glancing over to the street as Zach stands there waving his arms in
front of three people who were just watching me making out with my
roommate. My best friend’s little sister. The one person I absolutely should
not ever even think about touching.
And I just did so much more than think about it.
I rest my forehead against hers. “Fuck. Jules, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean
to . . . It didn’t mean anything.”
I can’t figure out exactly what the sound she makes is, but then she’s
dropping her feet to the ground and turning her head away, tucking her chin
against her shoulder so she can’t be seen from the street, or so that I can’t
see her face. It worries me that I can’t tell which.
“Moving right along,” Zach says, his arms spread wide as he ushers the
three kids away, putting the corner of the building in between us and them.
Thank God they weren’t close enough to see my face or tell who I was.
“Hey, aren’t you a hockey player?” one of them asks Zach, and I can tell
he is drawing them farther away because their conversation fades. He’s
giving us the space to get out of here unseen, and I owe him, big time.
I look down at Jules, but that’s a mistake. She’s looking at the ground,
and from this angle, all I see are the pink apples of her cheeks. I don’t know
if she’s angry or embarrassed, but either way, I know I stepped over the line
and fucked up.
Her chest is heaving as she takes big gulps of air, and I’m halfway
afraid she’s going to break down again if we don’t get moving. I nod toward
the entrance to the alley. “Let’s go.”
When we get to the street, I place my hand on her lower back to guide
her to the inside of the sidewalk, leading her away from the restaurant in the
opposite direction as Zach headed with those kids.
We walk in silence for a few blocks; the easy banter we normally fall
into is gone and so is the heat from the alley. Instead, she looks straight
ahead, shoulders squared, never once glancing at me as I walk next to her
trying to figure out what to say.
We’re all the way back to the South End before I get the nerve to ask
her if she’s okay.
“I’m fine.” The words are clipped, and I know she’s not fine, because if
she was, she’d have a snarky comeback.
“Can we talk about what just happened?” I ask, glancing over to gauge
how she’s feeling.
“Let’s not,” she mutters. “In fact, let’s never speak of it again.”
“Jules.” Her name is an apology and a plea. There aren’t many people in
this world whose opinion of me I truly value, but hers has become one of
them. Over the past few days, I’ve opened up to her in ways I’ve never
opened up to anyone else. And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to go
back to exchanging nothing but snarky comments—though the longer she’s
silent, the more I’d be willing to accept even a return to that.
When we arrive at the tall stone steps of her brownstone, she says, “I’m
going up to change. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Jules, can’t we talk⁠—”
“No.”
I think about what Jameson said earlier today, about how if I’d really
pissed Jules off, I’d know it. Her icy demeanor and sharp refusal to have a
conversation about this is all the confirmation that I need: I’ve stepped over
a line, made her uncomfortable, and screwed this all up.
My friendship with Jules is going to be forever strained, and my living
situation is about to get really complicated. What felt like the right thing to
do, especially with the way she’d reacted the minute our lips touched, was
obviously the wrong thing in the end.
I stand on the sidewalk, trying not to focus on the way her skin-tight
pants hug her muscular calves as she walks up those stairs to the front door.
I don’t want to crowd her, or for her to feel like I’m invading her space, so I
hang back. Watching the door click behind her, I take a seat on the stone
steps, still warm from today’s heat, and pull my phone out of my pocket.
I sit there scrolling through social media for so long I lose track of time.
Finally, I’m about to get up and go inside, when my screen lights up with a
text.
ZACH
Call me.
 Chapter Eleven
JULES

I lock my bedroom door behind me, then rush into my bathroom, shutting
that door as well. When I finally make it through the bathroom and into
my closet, I rest my hands on the big wooden countertop of the island in the
middle of the room, hang my head, and let the tears fall.
How could I let that happen?
After literal years spent crafting a life where I was in total control,
where I wouldn’t be tempted to do anything reckless—living in the same
house as my siblings, owning my own business, not dating or drinking or
doing anything even remotely risky—I had to go and lose control. And
worst of all . . . with Colt.
I can’t even trust myself.
Being around Colt is always a mistake. I become reckless. I promised
myself six years ago I’d never again have feelings for him or let him
influence any of my decisions, and less than a week of living in the same
house as him and I’m wrapping myself around him in an alley, practically
dry humping the man!
And afterward, he looked at me with regret lining every feature of his
face, his eyes panicked and his brow furrowed . . . and he fucking
apologized and said it didn’t mean anything. I was just some mistake he
hadn’t meant to make and wanted to forget about as quickly as possible.
Because that’s what happens when I lose control—I become someone
else’s mistake.
 I let the sobs rack my body, my fingers gripping the countertop and my
shoulders shaking with the force of letting out my frustration and remorse.
Then I glance over at the space that used to house the door from this room
to the hallway—the doorway I’d found my brother and Colt standing in just
a few days ago. That door’s now locked, and covered with a layer of
soundproof insulation, a piece of plywood, a piece of drywall, and some
decorative trim.
I’d installed and painted that the next day, determined that Colt not walk
by and hear anything that I wouldn’t want him to hear coming from this
room—which right now is the sound of my sobbing.
Taking a deep breath, I force myself to straighten up, and wipe the tears
and snot from my face. I will not let another man make me question my
sense of self-worth. I’ve been down this slippery slope before, and it’s the
whole reason I don’t date. It’s the reason I don’t let myself have feelings for
anyone but my family and closest girlfriends. It’s the reason I started an all-
female construction company. I’m a badass on my own, and make
completely stupid, reckless decisions when men are involved.
My life is much, much better this way.
I suck in another deep breath, wipe away the remaining tears, then strip
off my suit and throw it over the chair near the windows. Slipping on my
favorite sweatpants—which are so soft and worn they are no longer fuzzy,
making them perfect for this warm evening—I tuck my tank top into the
front of the waistband, and head back into the bathroom to clean up my
face.
When I look in the mirror, it’s worse than I expected. My bun is loose
from Colt running his fingertips along my neck and digging them into my
scalp. I ignore the shiver that wracks my body as I remember the feel of his
huge, warm hands on me. My lip gloss is smeared all around my mouth,
and my mascara has pooled beneath my eyes, leaving sunken black circles
and a dark trail down my cheeks. I look like I could be trying to pass for
Harley Quinn on Halloween.
I scrub my face, wishing I could wash away the memory of the regret I
saw in Colt’s eyes after he pulled away from me in that alley. But it’s still
there. No matter how hard I scrub, the vision lingers just behind my lids
each time I close my eyes.
The reason adult me has always held Colt at such a distance—every
snarky barb pushing him further away—is that he’s the only person who’s
ever driven me to be so damn reckless I almost ruined my own life.
Never. Again.
I promised myself that six years ago. Everything I’ve done since then
was meant to ensure I never go on a bender like I did in Vegas. And tonight,
I almost forgot.
I close my eyes, making sure I feel all the shame and regret and
frustration so I can remind myself: never again.
And then, determined to distract myself from the shitshow that was
tonight, I head back into my closet. There, I open the low door on the far
side of the island and pull out the lift-up table inside the base cabinet that
holds my sewing machine. I slide the foot petal out and set it on the floor,
before opening one of the wide drawers that holds my fabric.
A few months ago, I went down an internet research rabbit hole trying
to find myself a new bra that I could wear for work or lounging around the
house—something that was supportive and soft, but didn’t look like a
typical sports bra, or like a grandma would wear it. Apparently, supportive,
soft, and cute couldn’t all exist together. And supportive, soft, and sexy?
Forget it, not a chance.
So I got out my mom’s old sewing machine—the one I’d learned on, but
had only used a few times since she passed away. I’d ordered a variety of
types of fabric in pretty prints and played around with different styles until I
found something I really loved.
And it turned out that what I really loved was my ability to create
something beautiful and functional. This probably should not have come as
such a surprise given my line of work, but I’ve spent my whole life working
with wood and power tools, so the fact that I also loved creating something
delicate like a bra actually did surprise me.
Sewing has become a bit of an addiction, and my new form of stress
relief at the end of a long day now that I no longer have a whole family
around to cook for. Which, now that I think about it, was also probably a
creative outlet for me since I rarely followed a recipe and was always trying
new combinations of ingredients.
I pull out the softest knit lace fabric I’ve ever found and pin the pieces
of the paper pattern to it. It’s one of the patterns I’ve created based on what
I deemed most supportive while still retaining a little feminine sex appeal.
And as I cut out the pieces that will form the bra, the feelings fade away.
 I’m not thinking about Colt, or what happened between us in that alley,
or how uncomfortable everything will be now that we crossed that line—
I’m lost in the feel of the fabric, in the visions of what it will become, in the
little decisions I’m making about what type of stitch I’ll use to bind it
together, and whether I should use black ribbon as straps to match the
delicacy of the black lace, and if I want to try making a front closure on this
one.
I’m so lost in what I’m doing as I arrange the cut pieces of fabric on the
table in front of me, pinning them together where I need to create seams in
preparation for sewing, that I don’t notice the knock until it’s become a loud
pounding, followed by the sound of Colt’s voice saying, “Jules, open the
door.”
I rush out of my closet, shutting the door behind me, back through the
bathroom, shutting that door for good measure, and open the door to my
bedroom.
Colt’s eyes are a bit panicked, but I don’t miss the way they change as
he looks at me—the way they soften at the edges, and how the golden
flecks in his light brown eyes practically disappear as his pupils grow.
I’ve read enough romance novels that I’ve heard phrases like “his eyes
darkened with longing,” but I never understood what that looked like until
now. And I wish I hadn’t seen that, because it’ll just be another Colt-related
thing for me to hyper-focus on—some other piece to add to the “Who is
Mathieu Coltier?” puzzle I’ve been putting together in my mind for years.
I fold my arms under my chest. Never again, I remind myself.
“Did you get lost on your way up to your place?”
He reaches out, gently running his thumb under my eye. “You’ve been
crying?”
Shit. My eyes water again at the concern in his voice, and the gentle
way he’s touching me. I take a small step back and his hand falls away. “It’s
allergies. My eyes have been itchy, so I’ve been rubbing them.”
He swallows like he’s trying to stop himself from commenting on how
my eyes weren’t red and swollen in the alley—he was certainly close
enough to have noticed. But he gives me some grace and doesn’t comment
on that. Instead, he says, “We have a problem.”
I’m so tempted to make a flippant, deflective remark, but I refrain
because he does actually sound worried.
“And what’s that?”
 He turns his phone to show me a text from Zach Reid. And as I click on
the picture of an online news article to enlarge it, I think I might throw up.
Boston Rebels Goalie Engaged! the sizable headline screams. There’s a
photo of the back of us, Colt’s arm wrapped around my shoulders as we
leave the restaurant. And then the article begins below it.
Mathieu Coltier, long-time goalie for the Boston Rebels hockey team, is
well known around town for the frequency of his late-night partying and the
string of broken hearts he leaves behind. But he’s apparently a changed
man because tonight at the tapas restaurant La Gallina, a well-known hot
spot on Newbury Street, he interrupted what appeared to be an altercation
between a beautiful blonde and an older businessman. Loudly telling the
man to “Take your hand off my fiancée, or I’ll remove it from your . . .
body,” Colt then left the restaurant with the woman in question tucked
under his arm.
The screenshot cuts off whatever the rest of the article might say, but
this is enough to know the situation is bad. Like really, really bad.
I stare at the phone for longer than necessary, afraid to look up at Colt.
Afraid to acknowledge that we’ll have to figure out what to do about this.
Afraid that we’ll need to talk about what happened in order to work through
this.
“How long do you think it’ll take them to figure out who I am?” I ask,
staring down at the way my fingers are gripping Colt’s phone like it might
jump out of my hand and attack me if I let go.
“I guess it will depend on whether there are better pictures than the one
they’ve currently got in the article. But honestly, I expect they’ll be able to
figure it out tonight.”
My shoulders sag as I sigh.
“We need to decide what to do here,” he says.
“Can we rewind time and go back to that restaurant so you can not say
I’m your fiancée? What the fuck, Colt?” I finally meet his eyes. “Where did
that even come from?”
He shakes his head, his lips pressed together. “I have no idea. I was just
so . . .” He looks beyond me, toward the bathroom, like he’s searching for
the right word, and the possibilities fly through my mind. Angry, worried,
pissed, frustrated, jealous . . . but none feel quite right, especially the last
one. Though why else would he act in such a possessive way, like Jerome
was touching something that was his, if he wasn’t jealous? “. . . pissed off
about how he was treating you.”
“And that led to you calling me your fiancée, how exactly?”
“I don’t know.” He releases his own huge sigh. “Probably because I felt
like I needed a reason to explain the insane rage I was feeling and it needed
to be something that would convince him to get his hands off you, and
because we’d just been at Drew and Audrey’s engagement party, so . . . I
don’t know. I guess maybe the whole ‘engaged’ thing was just in my head?
Honestly, I’m not sure why I said that.”
He gives me a shrug and a sheepish smile, both of which are just so
quintessentially Colt that it pisses me off. His happy-go-lucky, no-one-can-
stay-mad-at-me-because-I’m-just-so-damn-likable routine has no place in
this situation.
“You didn’t need to step in, and I wish you hadn’t. I had that situation
fully handled.”
He steps closer, and I tilt my head back to look up at him. “Did you,
though? Because you might have been standing your ground, but the look
on your face was . . . I don’t even know. It looked like you were terrified.”
Did it really? God, I hate it when I lose control of my own emotions. I
can rein them in 98% of the time, but when I can’t, I really can’t.
“What happened?” he asks.
I don’t say anything for a moment, wondering how to explain why I
froze up like that in the restaurant, and why I couldn’t breathe in that alley. I
don’t want to get too personal, but he also deserves an explanation. If I
hadn’t reacted that way, he may not have felt the need to step in and we
might not be in this situation. Or maybe we still would be. It’s impossible to
know.
“I’m terrified when I’m not in control,” I say, my voice weak and quiet.
“Tink.” He grinds out the nickname like the thought of me being scared
is pure anguish for him, then he cups my cheeks in his hands and tilts my
face up so I have to look at him. “Why?”
I can’t tell him the truth. He’ll feel guilty, and it’s not his fault that he
didn’t have feelings for me and that I handled the realization so badly.
That’s on me.
“I just hate the feeling of not being in control.”
His thumbs sweep across my cheeks softly. “Is that why you almost had
a panic attack in the alley.”
 Fuck. He is way too perceptive. And with his eyebrows lowered as he
gazes down at me, studying me, he doesn’t look like he regrets what
happened between us at all. In fact, he looks like he’s about to make it
happen again.
I step back quickly. “I wasn’t having a panic attack.”
He steps forward just as quickly. “Bullshit.”
“Colt, I’m fine. I was just”—I shake my head, trying to quantify how I
was feeling an hour ago so I can convince him he saw something other than
what we both know he really saw—“frustrated about what happened. I was
mad at myself for how I froze when he grabbed my wrist, instead of
fighting back.”
“You weren’t breathing.” He takes another step toward me, and I step
back. But it doesn’t stop him from advancing. “In fact, I don’t think you
started breathing again until I kissed you.”
I take another step back. “Colt,” my voice warns. He looks like he
might try it again, and I don’t know if I’d have the willpower to resist him if
he did.
“Yeah, Tink?” His voice is low and seductive, and I force myself to
think about that text from earlier today. The one that reminded me he’ll
never change—just another man in my life who refuses to grow up.
“You should probably go call Bambi back.”
His head rears back like I threw cold water on him, but then he focuses
those eyes back on me again. “Can’t. I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
“Busy trying to figure out why you’re wound so tight you’re about to
explode.”
Oh, I’m wound tight alright. A shiver of desire snakes its way through
my body, from my tailbone, up my spine, and to my shoulders, radiating
forward so my core and my nipples feel the ripples of longing.
No. Never again.
I don’t understand why my body doesn’t remember that we’re not doing
the whole longing for Colt thing anymore, we’re doing the protect Jules at
all costs thing—and the two are entirely incompatible. My mind will just
have to keep reminding my body.
When I take another step back, my ass hits my dresser, and there’s
nowhere for me to go as he comes closer.
 “I thought we agreed that you were going to stay out of my space?” I
say, raising an eyebrow as he stops inches from me.
“I’m not so sure I can do that,” he says.
“And why not?”
“Because I’m worried about you.”
His pupils have almost taken over his irises and his eyebrows dip low
over his eyes as he gazes down at me. “You don’t look worried.”
He looks like I always envisioned he would if he wanted me.
“Trust me, I’m worried.” And then he takes the last, tiny step so his
body is flush with mine, wraps his hands around my hips, and lifts me onto
the top of the dresser. Planting his hands on either side of me, he leans
down so his face is directly in front of mine, and says, “Now, tell me what
the fuck is going on.”
 Chapter Twelve
COLT

S helittlestares at me, her teeth clenched so tight that her jaw ticks and her cute
nose flares as she takes a deep breath. The way she doesn’t exhale
has me worried she’s going into panic attack mode again.
“When did they start?” I ask.
“When did what start?” Her reply is flippant as she rests the heels of her
hands slightly behind her so she can lean back. I wish she wouldn’t have
done that, though, because it pushes her chest out toward me and now all I
can think about is how stacked she is. God, I need to get my damn attraction
to her under control.
“The panic attacks.”
She sighs, deflating backward as her shoulders sag. Bringing her hand
up to the necklace she always wears, she rubs the small gold disc between
her thumb and forefinger. Audrey has a matching necklace, and I’ve seen
her do the same.
“It’s not like it happens a lot, Colt.”
“When did they start?”
Another deep sigh, followed by, “A few months ago.”
“What brings them on?”
“I don’t know, the same thing that always causes panic attacks, I
guess”—her voice is all sarcasm and sass—“an overactive limbic system
combined with a trigger.”
 I bring one hand up to her neck, wanting to feel her pulse, but the way
my fingers look wrapped under her jaw has my dick going hard instantly.
Beneath my fingertips, her blood pumps faster, and she moves her hand
from her necklace to my wrist, resting it there without pulling my hand
away.
“And what are your triggers?” If it’s assholes putting their hands on her,
I’m going to hunt down that suit from the restaurant and beat him to a
bloody pulp.
She swallows, her neck bobbing beneath my hand, and I run my thumb
across her jawline. “Feeling scared, or like I’m not in control.”
I run the tip of my nose along the bridge of hers. I can’t stop myself. I
know this is a bad idea. Maybe the worst I’ve ever had. She’s my best
friend’s little sister. I’ve known her since she was ten, and until now I’ve
been able to convince myself that she was like a kid sister to me, too.
But somewhere along the line, Jules grew up, and there is absolutely
nothing sibling-like about the way my body craves hers. I know I can’t do
anything to act on the way I want her—can’t cross that line again—so I’m
just torturing myself by letting our bodies get this close.
And the fact that she’s not pushing me away? That she’s leaning into my
touch and gripping my wrist like she’s desperate for me to keep my hand on
her neck? Yeah, I’ll have to think about what that means later.
“Maybe you need to learn some new ways to let off steam,” I suggest. It
comes out sounding highly suggestive, which is not my intention.
“Should I follow the ‘Mathieu Coltier method’ and fuck every guy I
meet?”
Normally, I’d take this as her teasing me, and I’d make a sarcastic
remark about how I never fuck guys, but there’s a hard edge to the
question.
Plus, the thought of her fucking anyone who isn’t me? It’s wrong that I
hate that idea, but I do. I really, really hate it. I can’t have her, but I don’t
want anyone else to, either.
“I’m sure we can find you some healthier ways.”
“Such as?” Her eyebrow raises, like she’s trying to point out that I
should take my own advice.
“I mean, my job is basically a way to blow off steam. But if having
pucks shot at you at 90 miles per hour isn’t your thing, I’m sure we could
find other ways. I think you may need to put yourself in some new
situations, though, to see that you can overcome them without going into
panic mode. Maybe that would help when you’re presented with something
triggering?”
“You sound like my therapist.”
“Believe me,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh, “I am the last person
you want to provide you with therapy.”
“Believe me,” she responds, “you’re the last person I’d open up to.”
I pull back so I can see her more fully. Maybe if I can read her body
language, I’ll be able to figure out what the fuck she means by that.
Because every once in a while, Jules says something that makes me think
she low-key hates me, and this was a perfect example.
As I move my hand from her neck to her shoulder, I notice the way her
hand falls back to the top of the dresser, and she inhales sharply in response
to my touch. But I can’t tell if it’s the kind of quick, surprised breath that
comes from enjoying the contact, or if I’m about to send her into a panic.
“Did I do something to make you not trust me, Jules?”
She scoffs out a laugh, but it sounds forced. “No. I just meant because
you’re my brother’s best friend. I’m not likely to tell you all my secrets.”
“Who do you tell all your secrets to?”
“My sister, of course. And my therapist. What about you?”
“I’m an open book.” I shrug. “No secrets here.”
“Sure, you are,” she says, shaking her head.
“What? I am. With me, what you see is what you get.” I’m the good-
time goalie. The one the guys all want to hang out with, and the ladies want
to go home with. I know who I am, and I embrace it. It’s easier that way.
Her big blue eyes narrow as her gaze locks onto my face. “That might
be the biggest lie you’ve ever told. And the sad thing is, I think you might
even believe it.”

ere you go. One Italian grilled cheese,” I say as I slide the plate in
“H front of her. The fresh mozzarella is oozing out of the lightly toasted
sourdough, but the basil and fresh tomato have stayed between the
bread.
 She picks it up, blowing on the corner where I cut the sandwich at an
angle, before taking a bite. “Holy shit,” she groans. “You weren’t kidding.”
“I told you. Grilled cheese master right here.” I point at my chest, and
she rolls her eyes.
This is exactly the lightness I was hoping for after our heavy
conversation in her bedroom. Her last comment made me feel so exposed—
because for a moment there, I’d forgotten that she’d seen me on the phone
with my brother and that I’d told her a bit about the situation. She knows I
have secrets; she just doesn’t know quite how big they are.
Luckily, I know she’s always hungry and had only eaten an appetizer
before that dinner ended, so I bribed her by offering to make her my
specialty (aka the only thing I can cook). Down here in her kitchen, with me
narrating my process for making grilled cheese sandwiches and her
inserting her snarky comments, things feel more normal.
Which is why it comes as a shock when she says, “We need to talk
about that article.”
I’ve been so focused on her panic attacks and whether I want to let her
in on any of my secrets, that I kind of forgot about the article that sent me
straight to her bedroom door half an hour ago.
Grabbing the plate with my sandwich on it, I bring it to the table. She’s
sitting at the end, so I take the first seat on her left, setting my plate on the
placemat and my phone right next to it.
When we sat here a few nights ago, she put me at the opposite end of
the table, as far away from her as possible. But fuck that. We need to have a
real conversation and I need to be able to see her reactions to things—it’s
the little things like the way her shoulders tense up or whether she’s taking
shallow breaths that will let me know how she’s really feeling, and you
can’t see things like that from eight feet away.
“What do you want to talk about, Tink?”
The question is barely out of my mouth before my phone rings, which
doesn’t even make sense because I know I put it on silent. I look down and
it’s a video call.
“Shit,” I mutter, then look at Jules. I don’t understand why half of our
conversations have been interrupted by calls from my family, but I’m over
it. This one, though, I can’t ignore. “It’s my mom. And she never video
calls me like this. Something must be wrong.”
 She nods her chin toward the phone. “You better take it, then. Do you
want privacy?”
“No, it’s fine.” Just shit timing. I pick up the phone, angling it so there’s
no way Jules will be in the video. “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”
“YOU’RE ENGAGED?” Her voice is equal parts excited and outraged.
“You better be bringing her up here in two weeks for our anniversary party.
I can’t believe I had to learn about this from anyone other than you!”
I gulp as my eyes rise above the phone to look at Jules, who stares back
at me in horror. But her face is also laced with amusement, like she’s
looking forward to seeing me get myself out of this.
I wish I hadn’t answered this call. I wish we’d had time to talk about
this first. Because bringing Jules up there with me, pretending she’s my
fiancée so that everyone knows I’ve finally moved on, feels like the perfect
solution to my problems. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be amenable to
that.
“How did you hear about this, exactly?”
“It’s all over the internet. Some of my friends posted the article to The
Facebook.” It will never not be funny that my mom refers to it as The
Facebook like it’s 1999. “They were congratulating me and your dad.
Mathieu, really? You couldn’t have told me ahead of time? You couldn’t
have let me meet her first?”
“Are you mad?” I ask.
“And thrilled. I’m so happy for you,” she gushes, one hand on her heart
as she pushes the red-framed reading glasses she’s always wearing these
days up the bridge of her nose with her other hand. “I need details!”
“Mom . . .” I glance above the screen at Jules.
“Oh my god! She’s there, isn’t she? Mathieu, I need to meet her right
now!”
Jules’s eyes are huge, and she shakes her head vehemently.
“No, she’s not here right now, Mom.”
“Hmmm . . .” The disbelieving sound rattles around in my mom’s throat
as she gathers her pale gray hair back in a clip. Then her eyes focus on the
screen. “Wait, where are you, anyway?”
Shit. “So, there was a flood at my condo earlier this week. I’m living in
Jameson’s old apartment. But Mom, I’m on my way out the door right now.
I’m so sorry, I have to go.”
 “Okay, but promise me you’ll bring her up to meet us? And call me
when you have time to talk. I need to hear more about the engagement and
meet . . .” She lets her voice carry off there, waiting for me to fill in the
name of my elusive fiancée.
“Sounds good, I’ll call you soon. Love you!” I hang up quickly, then
slump back against the chair, tilt my head back so I’m looking at the
ceiling, and groan out, “Fuuuuuccccck.”
Jules’s laugh fills the space. “Oh my god,” she says as I take my phone
and start searching for that article that Zach sent me a screenshot of. “You
should have seen your face as she started asking you for details. And I’m
sorry, but her excitement is obviously clouding her judgment. I mean, who
would even believe you were engaged?”
I stare down at the article, completely dumbstruck. It’s posted on one of
those sports fan websites that has a very social media-feel to it. “Uh,
apparently 1.5 million people.”
“What?” Jules practically shouts as she snatches my phone from my
hand. Her eyes scan the screen, probably noting the same 1.5 million likes
that I saw, then she taps on something. Her face drains of color, and she
looks like she’s seen a ghost. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when she
looks up at me, the same terror in her eyes that I saw in that restaurant, and
says, “They figured out who I am. Already. And someone posted the video
from the alley.”
 Chapter Thirteen
JULES

C olt hops out of his chair, turns mine toward him, and rests himself on
both knees between my legs. He grips my hips in his hands, forcefully
enough that I look up at him.
“Jules, it’s going to be okay.”
That feeling is starting again. The restlessness that makes me want to
crawl out of my skin, the sensation that someone is sitting on my chest and
making it impossible to breathe. My fingers twitch, and I clench them into
my palms, making a tight fist and hoping I can stop this before it happens.
I take a breath through my nose, trying to get as much air in as possible,
but it feels like my lungs aren’t expanding all the way, which only increases
the panic. If I don’t get more air than this, I’m going to pass out.
Colt cups my face in his hands like he did in my bedroom earlier, and it
soothes something inside me even though it shouldn’t—there’s no one in
the world I’m less safe with than Colt. Not because he’s any danger to me
physically, but because not keeping my distance from him is dangerous to
my mental and emotional well-being.
“You’re going to need to breathe, or I’m going to start giving you
CPR.”
Letting out a small laugh, I relax enough to tilt my head forward to fully
rest it in his hands. His humor had the intended effect, and I take a deep
breath and exhale slowly, relieved as my heartbeat slows to a more
regulated pace.
 “Sounds like a sad excuse to kiss me again,” I tease.
“Believe me, if I thought you wanted me to kiss you again, I wouldn’t
need to make excuses.”
What does that even mean? Does he want to kiss me again?
“Well, I don’t. Want you to, I mean,” I tell him. Because even if Colt did
want to kiss me, it still wouldn’t mean anything to him. And the only thing
that would hurt worse that Colt not wanting me at all, is him only wanting
me for a random hookup and then letting me go afterward. And he’s still my
brother’s best friend. He’s practically part of our family. I’ll still have to see
him all the time.
Distance, Jules, I remind myself. Keep your distance.
He just chuckles—a low, deep sound that I feel in my gut—and says, “I
know you don’t.”
“Do you even know CPR?” I ask, just to have something to say.
“Nah, but I was willing to bet you’d start breathing again if I tried it on
you. It worked in the alley.”
I can’t hold in the snort. “That wasn’t CPR, Colt.”
He shrugs. “Whatever it was, it got you breathing again.”
There’s a split second when I think, It’s too bad he can’t be around to
kiss me every time I feel a panic attack coming on. But that’s a horrible idea
for all the obvious reasons and makes me think about what my therapist
said about pushing myself out of my comfort zone in order to learn that I
don’t always have to be in control—or shut down when I don’t. And Colt’s
suggestion from earlier is still rattling around in my head.
“What did you have in mind, when you said that I need to find healthy
ways to ‘let off some steam.’”
“I don’t know,” he says, dropping his hands and sitting back on his
heels. I appreciate that he’s not right up in my face now—it makes it easier
to remember that I’m supposed to be indifferent toward him. “Make a list of
things that scare you, and do them? Challenge yourself physically? Learn
how to meditate?”
I can tell he’s just spitballing ideas, but I appreciate how he’s trying to
help me.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, and he nods. But then my anxiety spikes as I
remember why we started this conversation in the first place. “In the
meantime, what the hell are we going to do about this whole fiancée
situation?”
 “I was originally thinking we could just say that I saw you in a clearly
uncomfortable situation and said you were my fiancée to get you out of it,”
he says. “But now that video . . .”
I’m glad he’s at as much of a loss as I am.
“Yeah, even though it would have made me look like an idiot, that could
have worked. But now . . .” I look away, staring off at the cabinets with the
open shelving above them. “If that was the case, why would we be on top of
each other in an alley afterward like two hormone-charged teenagers if you
were just pretending to be my fiancée? People I work with are going to see
that video. Oh my god, my clients and even potential donors are going to
see that video! At best, I come off looking impulsive and unprofessional
. . .”
“And I come off looking like I took advantage of you.” His words are
grim.
“You didn’t take advantage of me.” My response is instantaneous,
because he warned me he was going to do something we’d both regret—
though little did we know how much—and I didn’t stop him. In fact, I
jumped in wholeheartedly, which was the biggest mistake of all. “You were
trying to help. But Colt, who’s going to want to hire me now? Who’s going
to want to donate to our nonprofit or believe that I’m the kind of person
who should be mentoring young women if I’m seen making out in an alley
with a random hockey player?” I can hear the panic creeping into my voice
the same way I can feel it moving under my skin again, little pinpricks of
anxiety attacking my nervous system.
“Ouch.” When I look at him for clarification, he cocks an eyebrow at
me. “So now I’m just some random hockey player?”
“You know what I mean—the optics are bad no matter how we spin
this.”
“Yeah, unless . . . ” He pauses, and I’m almost afraid of what he’s going
to say next. How could we spin this in any way that we don’t tarnish both
our reputations?
“Unless?”
“Unless we pretend that we actually are engaged. It would explain my
reaction in the restaurant, and then you don’t look like you’re making out
with ‘some random hockey player.’” The way he repeats my words back to
me sounds a little bitter, but he’s got to understand that this is how people
would see it. He’s got a reputation and a list of past hookups that would
probably stretch from here to the West Coast.
“Colt,” I say as I stand. “That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever
heard.” Who gets fake engaged? That’s not a thing that happens in real life.
“Why?” he asks, rising from his knees so he’s towering over me.
“Because first off, no one is going to believe it. Anyone who knows us
is going to know it’s not true. Anyone who’s ever seen me is going to know
there’s no way I’m engaged to you.”
“What are you even talking about?” he asks.
“Colt, you have this . . . energy . . .”
He slides his hands into the pocket of his dress pants, all casual-like, but
there’s nothing casual about the timber of his voice when he asks, “Oh
yeah? What kind of energy is that?”
He knows exactly the kind of big dick energy he exudes as he swaggers
through life, and I’m not planning to give him the satisfaction of telling him
I’ve noticed.
“I think you know,” I say breezily as I try to walk past him and out of
the kitchen. But his big hand is around my wrist, pulling me to him.
When we’re toe-to-toe, he straightens up to his full height, and I’m
forced to tilt my head all the way back just to see him. “I want to hear you
say it.”
He wants to hear me say that he’s got the kind of energy that has women
dropping their panties before he even has to ask. Meanwhile, I’ve never
even let a guy into mine? I look away. No way in hell is he hearing that
admission from me.
“No.”
His palm slides across my throat and he uses his splayed thumb and
fingers to cup my jaw, turning my head back toward him. I like the feel of
his hand around my throat way more than I should.
“What’s wrong, Jules? Can’t back up your claim?”
“More like, I don’t need to because we both know it’s true.”
“What’s true?” he asks again.
I note the way his hand is gripping my neck possessively, how his gaze
bores into my face with an intensity I can’t muster, how his whole body
practically vibrates with dominance. “That I don’t match your energy.”
“Maybe that’s because you exceed it?”
 A laugh bursts out of me. What in the actual hell is this man talking
about? “Yeah, Colt. Sure.”
“How do you not see what everyone else does?”
Yeah, I know what I look like. But my energy must scream Stay away!
because that’s exactly what guys do the minute they get to know me.
I step back and he lets me go, but he plants his hands on his hips like
he’s creating a barrier between the exit from the kitchen and me.
“Can we go back to talking about why you think it’s a good idea to
pretend we’re engaged, and how in the world you think anyone would
believe that for even a second?”
“Sure,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders. “I think it’s a good idea
because it gives us both something we want. And I think the only people
who aren’t going to believe it are your family, and we can tell them the
truth. Everyone else will believe it.”
I don’t even know where to start with that, so I circle back to the first
thing he said. “How does this give each of us what we want?”
“It gives me an excuse for why I haven’t been with a woman in at least
six months⁠—”
“What?” The question burst out of me with an incredulous laugh.
There’s no way that’s possible. Being a manwhore is kind of his brand.
“Why is that so unbelievable?”
“It . . .” I don’t want to admit that I’ve spent any time at all thinking
about him or his sex life, so instead, I say, “. . . just isn’t what I expected.
So, you’d get fake engaged to explain away a dry spell?”
“No. No one even knows about that. I’m just saying that it’s not like
there would be women saying ‘You can’t be engaged, you were in my bed
last weekend.’ I wouldn’t put you in that position, just so you know.” He
runs a hand through his short hair. “But mostly, what I get out of this is that
you could come with me to my parents’ anniversary party. My parents
would be thrilled, and you could be a buffer between me and my brother.”
“How do you think your parents would feel when they found out this
was all fake? Or when we ‘break up,’” I say, using air quotes. “Wouldn’t
that just hurt them in the long run?”
“They’d be okay. It’s not like you guys are going to bond in a weekend.
And we can make it an amicable split in the end, don’t you think?”
The look on his face is as doubtful as my thoughts.
“And what do I get out of this, exactly?”
 “I’ll help you find healthy ways to overcome your fear of losing control.
And you have a plausible reason for why you were making out with me in
an alley. I don’t think anyone would have any trouble believing I’d have
you up against a brick wall at the first chance I got.”
“Yeah.” I bark out a laugh. “That’s exactly the part I think no one is
going to believe.”
“You just gotta trust me on this one. No one’s going to question it. And
no one is going to think less of you because someone caught you on camera
kissing your fiancé.”
“There’s a zero percent chance that anyone who knows me is going to
believe this.” Why am I even entertaining this idea?
“Besides Jameson, Audrey, and Lauren, who else isn’t going to believe
it?”
“Morgan. Drew.”
“Okay, so we tell the five of them the truth.” Colt shrugs like this is no
big deal. “If they can keep their mouths shut, this will work. And then down
the road, when all the news about this has passed, my parents’ anniversary
party is over, and the playoffs are done . . .”
“We fake break up?”
“Sure. But I have one condition.”
“You’re the one trying to sell me on this,” I remind him. “And you’re
setting conditions?”
“Just one. You have to be the one to break it off with me.” He shoves
his hands back in his pockets, and it has the rolled-up sleeves of his dress
shirt pulling higher and revealing his inked-up forearms. I don’t even like
tattoos, so why do I like them on him?
“Why? So I come off looking like the asshole?”
“No. So you don’t look like another woman I slept with and discarded.”
“I thought you said it’d be an amicable separation.”
“Maybe. But if anyone needs to do the breaking up for any reason, I
want it to be you. I don’t care if I come off looking bad here. I do care if
you do.”
I tug on the engraved star on the gold disk hanging at the base of my
throat as my eyebrows dip and I assess his motives. “Why are you trying to
protect my reputation here?”
“Because it was my impulsiveness that got us in this situation in the first
place. And I don’t want you to have any negative consequences as a
result.”
That’s a way more responsible and empathetic reason than I’d have
expected him to come up with.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Do you have a better one?” he asks.
“I might be able to come up with something if I had a little more time,”
I say, and that’s when my phone vibrates in the pocket of my sweatpants. I
pull it out and see Lauren’s name on the screen. Given the important
conversation we’re having, I’d normally ignore the call. But Lauren usually
texts unless something’s wrong.
“Hey, Laur, what’s up?”
“This is your courtesy warning that your brother is on the way to your
house right now. And if Colt wants to live, he should probably not be there
when Jameson arrives.”
Shit. Without traffic, it’s a fifteen-minute drive. Less if you hit the lights
right.
“Oh shit, you guys saw the article already?”
“The articles,” she says, emphasizing the plural nature of the word.
“And the video.”
Of course Jameson’s seen them, he’s Colt’s agent. He probably has all
kinds of Google alerts set up for just this type of occasion . . . they just
don’t normally involve his sister.
“And,” Lauren continues, and I swear I hear a smile in her voice, “then
he called Colt, like, five times and there was no answer, so he decided to
head over. He may have said something about castration on his way out the
door? I can’t be sure, though. I was distracted by the way his head looked
like it was going to explode.”
“You sound like you’re finding this all quite funny.”
“I sure am. Sometimes he forgets that you and Audrey are full-grown
women, and he doesn’t need to go into papa bear mode like you’re still
teenagers.”
“It’s funny now. Wait until Ivy and Iris are that age and you have to run
interference.”
Lauren groans, as she’s probably picturing Jameson parenting their
twins in a decade. “Call me if you need backup. You can put me on
speakerphone.”
“We won’t need backup, but thank you for the offer.”
 “Okay, but once he leaves, will you please call me and explain what the
hell is going on? Because I could have told you that Colt was interested in
you, but I fully believed you hated him.”
Wait, what?
“Uhhh,” I stutter, my eyes flying to where Colt stands a couple of feet
from me. But I don’t have to question whether he heard her; the way his
chest shakes with laughter is all the proof I need. “Okay, I’ll talk to you
later. Thanks!”
As soon as I disconnect the call, I tell Colt, “Alright, you better get your
ass out of here before Jameson gets here. I’ll explain the situation to him.”
“Like hell I’m leaving you.”
“This explanation doesn’t require both of us, and he’s much more likely
to stay calm if the man who pushed his sister up against a wall in an alley
isn’t standing in front of him. I’m the one who needs to explain this to
Jameson,” I insist.
“You can do the explaining,” Colt says, taking a step toward me and
planting his hands on my shoulders, “but there’s no way I’m not standing
next to you while you do.”
 Chapter Fourteen
COLT

W hen Jameson pulls into the spot behind the back door, Jules and I are
standing in the kitchen waiting for him.
“I need a minute,” I say, reaching for the doorknob.
“What? No.” She grasps my forearm as if she could stop me from going
out there. “You said I could do the explaining here.”
“And you can. But I need a minute with him first.”
“Colt . . .” She drags my name out like a warning, and I’m tempted to
tell her it turns me on when she does that. But even I know that now isn’t
the time.
“He’s been my best friend for the last fifteen years, and I just had his
little sister wrapped around me up against a wall in an alley. Trust me when
I say, I need a minute with him so that he doesn’t kill us both.”
She sighs, but lets go of my arm. Shutting the door behind me, I meet
him on the stairs.
“What. The. Fuck?” His words are low and slow, laced with an anger
I’ve never seen from him.
I put both hands out in front of me, hoping it helps him slow his roll a
bit. “Jules wants to explain the whole situation to you,” I tell him. “But I
just need you to know that she was in danger, and I did what I needed to do
to protect her.”
That has his head snapping back. “What?”
“You heard me.”
 “Who was trying to hurt her?” There’s fire in his eyes, and I’m glad his
anger is no longer directed at me.
“She’ll explain. But I just need you to go in there and be reasonable.
Don’t lose your shit on her. Don’t make her feel bad,” I say. His eyes
narrow, like he’s trying to assess why I care about her feelings when all I’ve
ever done is try to annoy her. But before he can ask any questions, I say,
“Let’s do this,” and open the back door so he’ll follow me inside.
Five minutes later, Jules has told him the whole story. His response is
classic Jameson: “Tell me who this asshole is so I can fucking bury him.”
“No.”
He looks at her like he must have misheard her. “No?”
“No. Boston is a small city. I don’t need you overreacting and doing
something that’s going to tarnish my professional reputation.”
“I’m discreet as hell.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, anyway,” he says, like he knows there’s no point in pushing
because she’ll lock up like a damn vault. “This engagement is the most
asinine idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Do you have a better one?” she asks, and my chest shakes with silent
laughter. It’s the exact question I asked her when she said it was a stupid
idea. Now, it feels like we’re on the same team. Us against everyone.
Jameson sighs. “It’s not ideal, but in the circumstances . . . I don’t know.
Maybe it is the best move? It’ll certainly help your less-than-stellar
reputation”—he looks at me—“and possibly protect yours,” he adds as he
looks at Jules.
“Exactly,” she and I say in unison.
“But I’m still not convinced that people are going to believe it, what
with you sleeping with a new woman in every city,” Jameson says. “Won’t
that just make my sister look like a fool?”
I hate that I have to defend myself to my best friend. I earned my
reputation fair and square, but it’s been a long time since I’ve acted like
that. Everyone just assumes that nothing’s changed because I continue to let
them believe it. I play into it even, because it’s always been my armor—the
way I keep women from getting too close while showing everyone back
home that I’ve moved on.
I tell him the same thing I told Jules earlier, and he folds his arms across
his chest. “And you think your teammates are going to believe this?”
 “There hasn’t been another woman all season, and no one on the team
could claim otherwise. So yeah, I think it’ll be pretty easy to explain that
the reason no one’s seen me take a woman back to my hotel room, or leave
a bar or a club with someone, is because I’ve secretly been dating Jules this
whole time.”
His jaw ticks as he grinds his teeth together. “But just to be clear, you
haven’t been? Right?”
“You already know the answer to that,” I say, folding my arms across
my chest.
“AJ wants to meet with you first thing tomorrow morning,” he tells me.
It’s never a good thing when your general manager calls you into a meeting
on a Sunday.
“Shit. Do you think I need to tell her the truth?” I ask.
His lips press together—it’s his classic thinking face, the one I’ve seen
countless times over the years as he’s negotiated contracts and endorsement
deals on my behalf. “Yeah. I don’t know if she’ll agree with what you’re
doing, but I think you should tell her. Because if somehow it comes out that
you two lied about this, she will never, ever trust you again and your career
with the Rebels will be over. Maybe even before the end of this contract.”
I’m not sure how many more years I’ve got left in me anyway, but I
don’t want to piss off my GM or risk ending my career prematurely. I want
to go out on my own terms.
“Alright. Should Jules come with me for this meeting?”
“What?” Jules squeaks out. “No way. She’s low-key terrifying.”
Jameson’s laugh is a low rumble. “AJ doesn’t take shit from anyone, but
she’s not terrifying. She’s one of Lauren’s best friends, plus, she’d probably
really like you. You two are a lot alike, actually.” He pauses, his eyebrows
dipping, before he says, “Yeah, I think you should take Jules with you.”
“Nope.” Jules shakes her head adamantly, like a child who’s trying to
get out of taking medicine. “Sorry, I can’t. I have plans.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, thinking about how freaking adorable she is when
she’s not getting her way, and how much I love to see her squirm. “What
will you be doing?”
“Sleeping. I’m not a morning person.”
Ironic, given her line of work. If the last two days are any indication,
she leaves the house before I even wake up. “Come on, Jules. I need you to
help me save my career.”
 “Just play better and AJ wouldn’t dare get rid of you,” Jules says.
Jameson and I lock eyes and we both laugh. I’m arguably still the best
goalie in the league, despite my age. “That’s not how AJ operates,”
Jameson says.
Then I add, “She’s all about building a team of responsible, respectful
men⁠—”
“And she lets you play for the Rebels?” Jules asks, covering her mouth
in mock horror.
“Exactly, so I need you to help me show her how responsible and
respectful I am. Come on, Jules. Don’t make me get on my knees and beg in
front of your brother.”
She knows I’m teasing, but Jameson practically growls and says, “Don’t
make me throat punch you in front of my sister.”
I roll my eyes in his direction and turn back to Jules. “Please, Jules?”
“Alright, fine,” she sighs, like she’s being deeply inconvenienced. “But
only because we need this to work. Though, sometime, I would like to see
you beg.”
“Fucking enough!” Jameson grinds out the words like he’s in pain.
“Save your flirting and innuendos for when you’re trying to sell this fake
engagement. And preferably not in front of me.”
I try not to take offense to the way he visibly shudders, like the thought
of me tainting his sister is enough to make him want to vomit.
“This is how we’ve always talked to each other,” Jules says.
“Yeah, well, it has a whole new layer now that I’ve had to watch you
two make out.” He turns his head toward me. “You’re my best friend, so I’ll
tell you this once and once only. When you’re not out in public trying to
convince people you’re actually engaged, keep your fucking hands off my
sister.”
“Woah,” Jules says before I can even respond. “There’s nothing going
on here, but even if there was, that would be none of your business. You
don’t get to decide who I date.”
His face softens a bit when he looks at her. “No, but I have a
responsibility to make sure you end up with someone capable of treating
you right. Preferably someone whose body count isn’t a thousand people
deep.”
The way the adrenaline pumps through my system at that statement—
equal parts anger and shame—makes me want to tear Jameson in half. But
he’s not wrong.
Jules’s hand lands on my forearm, gripping it tight enough that I take a
breath. “Again,” she practically growls at her brother. “None. Of. Your.
Fucking. Business. You do not have a responsibility to make sure I end up
with anyone. Who I end up with is my choice, and mine alone.”
“I just want what’s best for you,” he tells her.
“Which isn’t me.” My comment comes through sounding just as tense
as I feel. It’s not a question, but I am looking for him to confirm if that’s
what he meant.
“Hey,” he says, his gaze sliding from Jules to me where I stand next to
her. “Nothing against you. I just want Jules to end up with someone⁠—”
“Who you trust with her. And you’ve made it perfectly clear that isn’t
me.”
I see the confusion in his eyes, and I don’t know why I’m so mad about
this. He’s watched me rack up one-night stands—fucking and forgetting
women over and over—for a decade and a half. But he’s the only person in
Boston who knows about Cheri and Gabriel. So I guess I always assumed
he understood why I never dated, why I wouldn’t trust anyone enough to
give them more than a night.
Jules moves her hand from my forearm to my abdomen, like she’s
holding me back, and then extends her other arm to Jameson’s chest. It’s
only then that I realize how close we both are to throwing punches over
this.
“Alright, you two clearly need a breather. Jameson, go home to Lauren,
and let her explain to you why you’re acting like an asshole.”
“I’m not being an asshole.” He sounds defensive.
“It’s kind of your default. But not normally with either of us,” she says,
nodding her chin toward me while her hands remain firmly in place on each
of us. “I get that you’re not happy about this, but we’re not asking for your
opinion. We’ll handle this.”
Jameson’s eyes flick back and forth between the two of us. “Fine.” Then
he looks back at me. “You better not hurt her.”
“No one’s going to get hurt,” I say, with more certainty than I feel.
Because if I’ve learned anything tonight, it’s that I like Jules Flynn a whole
lot more than I realized.
“I really might throw up,” Jules says as we walk down the hallway of the
office suite at the Rebels’ practice facility early on Sunday morning.
“I tried to take you out to breakfast first,” I remind her. “Coffee on
an empty stomach is never a good idea.”
“You don’t even drink coffee,” she reminds me. “And I’m not going to
throw up because of the caffeine. It’s nerves.”
I take her hand, lacing our fingers together and giving her a little
squeeze as we walk down the hallway. I’m so relieved when she doesn’t
pull her hand away that I stop walking and tug her back toward me. Her
free hand flies up and lands on my chest as she spins around in surprise.
“Hey.” I bend my head so I’m looking her in the eyes as she stares up at
me. “Are you having second thoughts about this?”
“What? No.” She shakes her head slightly, eyebrows scrunched up like
she doesn’t understand why I’m asking this.
“Jules, I know my reputation will come up again and again,” I say,
thinking about Jameson’s reaction last night and imagining how fans will
take this news. Will she be the one who finally tamed Colt, or will she be
painted as the poor soul who was last in a long line of women? “I’m not
sure how people will talk about you as a result, and if you don’t want to do
this, it’s not too late to back out.”
“As long as you’re willing to stand up for me whenever necessary, and I
do the same for you, we’ll be fine.” Her words are certain, her face is
anything but.
“Us against the world?”
She lets out a small laugh, and it’s so good to see a genuine smile from
her that I can’t hold mine in either. “Something like that,” she says as her
eyes search mine for a moment that ends too quickly. “Come on, we don’t
want to be late.”
We approach the only open door, with the light streaming through into
the somewhat dim hallway. I don’t spend a lot of time up here in the offices,
but the times I’ve been here, it’s bustling. The whole space feels desolate
right now, and that is a little intimidating, if I’m being honest.
AJ is sitting at her desk, her long dark hair obscuring her face as she
looks at her phone. When I knock twice on the open door, her head snaps
up, and she stands immediately, walking toward her couch area as she
ushers us in. I introduce Jules, and AJ smiles as she extends her hand.
“Alessandra Jones,” she says, “but please, call me AJ.”
 As they shake hands, Jules tells her how much she likes her office. It’s
always amused me that AJ—who is literally the most powerful woman in
hockey and whose entire reputation is based on being a complete ball-buster
—has such a feminine office. There’s a low cream-colored couch running
along the glass wall that overlooks the practice rink. In front of it is a coffee
table, and cushioned armchairs with frilly pillows are on either side.
Jules and I take a seat on the couch, and AJ sits in the chair on my other
side. Next to me, Jules slides her hand back into mine, and I give her
another supportive squeeze as I look over at AJ, waiting for her to say
something.
“So the funny thing about being the only female GM in the league,” she
says, looking straight past me at Jules, “is that I tend to do things a little
differently than some of my male counterparts. For example, I pride myself
on knowing my players well—not just as players, but as people. I like to
think one of the reasons I’ve been able to build the team I have here in
Boston is because I inherited some great players, like Colt, who predated
me. And I’ve been able to bring in the type of men I want, not for their skill
on the ice, but because I know they’ll have each other’s backs.”
Her eyes flick to me. “Which is why I find it absolutely shocking that I
had to find out you’re engaged from a goddamn fan website. You’re a
leader on this team, someone I’ve trusted from day one, despite how you’re
portrayed in the media. So being blindsided like this . . . either I’m fucking
terrible at my job, or this”—she gestures between me and Jules—“is not
what it seems.”
Jules’s fingers twitch, so I lean back against the couch cushions and pull
our clasped hands into my lap, using my thumb to stroke circles on the back
of her hand. I don’t miss the way AJ’s eyes track that movement before she
glances up at me, eyebrows raised.
“You’re not terrible at your job, and you know it.” I’m so glad we
decided not to lie to her, because that wouldn’t have gone over well. As I
explain what happened, and what we’ve decided to do, I watch her observe
both of us closely and wonder what she sees.
When I’m done explaining the last eighteen hours, she gives a quick
nod and says, “Okay, here are my initial thoughts.” She looks at Jules.
“First, at some point, I want to hear more details about this mentoring
program because it sounds amazing and necessary. Second,” she says,
looking back at me, “there’s obviously a reason you said you two were
engaged, and I look forward to you figuring out what that was. Third, I
agree with Jameson that the idea of continuing to fake this engagement is
completely asinine, but also with both of you that there isn’t a better
alternative given the situation. And fourth, in order for this to work, you are
going to have to convince a lot of people that you’re in love. There are
probably already too many people who know the truth, and I appreciate
being one of them. But I assume you’re planning on telling the rest of the
team, and Wilcott,” she says, referring to our coach, “that you’re really
engaged?”
“Yeah,” I say decisively, “I don’t think anyone except you and Jules’s
family can know the truth. The more people who know, the more likely it is
to get out.”
“And the only thing that can make us look worse than we already do in
this situation,” Jules says with a sigh, “is if the actual truth was out there.”
“I’m sorry you’re in this position,” AJ says, her voice
uncharacteristically sympathetic. “But I agree with you on both accounts.”
Her eyes narrow in on us, sitting together, still holding hands. “Do you
really think you can fake this, though?”
Jules and I glance at each other, and the memories of us in that alley
come flooding back—the way she felt with her legs wrapped around my
hips, pressed up against my body as she fucking devoured my mouth. Not a
single thing about that moment felt like faking it. But unfortunately, I also
can’t shake the memory of Jameson making it clear that I’m not the kind of
person he wants to be with his sister.
“Yeah, I think we can convince people,” I say.
“Me too,” Jules tells AJ.
“Well, good. Because that charity event for the pediatric hospital is this
coming Saturday, and I expect you’re now attending together,” AJ says.
“Which will give you the perfect opportunity to be seen out as a couple, at a
team event. Plus, I assume Jules will be at the first playoff home game on
Friday night?”
We leave tonight for our first two games in Florida, and then we’re back
at the end of the week for a home game on Friday. I’d forgotten about that
charity event on Saturday until right now. I’m about to tell AJ that Jules and
I haven’t discussed this yet, when she says, “Of course I’ll be at both. Just
like a good little fiancée would be.”
 I glance over at her. “You’re going to have to tone down the sarcasm if
you want people to believe you’re marrying me.”
“Well, luckily, I’m not,” she says, her voice teasing. “But I can pretend
in public.”
“Be very careful,” AJ warns, “because, given his reputation, people will
be looking for any excuse to prove that Colt can’t settle down. And if Colt
looks like an idiot, this organization will too.”
Jules nods as she pulls the side of her cheek into her mouth, creating a
line beneath her strong cheekbones to stop herself from replying. As I try to
imagine all the things she’s not saying, it really sinks in what Jameson was
trying to tell me last night . . . My reputation is incredibly tainted.
There’s no way that’s not going to come back to bite me in the ass the
minute we officially announce this engagement—and Jules is the one who’s
going to be made to look stupid for falling for me.
But I can do things differently moving forward. I can be the man she
deserves, even if it’s only for appearance’s sake.
 Chapter Fifteen
JULES

I glance at my phone again as I wait for Graham to finish drying off after
his shower. He managed to be in and out in ten minutes, which must be
some sort of record. When he lived with me, it was a miracle if we could
get him out in under half an hour. I guess the fact that I took him out to eat,
and we got back later than planned, combined with him not wanting to miss
any of his dad’s first playoff game, lit a fire under his ass. I’ll have to share
this new strategy with Audrey when she gets home.
COLT
Tell me you don’t have any plans tomorrow night.

He sent me the text an hour ago, but I didn’t see it until we got home. In
the living room, the TV’s on and the players are already on the ice, so I
haven’t responded yet. He won’t see my message until after the game
anyway, so I have some time to figure out what I want to say.
I don’t have any plans tomorrow night, but spending any more time
with him than absolutely necessary feels like I’m inviting disaster. If I’ve
learned anything in the last week, it’s that I still make terrible decisions
when he’s around. Last weekend could have cost him his career, if AJ was
mad enough, or cost me my professional reputation.
So no, I don’t think it’s a particularly good idea to do anything with him
beyond what’s required for our engagement to appear real.
 I stand in the kitchen, close enough to hear Graham singing to himself
in the bathroom, while I keep half an eye on the TV so I can give him a
warning when it’s about to start.
The camera zooms in on Colt as he does his warm up stretches. With his
knees spread and ass out, Colt bounces lightly from side to side, stretching
his inner thighs.
Why is that so hot?
“What are you looking at?” Graham’s voice comes from right beside
me, and it’s so unexpected that I jump, sending my phone clattering to the
countertop.
“Just checking how much longer until the game starts.” Glancing down
at the towel wrapped around his waist, I ask, “Are you going to get your
pajamas on?”
“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure the game hadn’t started.”
“I promised to tell you if it did,” I remind him. On the TV, the players
start leaving the ice. “Oh, you better hurry up. They’re going to do the pre-
game stuff soon.” I realize that I don’t even know if there’s a name for the
players’ entrance onto the ice, with lights and music, before the national
anthem and the puck drop.
The buzzer rings, and I tell him, “And Morgan and Lauren are here.”
“When’s Mom going to be home?” he asks.
“In less than half an hour,” I say as I reach over to buzz my friends into
Audrey and Drew’s place.
“I can’t believe she’s missing the beginning of the game.”
“She’s got her dance class, but she’s leaving early so she can be home to
watch some of the game with us before you go to bed. Better go get your
pajamas on, or you’re going to miss the beginning of the game.”
Audrey’s weekly Wednesday night dance class used to be a guaranteed
time each week that I got to spend hanging out with my nephew. I didn’t
realize how much I’d miss that now that they live with Drew, and I only
need to watch him when Drew is traveling. And once the playoffs are over,
Drew will be home all the time, so I’m going to have to be even more
intentional about scheduling time to see Graham.
Morgan and Lauren enter with a wide array of snacks and drinks and
start setting them out on the kitchen island as we listen to the sportscasters
talking about how Boston won the first game of the series two nights ago
and speculate whether Florida can bring home a win on home ice tonight,
before the series moves to Boston for Friday night’s game.
“Where’s Graham?” Morgan asks.
“Getting his PJs on.”
“Okay, so once Audrey’s home and he’s in bed, we have a lot of
questions about this whole fake engagement situation,” she says. I’d
explained everything to my family on Sunday night at our weekly family
dinner, which I’d invited Morgan to so that everyone who had to know the
truth was there. Except Colt and Drew, who’d already left for Florida. Colt
said he’d talk to Drew on the flight down, given that they normally sit
together.
“The types of questions we weren’t going to ask in front of Jameson,”
Lauren adds. “Because we love you, and him, and don’t want to embarrass
you or send him to the grave early.”
This is all fake—it’s not like Colt would ever have feelings for me. So
as long as I can keep my own feelings and thoughts under control,
everything will be fine. This shouldn’t be a big deal.
“Okay,” I say, dragging the word out tentatively.
Graham comes running down the hall. “Auntie Lauren, why didn’t you
bring Iris and Ivy?” That kid loves his little cousins so much. He’s going to
be a great big brother someday.
Lauren bends down and kisses Graham on top of his head, reminding
him, “Because they’re already in bed. They don’t get to stay up late to
watch hockey games.”
“But it’s still light out,” Graham says, clearly not remembering that the
sun sets later in the spring. “And it would be more fun if they were here.”
“Trust me, you don’t want overtired three-year-olds around. They’re not
very fun.”
The players take the ice and I try not to focus on the way Colt’s moving
around the crease, using the edges of his blades to rough up the ice so he
doesn’t go sliding across it when he tries to make a save. He’s doing it in
time with the music, like he’s dancing, and even though it’s an away game,
a segment of the crowd is cheering and clapping along with his antics. He’s
hamming it up for the fans, like he always does, and it’s a good reminder
that everything with Colt is for show. Just like our “engagement.”
During one of the commercial breaks, Morgan looks over and says,
“Oh, I meant to tell you. I was able to schedule that interview with Rosie.
This is going to be so amazing for getting some donors for the mentoring
program. We can film it the week after next, but where would you like to do
it? On a job site? In the Our House office? Your house?”
Morgan has done amazing things for our social media platforms and
website since she took over our marketing six months ago. She seems to
have a real knack for what will connect with potential clients.
“I’m fine with whatever makes Rosie feel most comfortable. Did she
mention about her face?”
“No, what about it?”
“One side of her face is . . .” I don’t know the right words to use here.
Rosie refers to her face as “fucked up,” but it’s so much deeper than that.
“. . . permanently damaged because of an abusive situation with her
daughter’s father.”
“Oh my gosh,” Lauren says, and I can tell she’s doing that thing she
does where she catalogs all the ways she could have had it worse with her
late husband. His death uncovered a whole secret life he was leading, but
thankfully, it also led her back to my brother.
“Yeah. He’s in jail now, but she wears a permanent reminder of him.
She’s such a badass, but she’s secretly really self-conscious about the scars.
If we can film it so that we’re focused on her at an angle that doesn’t show
that side of her face, that would be perfect.”
“Of course,” Morgan says. “I’ll take some test recordings, too, and
show them to her to make sure she’s happy with the setup before we start.”
“Okay. Just let me know where and when, and no matter what else is
going on, I’ll make sure I’m there for the recording, too.”
“I didn’t realize you guys were already at the point of looking for
donors until you told us what happened at that dinner,” Lauren says.
“We weren’t, really. But the opportunity to present at that nonprofit
pitch fest felt like it would be a good chance to practice talking about the
mentoring program and gauging interest. Turns out, I really wish we’d
waited until we had the testimonial and had thought a bit more about how to
strategically find donors who would be a good fit.”
Morgan’s laugh is more of a cute little snort. “Yeah, but if that hadn’t
happened, half the girls in Boston wouldn’t hate you.”
“Half the girls in Boston hate me? Why? Because I’m ‘engaged’ to
Colt?”
“Pretty much,” she says.
 Graham comes back from the bathroom then, cutting our conversation
short, and Audrey gets home shortly after. The rest of the first period is
frustratingly uneventful, and by the time both teams head toward the locker
room, the score is still 0-0. After their 5-2 loss earlier this week, Florida is
apparently fighting back with a vengeance.
Graham is predictably whiny about having to go to bed with a 0-0 score,
since he wants to know what’s going to happen. It was easier to put him to
bed mid-game at the beginning of the season when he just loved hockey,
but now that he knows his dad plays for the team, he doesn’t want to miss a
minute. And if it was a weekend, Audrey would let him stay up even
though he’s a nightmare the next day when he’s overtired. But it’s a school
night, so Audrey puts him to bed with the promise of waking him up at the
end of the game to tell him the outcome.
“Are you really going to wake him up?” Lauren asks when Audrey
comes back into the living room.
“Yeah. He’s such a sound sleeper that I’ll tell him, and he’ll go right
back to sleep. He won’t remember in the morning, so I’ll have to tell him
again.”
“Okay,” Lauren says decisively as she pulls her long red hair over her
shoulder and starts braiding it. “Graham’s in bed, so let’s talk about the
HUGE elephant in the room.”
I can’t help it that my mind immediately jumps to wanting to make a
dirty joke about how huge Colt is. That’s got to be a perfectly normal
reaction to having felt him pressed up against me in the alley, right? The
heat runs along my skin as I remember the delicious feeling of being
trapped between him and that wall, with my legs wrapped around him and
nothing but the fabric of our pants between us. The way he was thrusting
against me, running his hard length along my clit . . .
“Oh my god,” Audrey says with a laugh. “What the hell are you
thinking about right now?”
“What?” I shake myself out of that memory as quickly as I can, but the
flush I can feel on my cheeks is evidence that I was just thinking about
something that got me all hot and bothered.
“Holy shit,” Morgan says. “Is this thing between you and Colt even
fake? Because there was nothing fake about that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, and then realize that’s
about the most incriminating thing I could say in response.
 “I think you do,” Lauren chides. “This whole time, I thought it was Colt
who had it bad for you, but⁠—”
“Yeah, about that . . .” I’ve been meaning to ask her about that comment
since we were on the phone Saturday night and haven’t had a chance yet.
“What the hell are you talking about? Because if there’s one thing I’m
absolutely certain about, it’s that Colt doesn’t have any feelings for me.”
Audrey knows exactly what I mean, and why. But Morgan and Lauren
both look at me skeptically, before Morgan says, “And you know that,
how?”
I look toward Audrey for backup, because she knows I can’t tell Lauren
about what really happened in Vegas. I don’t want Jameson to find out, and
I don’t want Lauren to have to lie about it. Audrey was in a similar situation
this past fall, when Lauren figured out Drew was Graham’s dad before
Jameson did. I hate having secrets from my brother, but I also respect the
fact that Colt is his best friend, not to mention his most lucrative client, and
neither their friendship nor their business relationships should suffer
because of my immaturity and inability to make good decisions when I was
nineteen.
“Let’s just say Jules had a little crush on Colt when she was younger,
and it was clear that he didn’t return the feelings,” Audrey says. “And no,
you cannot tell Jameson that, Lauren. Sorry. Hate to make you keep secrets,
but teenage crushes are something only us girls should know about.”
Okay, so I guess we are telling her at least part of the story.
“So you’re telling me,” Lauren says, with a tilt of her head as she
narrows her gaze on me, “because he didn’t return Jules’s feelings when she
was a teenager, that he couldn’t possibly have feelings for her now?”
“Trust me,” I say, thinking about the way Colt looked at me when Zach
interrupted us in the alley, all that regret I saw before he opened his mouth
to say it didn’t mean anything. I would have known based on the look
alone, but his words were the nail that sealed the coffin. His words only
confirmed what I already knew. “He doesn’t have feelings for me.”
“Okay,” Morgan says, but it sounds wholly unconvinced. “Maybe not
the kind of feelings you had for him as a teenager. But the way he was
looking at you at Audrey’s engagement party?” She fans her face and
collapses back against the couch cushion as she giggles. “Girl, he wanted
you.”
 I’d been so focused on what happened between us in that alley that I’d
forgotten the way he was staring at me from across the condo earlier that
day. I hadn’t recognized it as lust at the time, but given what happened that
night, maybe it was?
“Regardless”—I shake my head—“whether he’s attracted to me or not
is irrelevant. If his ‘recreational activities’ are any indication, that man’s
attracted to every person with a pair of boobs. It doesn’t mean there are
actual feelings involved.”
“And there’s no way,” Audrey adds, laying her hand on my thigh and
giving it a squeeze, “that Jules would ever have feelings for Colt again.”
Shit. I’m sure she meant to be supportive, assuring Morgan and Lauren
that this is all fake, but if their looks are any indication, she’s sparked their
curiosity further.
“And why not?” Lauren asks.
“Because I’m not interested in dating, much less marrying someone
with his reputation,” I say, hoping that sounds believable. It’s a huge part of
the truth.
“Oh shit!” Audrey says. “Florida just scored.”
We all turn toward the TV in time to see the opposing players huddled
together with their sticks in the air. Colt turns toward the goal and grabs his
water bottle off the top of the net, and when the camera zooms in on him, he
looks more pissed off than I’m used to seeing him, even during a game.
Fortunately, that goal and the subsequent fast-paced nature of the
second and third periods have us so focused on the game, no one brings up
the earlier conversation about Colt and me again. And I leave before the
game is over, claiming that I have to get up early tomorrow, but really, I just
want to make sure I’m not dragged into another interrogation about my
past. Audrey is the only person who knows everything that happened in
Vegas. And it needs to stay that way.
 Chapter Sixteen
COLT

I face 200-pound men who are shooting rubber pucks at me at over 90

miles per hour on a regular basis. That fact alone means there’s almost
nothing that makes me nervous. So why, as I sit on Jules’s couch waiting
for her to get home from work, is my stomach twisted up in knots?
Pulling out my phone, I read through our text exchange from last night.
It’s embarrassing how frequently I’ve done this, trying to figure out what
she’s thinking and how she’s feeling. She’s so damn hard to read.
COLT
Tell me you don’t have any plans tomorrow night.

I sent that text a full hour before our game, and when I hadn’t heard
back from her before the game started, I was annoyed. I took a quick peek
at my phone in between the first and second periods, which was a mistake.
Her lack of response at that point pissed me off.
Why was she ignoring me? I was so busy getting myself worked up
about it that I let a puck, which should have been an easy stop, fly right by
me at the beginning of the second period.
That was the wake-up call I needed. This distractibility—me thinking
about her when I shouldn’t be—it’s exactly why I don’t date. No woman is
worth fucking up my career over. Especially when I have so little of it left
to enjoy.
 I got my head on straight and didn’t let a single shot past me after that,
and we ended the game 2-1. Leading the series by two as we headed back to
Boston was a great feeling, but I honestly couldn’t enjoy the celebration
with my teammates as we loaded onto the plane for our flight home—until
her text came through.
JULES
I don’t. Why, what did you have in mind?
COLT
A trip to the jeweler so you can pick out a ring, and then our first
“official” date as a newly minted fake-engaged couple.
JULES
Do we have to?

When I’d chuckled at that, Drew’s head snapped over to my phone

screen so quickly I had to flip it over. Of course I’d pick the only woman in
the world who’s resistant to my charms. This couldn’t have happened with
someone who’d have made it easy.
You don’t want easy.
I don’t know where the thought comes from. But as I sit on the couch
now, waiting for her, I have to admit that it’s true. Every woman I’ve ever
been with has been easy. Easy to get into my bed, and easy to leave. Even
leaving Cheri, who I’d dated for two years and who was supposed to
transfer to a college in Boston at the end of her freshman year so she could
be with me, wasn’t the painful part. It was getting over my brother’s
betrayal that gutted me.
Not only is Jules not easy, but she’s a legitimate challenge . . . a puzzle
I’m desperate to finish putting together while half-afraid I’ll be missing the
last piece. Somehow, that only makes me want to work harder at figuring
her out.
COLT
Only if you want this to be believable.
JULES
What I want is for this not to be happening at all.

She’s so much less snarky when she’s within two feet of me. It’s like her
walls come down just enough for me to climb over them. It makes me
wonder why those walls are there in the first place, and what I’d have to do
to get them to crumble entirely?
COLT
Us against the world, remember? So start dreaming about what you
want that ring to look like because you’re going to be picking one out
tomorrow night.
JULES
I work in construction, Colt. Can’t we just get me one of those silicone
rings so if it gets caught on something, I don’t lose a finger?
COLT
There’s no way in hell I’m buying you a $20 silicone ring as your
engagement ring. Do you even know me? And you don’t have to wear
my ring at work. But you will wear it when we go out together.
JULES
Ooooh, just what I always wanted. A man to tell me what I will and
won’t be doing.
COLT
Trust me, you’d like it a whole lot if I was bossing you around.

It had taken almost a full half hour for her to respond to that one, and I
was worried that I’d stepped over the line. It’s one thing to flirt with a
random woman you’re trying to sleep with, and another thing entirely to
flirt with your fake fiancée after promising your best friend you wouldn’t
touch her. We’re not going to be sleeping together, so why do I enjoy
teasing her like this?
JULES
Trust me, I’ll be the one bossing you around.

I’d laughed out loud, jolting Drew awake in the dark plane. He looked
up at me from where he was reclined, and quietly asked, “If this is all fake,
why are you so goddamned happy?”
Am I happy? Is that what this feeling is? I sure as shit wasn’t happy last
night waiting for her to text me back. Or during the game, when I was so
distracted by the fact that she hadn’t texted me that I fucked up.
But in those moments where she did reply? Or right now, when I read
through our text exchange, am I happy?
COLT
I look forward to that. A lot.
 re you for fucking real right now?” Jules hisses in my ear as we
“A stand in front of the glass display case at the world’s most well-
known jeweler. We’d arrive at the Newbury Street store via a private
car and a back entrance, right at 6 p.m. when the store closed. No one but
the clerk helping us, who already signed an NDA, needs to know that Jules
didn’t already have the ring.
“I’ll give you two some time to consider these options, and if you don’t
like them, I’m happy to select some other choices. I’ll be over there if you
need anything.” She nods her chin toward the corner of the room, far
enough away that with the classical music playing quietly in the
background, we can have a private conversation.
“Thank you,” I tell her. Then I snake my arm around Jules’s waist,
pulling her against my hip so we’re side to side, and turn my head to ask,
“Is there a problem, Tink?”
“I can’t wear one of these.” She almost sounds scared by the thought.
“Do you remember how you said that no one who knows you would
believe we were engaged?” I ask, and she glances up at me, but doesn’t
respond—it’s something that I notice she does a lot. It’s like she lets her
facial expressions speak for her and saves her words for when they’re
necessary. It’s exactly the opposite of her family’s refrain that she doesn’t
have a filter, and it has me even more curious about what she doesn’t say.
“Well, no one who knows me will believe I bought you any ring that wasn’t
like one of these.”
She looks down at the selection of ostentatious rings. “Why, because
you’re showy and rich?”
“No, because I like to spoil the people I care about.”
She stiffens. “Yes, but you don’t actually care about me.”
Is that what she thinks? I mean, I’m not in love with her, and never will
be. I promised myself long ago that I was never going down that road again.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. I wouldn’t have gone to La
Gallina last weekend, or stepped in like I did, if I didn’t care. And I sure as
hell wouldn’t have kissed her to save her from having a panic attack.
“That’s not true. And me getting you a cheap-ass ring would be a sure
sign that I didn’t care. We can’t have people speculating.”
 “If your idea of a cheap-ass ring is anything smaller than four carats,
you’re even more pretentious than I thought.”
I laugh at that. “Maybe I am. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m
getting you one of these rings, since you didn’t do what I asked and think
about what you wanted ahead of time.”
She grinds her teeth together as she looks down at the five rings set out
on velvet pedestals on top of the glass case, then lets out a frustrated sigh.
“Why don’t you choose, then, since it obviously matters more to you than it
does to me.”
“You’re being a brat just to prove a point, aren’t you?” Reaching over, I
take her chin between my fingers as I tilt her head so she’s looking up at
me. Why do I like it so much when she’s difficult?
She just raises those light eyebrows and blinks, her long dark lashes
descending over those blue eyes, as she bites the corner of her lip to hold in
a smile. “Go ahead, choose one.”
I let go of her chin and pull her in front of me, wrapping my arms
around her like I think someone might do if they were actually picking out a
ring for their fiancée. Then I lean my head down close to her ear and say,
“You sure you don’t want to choose? Because this is your last chance.”
“I’m good.” Her voice is full of amusement as she relaxes against my
chest. It’s then that I realize how right I was . . . when I’m close, or when
I’m touching her, her walls start to come down.
“Okay,” I tease out the word in a way that sounds just like you’re going
to regret this, as I lift my hand and motion the salesperson over. I turn my
head toward her as she approaches, and right over Jules’s head, I say, “My
fiancée would like something . . . bigger.”

J ules is still not speaking to me when we pull up to the outdoor driving

range. The sun has almost set, and the bright lights illuminate the front of
the building and the nets in the distance. Outdoor speakers pump music so
loud I can hear it through the windows of the car as the driver pulls right to
the front of the parking lot to let us out.
“Colt, no,” Jules says with an enormous sigh.
 “It’s just golf. It’ll be fun,” I promise as I open the door and step out,
holding the door for her. The driver rolls his window down and confirms
that he’ll be back for us in a few hours.
“Colt, I’ve never golfed. And I know that, like most hockey players,
you spend a fair amount of your off-season on the golf course.” It’s true. It’s
one of the only sports I can participate in without violating my contract—
they pay me way too much to risk me hurting myself in the summer.
“Right. So I’m going to kick your ass, and you’re going to enjoy
learning how to do something you’re not already good at.”
“You think that discovering I suck at golf is going to teach me how to
loosen up and let off some steam?”
The disdain in her voice clues me into two things. First, she really hates
to lose. And second, she honestly doesn’t know what to do when she’s not
in control, except to back away, refusing to participate.
Resting my hand on her lower back, I guide her toward the front doors.
“Why so tense? I’ll make sure you can hit a golf ball by the end of the
night. You might even enjoy yourself if you just relax and let things
happen.”
I get the sense that relaxing and letting things happen is exactly what
she’s trying to avoid, but I just don’t know why. I’m determined to figure it
out eventually.
We’re greeted by name and shown to the bay I reserved on the top level
—right in the middle of the action so that there will be plenty of evidence
that we were out together. After choosing the right size clubs for each of us,
and ordering some food and drinks, she looks out at the giant targets lit up
along the grass, then at the nets surrounding the range.
“So how does this work?” Her voice is quiet, and not just because of the
loud music surrounding us.
I step up behind her. “I’ll show you how to hold the club and how to
swing, then I’ll walk you through it.”
Is it wrong that the thought of wrapping my arms around her again,
holding her hands in mine as I show her how to swing, has the blood
rushing to my dick? Yeah, probably. Do I care? Not as much as I should.
She steps aside so I can demonstrate what to do, then she tosses me a
ball. “Show me.”
I bend to set up the ball on the tee, plant my feet in the slightly wide
stance I prefer, wind up, and bring my club down to meet the ball. The
satisfying ping of the golf ball leaving my club has me grinning at her with
a cocky smile.
“Show off.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
“You want to try?” I know she doesn’t want to do this, but I need her to
do it willingly, not because I’m forcing her to.
She shakes her head, but the way she’s biting her lip as she looks at me
has me thinking she’s more willing than she’s letting on. “C’mere.”
Stepping across the turf, she says, “We have a little problem.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m not left-handed.”
I bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I should have thought of that. I’m sure I can
figure out how to swing right-handed.”
“This feels a little like the blind leading the blind,” she says as I step up
behind her, lining us up at the right distance from the tee.
“We’ll take a few practice swings before you try with the ball.”
I line myself up, hyper-aware of how my quads are pressing against her
hamstrings and ass, and I bring my arms around her to adjust her grip. Then
I clasp my hands over hers and explain the mechanics of the swing. She
glances to her left, where my head is dipped beside hers.
“Eyes on the tee, Jules.”
She looks down, but presses her ass back into me in a way that has to be
intentional. The way this woman doesn’t back down does strange things to
me—like making me want to spend more time with her.
I guide her through drawing her club back and bringing it down to the
tee a few times so she’ll get a sense of how to line it up to hit the ball. Then
we practice swinging through, with me explaining how her body should be
positioned at the end of the swing.
“You ready to try it on your own?” I ask.
“Not really.”
“I think you are.” What I really think is that I need to step away,
because if my body is pressed up against hers like this for much longer, my
reaction is going to be visible. And while I want people to see us out
together, see me flirting with her, I don’t need them to see me sporting a
boner like a goddamned teenager.
Setting the ball on the tee, I look up at her. “Do it exactly like we just
did, and you’ll do fine.”
 Then I step back so I’m opposite her, and when she positions her hands
on the club, the overhead lights shine off her ring, making me squint.
“Holy shit,” I laugh. “The way the lights just caught your ring blinded
me.”
That’s what I get for buying her a five-carat oval cut diamond with
smaller diamonds lining the solitaire and the band. All-in-all, I think it’s
about six-and-a-half carats, and it’s way more than what I was expecting to
buy, but pissing her off is one of my favorite pastimes and you can’t put a
price on that kind of joy.
“Yeah,” she deadpans, sending me a glare, “it’s a bit much.”
“Baby . . .” I make a show of stepping close enough to her that I can
lean over and kiss the top of her head. “I’m a bit much.”
“No doubt.” With a sigh, she uses her index finger against my chest to
move me back to the other side of the small patch of turf.
And then she winds up and smacks the ball like she’s taking all her
frustration out on it. It flies more than halfway down the range, and we’re
both so surprised that I scoop her up in my arms and spin her around.
“I can’t believe you just did that. You’re a natural.” I’m beaming up at
her as she laughs triumphantly.
She looks down at me with a smirk as I slow to a stop. “What can I say?
I’m good with balls.”
 Chapter Seventeen
JULES

“O h,clutching
no he didn’t!” I say as I spin in my seat toward my sister,
my phone in my hand. On the ice several rows in front of
us, the players are already warming up.
“What happened?” Audrey asks as she hands a big container of popcorn
to Graham.
“He had me added to the WAG group chat.”
Audrey bursts out laughing so loud that everyone near us turns to look
at her. She fishes her phone out of her pocket, scrolls up a bit to find the
right text thread, and then her shoulders shake with laughter again. “Ladies,
let’s welcome Colt’s fiancée, Jules, to the chat. Most of you already know
her, since she’s Audrey’s sister and Drew’s future sister-in-law,” she reads
the latest text from Patrick Walsh’s wife, Marissa.
From what I hear, Walsh—or Walshy as his teammates call him—is the
most happily married guy in the NHL, and Marissa serves as the “head
WAG” since the team captain, Ronan McCabe, isn’t married.
Not that I’d ever let someone get close enough to me that I’d get
married, but if I ever found a guy who worshiped me the way Walsh
worships Marissa . . . maybe I’d consider it. Someone with that level of
open adoration and an anything-to-please-my-partner attitude might even
convince me to trust again. But where do you even find a guy like that?
My eyes track over to Colt, where he’s standing behind the goal, getting
his water bottle set up. Behind him, girls holding signs with his name and
clever sayings bang on the glass, trying to get his attention.
Not there, that’s for sure.
But when he glances up at me and finds me staring at him, he skates
over to the glass in front of us and motions for me. I roll my eyes at him,
but don’t dare refuse because I’m sure plenty of fans who are here early for
warm-ups are watching this interaction.
Since photos and videos of us golfing together the other night started
circulating all over social media, there’s been even more interest in our
relationship. Luckily, it’s only the fans who seem to be paying much
attention and they’ve been largely positive—they’re surprised, but
supportive. People’s comments about the videos of us at the driving range
together, especially when I hit my first ball and Colt picked me up and
swung me around in celebration, focused on how “wholesome” we seemed.
And aside from a quick mention in our local Boston paper, there hasn’t
really been any other coverage of our relationship, thankfully.
I take the steps down to the glass, and when I get there, Colt gives me a
cocky grin as he circles his pointer finger in the air, indicating that he wants
me to turn around. I sigh. I swore I’d never wear a player’s jersey, and yet
here I am with COLTIER written across my back.
I had just walked in the door from work this afternoon—sweaty and
covered in a thick layer of construction dust—when he’d come downstairs,
clearly on his way to the arena for the game.
The perfectly tailored navy-blue suit, with that sexy purple tie, had him
oozing so much sex appeal that I’d momentarily lost my mind and agreed to
wear the jersey he handed me. Once I realized what I’d done, I’d added,
“One time only, to keep up appearances.”
He’d just winked at me and said, “Sure, just this once.” And then he’d
headed out the door, leaving me to shower and get ready quickly so I could
meet Audrey and Graham.
But now, as I sweep my hair over my shoulder and turn around so he
can see his name on my back, I wish I’d left the jersey at home. He’d have
survived, but I might not survive this.
Because in the stands above me, I can hear people cooing and
murmuring, and I know they’re talking about us even while I refuse to look
up and check. They’re taking pictures of this moment, which is exactly why
he called me down here.
 It’s an important distinction that I need to remember: this isn’t about
him seeing me with his name on my back, this is about us performing for an
audience so they’ll believe that our engagement is real.
As I turn back toward him, I hope my face isn’t bright red from
embarrassment.
“You look good in my jersey, Tink,” he says. It’s loud enough for me to
hear him through the thick plexiglass, but he’s not yelling it for everyone to
hear.
“So . . . WAG group chat?” I mouth the words as I hold up my phone
against the glass, allowing him to see Marissa’s text and all the “Welcome,
Jules!” messages below.
He just gives me that devilish smile. “Good, you belong there.”
If we were really engaged, sure, I’d belong in that chat. But knowing
this is all going to be over at the end of the season, I don’t understand why
he asked to have me added. But I can’t ask him right now because he’s
skating backward and calls out, “Meet me in the Family Room after the
game.”
When we close in on the end of the first period, the Rebels are up by
one, thanks to a goal Drew scored on a power play. And that’s when
Jameson and Lauren finally slide into the seats next to us, Lauren asking,
“What did we miss?”
“Where have you been?” Audrey asks.
“Babysitter issues,” Jameson says, but Lauren’s cheeks grow pink.
“I thought Morgan was watching the girls?” I say.
“She is, but the T broke down on the way out to our place, so then she
had to get an Uber, along with everyone else who’d just gotten off the
train.”
“Why didn’t you just go pick her up?” Audrey asks, and Lauren’s
cheeks get even pinker. Ohhhhh.
While Jameson says something about missing her call, I chuckle to
myself, and Lauren elbows me and leans in, whispering, “Don’t be a jerk or
I’ll start talking about Colt.” That has the laughter dying in my throat.
When the period ends, AJ appears at the aisle and insists Jameson slide
over so she can sit next to Lauren. I love the way she just comes up like a
total boss and tells my brother what to do. Most people are intimidated by
him, but I’m pretty sure nothing scares this woman.
 She asks me for more details about the mentoring program, and as I
explain how it works, she sighs and says, “God, I wish we had something
like that in the league. Being a woman in this sport is tough, and I could
have used a good mentor when I was starting out.”
“Is that why you’ve been such a good mentor to me?” Lauren asks.
“I haven’t mentored you,” AJ says, looking over at Lauren like she’s
just said something patently wrong. Lauren works in marketing for the
Rebels, and while AJ isn’t technically her boss, she seems like she has her
fingers on the pulse of all parts of the operation, whether related to the
players or the business aspect of the organization.
“Of course you have. Starting that day, you offered to bring a shovel if I
needed to bury a body,” Lauren says, and I haven’t heard that story before,
but I can guess it happened when Lauren found out the truth about her late
husband. “And then you started inviting me to lunch, where you gave me all
kinds of tips about how to survive in this male-dominated industry, and then
Patrick got promoted, and I got his job as the head of marketing after only
being here for, like, six months. You think I don’t know you were behind
that?”
“Good talent needs to be cultivated and rewarded,” AJ says with a
shrug.
“That’s how it feels in construction, too,” I say. “It’s why I only hire
women⁠—”
“That’s so badass.” AJ meets my eyes with a bright smile. “I love that.
In fact, I love it so much I might want to hire you.”
I’m about to tell her that I don’t work for friends, when I realize that
she’s not a friend. But she sure feels like a kindred spirit.
“You totally should,” Lauren says. “Jules and Audrey did my whole
house when I first moved back, and it couldn’t have come out better.”
I think back to the winter before last, when Jameson had us secretly
remodel the entire upstairs of Lauren’s house before she moved in, then
refused to take any credit for it. His feelings for her were so obvious to
everyone except Lauren—but then again, she didn’t know the extent of the
sacrifices he’d made for her until much later.
“I’ll keep that in mind, because I just bought a new place and I think it’s
going to need some work. But I want to live in it for a bit first, and make
sure that what I’m envisioning actually makes sense for the space.”
 “That’s really smart,” Audrey says. “I wish more people would do that.
Most people think they know what they want, and they don’t want to live
through renovations, so they do them before moving in. But you wouldn’t
believe the number of people who want us to come back and change things
once they’ve lived with them for a while.”
The lights start flashing and AJ jumps up. “I have to run. Enjoy the rest
of the game.”

I ’m standing with Audrey, who’s got a sleepy Graham wrapped around

her, in the Family Room. I’ve rarely been in here, since it’s a space
reserved only for players’ families. Once or twice, I’ve come with Audrey
post-game if it’s not too late and she hasn’t had to take Graham home to put
him to bed. Tonight, he’s half-asleep with his head on her shoulder, but I
think she’s hanging around just so I don’t have to wait for Colt by myself.
Not that we’ve been standing here alone—there has been a parade of
wives and girlfriends coming up to chat with us, some who I already know
and some who are introducing themselves to me for the first time. But it
would be a lot less comfortable if I didn’t have my sister by my side. That’s
kind of how my life has been, Audrey always by my side, until recently.
I’m getting tired and wishing I’d just gone home, when Colt finally
walks through the door. He’s one of the first players into the room, which is
highly unusual for a goalie, and he beelines straight toward me, wrapping
me in his arms and giving me a full-body hug. I’m caught off-guard, as the
only time he’s ever hugged me before was the morning in Vegas after I
almost wrecked my whole life.
I relax in his arms when I realize this is just for show. The Rebels had a
tough game tonight, with Florida scoring in the last seconds of the game
from a rebound off Colt’s pads that their left winger was able to sneak into
the goal from behind him. And, of course, a goalie who lost the game like
that would want a hug from his fiancée, so he’s giving his teammates’
families exactly what they expect to see.
When he releases me and steps back, he tells Audrey, “Drew got off the
bike a few minutes ago. He’s showering and he wanted me to tell you that
he’ll be out in a minute.”
 “Okay, thanks,” Audrey says, as Colt peeks around behind her and
smooths his huge hand over Graham’s head.
“He’s completely out,” he chuckles.
“Yeah, I can tell,” she says. “He’s dead weight.”
“I’ll take him for you,” Colt offers.
“I don’t want to keep you if you guys want to go. Drew will be along in
a few minutes.”
“We’re going to meet up with some of my teammates for a while,” Colt
tells her, quickly glancing at me, “so we’ll stay until they get out here.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I agreed to go to tomorrow night’s charity event with
him, and I told him I’d meet him in the Family Room tonight. I never
agreed to go hang out with his teammates. And what is he even thinking?
The more time we spend together, especially around his teammates, the
harder it will be to make this an amicable split at the end.
He turns away from Audrey and takes two steps over so that he’s
standing inches in front of me. Putting his hands on my hips, he pulls me
even closer as he leans down and says, “Be nice. That was a tough loss, and
I could really use a win tonight.”
“A win?” My voice is all kinds of doubtful.
“Yeah, you know, like a night where you go along with this without
acting like you hate me.”
“What makes you think I’m acting?” I don’t hate Colt, but I hate what
being around him still does to me. I hate how it brings back memories of
feelings I thought were long buried, and I hate how worried I am that it will
bring back the feelings themselves. So I do what I always do when it comes
to Colt—I push him away.
I feel his laughter as his chest shakes, and his voice is a low rumble
when he says, “I think you wish you hated me, Tink.”
Heat floods my body in a way that has me wanting to turn and run out
the door, getting as far from him as possible. When did hearing him use my
childhood nickname become a turn-on, instead of something that pissed me
off?
I need to tamp my body’s response to him as far down as possible. So I
look up, stepping back as I say, “I think you wish I was better at hiding the
way I hate you.”
Drew comes up behind us right then, and with a low chuckle, says,
“You two need to get better at the pretending part of this. You’re lucky that
it was me right behind you.” He kisses Audrey’s forehead and takes
Graham out of her arms. “You kids have fun at the Neon Cactus tonight.
We’re going home.”
“I’ll bet you are,” Colt says, wiggling his eyebrows like a lunatic. “I’m
sure you have some adrenaline to burn off.”
“At least I’ve got a way to burn it off.” He wraps his arm around
Audrey after she smacks his arm, then leads her out of the room like he
can’t wait to get her home.
Everyone I know is getting laid tonight . . . except me.
 Chapter Eighteen
JULES

“I gotta be honest,” Zach Reid says as Colt pulls me down onto his lap,
nearly causing me to lose the contents of my margarita as I’m
unexpectedly jostled, “I did not see this coming.”
“See what coming?” Colt asks, amusement in his voice as he turns his
head to look out at the bar that’s become the unofficial watering hole of the
Boston Rebels. A tequila bar is the last place I’d expect a hockey team to
hang out, but even though you can order hundred dollar margaritas with
top-shelf tequila, it looks and feels like a college bar. Shellacked wooden
walls with neon signs hanging all around. There’s a back area with pool
tables, and the front of the space has booths lining the perimeter with a big
bar in the center. And, being located in Beacon Hill, it’s just far enough
from the arena that fans probably don’t flock here after the games.
“You two.” Zach eyes me where I sit, probably looking as
uncomfortable as I feel on Colt’s lap. There’s barely enough room for me to
fit between him and the tabletop. It would have made a whole lot more
sense for him to just push over and give me my own seat, like Zach just did
for Ashleigh as we returned from the bar.
“What can I say,” Colt says, running his nose up the side of my neck.
“We’re good at keeping secrets.”
I can barely hold in the smile, because of all the things he’s said in the
hour we’ve been here, this is the one that stands out to me as incredibly
true, but for an entirely different reason. Not only is the fake status of our
relationship a secret, but we both have our own secrets, the entirety of
which we haven’t even shared with each other yet.
In all the years I crushed on him, I never imagined us faking being
together. But the way he picked me up and turned in circles with me in his
arms after I hit that golf ball the other night, the smile he gave me as he told
me I was a natural, it felt way too real. And tonight, the way he keeps
dropping his voice when he uses my nickname, the way he can’t seem to let
me be more than a few inches from him, it doesn’t feel fake. Obviously,
he’s an incredibly good liar, which is something I would do well not to
forget.
We fall into easy conversation as Ashleigh tells us about finishing up
her first semester as an astrophysics PhD student in the Astro/Aero
department at MIT. The girl is going to be a literal rocket scientist when she
finishes her graduate work, and it amazes me how down to earth she seems
even though she’s obviously next-level smart. And then Zach is telling us
about the vacation they have planned in July, and as Ashleigh’s gushing
about how excited she is to learn to scuba dive, she lets out a huge yawn.
“My girl’s tired,” Zach says. “Time to go home.”
They could very well be going home to sleep, but just like with Drew
and Audrey, I can’t help but think that they’re going home to fuck. Why is
everyone around me happily paired off and getting laid regularly, and here I
am, still a virgin at twenty-five?
As much as I don’t want to date anyone—don’t trust myself enough to
be vulnerable like that—I really would like to know what it’s like to share
my body with someone else. If I could just get over the mental hurdle of it.
As we say goodbye and Zach and Ashleigh leave, Colt’s thumb traces
the column of my spine, just above my tailbone, and it sends a shiver up my
back, causing me to squirm. His other arm wraps around my lower
abdomen, anchoring me in place.
“You’d better stop that,” he says, his words a dark caress that slides
along my neck and curls behind my ear, making me shiver again. “Or we’re
going to have a big problem.”
I can’t help the laugh that shakes my body as I feel him growing hard
between my ass cheeks. “I’m pretty sure we already have a big problem.” I
don’t know what comes over me as I grind against him intentionally—a
slow, circling press of my hips that I hope will quell the aching need
building between my legs.
 “Jules,” he warns.
“Colt.” My voice is teasing as I repeat the action. I’m only on my
second drink, not nearly enough to blame my actions on the alcohol. No,
it’s my stupid inability to be in control of myself whenever he’s around, but
I’m not sure I really care at the moment.
“Here’s how this is going to go.” His growl reverberates against me as
his lips brush my earlobe again. “Either you stop that right now, or I’m
going to slide my hand between your legs and make you come so hard this
entire bar will hear you screaming my name.”
The need that courses through me is like a hot flash, and I have the
overwhelming desire to rip my clothes off. I slide my hips back and forth
again and he hisses out a breath.
“Good choice,” he says as his fingers trail from my abdomen along my
leggings and down toward my clit, which is literally aching for his touch.
Even though I shouldn’t let him, I want his hands on me more than I’ve
ever wanted anything. “Let’s put on a convincing show.”
His words are the slap that jolts me out of my lust-induced haze as my
half-lidded eyes fly open and glance around the bar. I slide off his lap
before he has a chance to stop me.
“Change your mind?” he teases, making me believe that was his
intention all along—he was just seeing how far he could push me before I
backed out.
“Shit, Colt. You can’t say things like that to your fake fiancée.”
“That was tame, Jules. You should hear the things I’d say if we weren’t
pretending.”
I’m so tempted to throw out a taunting remark so that he’ll elaborate,
but now I’m hyper aware how many of his teammates at the surrounding
tables are watching us, trying to gauge what’s going on. And I’m not really
in the mood for acting anymore.
“I’m tired,” I say through a forced yawn. “I got up at five and now it’s
almost midnight. I’m going to head home.” Shifting in my seat, I move my
legs out of the booth so I can stand, but Colt grabs the back of my jersey to
hold me in place.
“We’re going home.” He leans over and kisses the top of my head, then
lets me scoot out of the booth. As soon as I’m standing, he smacks my ass
playfully, and when I spin in surprise, he’s already right behind me,
wrapping his arm around my shoulder and turning me toward the doors of
the bar.

W earena,
don’t say much as we walk back to the player’s parking area at the
but Colt keeps his arm wrapped around my shoulders, his
thumb tracing the line of my collarbone the whole time. He’s quiet on the
drive back to the South End, and I lean my head back, staring out the
sunroof at the hazy night sky illuminated by the city lights, while we listen
to the radio.
My mind is a mess, running through all the questions I have about what
just happened. What I’m most wondering is: how is he so good at
pretending?
The way he demanded I come show him his name on my back in front
of the fans during warm-ups, how he hugged me in front of his teammates’
families after the game like he couldn’t possibly go another second without
having me in his arms, how he forced me onto his lap and got me all wound
up in the bar and how his body was responding to mine.
It’s like he knows exactly what we need to do to convince people this is
real, and he’s executing that plan perfectly. So perfectly, in fact, that it all
feels a little too natural.
And then my mind does that thing I can’t seem to convince it not to do.
It flashes back to Vegas. Because that seemed natural too. The way Brock
flirted with me all night, the way he held me like he adored me, the way he
suggested I meant something to him. And then in the morning, when I woke
up hungover and having made a terrible mistake, I discovered that not a
single moment of it was real for him.
I’m swallowing down the lump in my throat when I realize that he’s
already turning into the alley that runs behind my house. Good. I’m
suddenly desperate to get out of this car. I need to put distance between Colt
and me. I need to remind myself that my judgment is fucked up, that I can’t
believe anything I’m feeling, and that this is all just an act for him.
My hand is already on the door handle when he pulls into his parking
spot, and I have one leg out of the car before he even shifts into park.
“I need to ask you a question,” he says before I can get out.
 “How about another time?” I step out of the car and shut the door
behind me, needing air, needing to clear my head. But he’s out quickly too,
following me up the back steps where he grabs ahold of the loose fabric on
the jersey and stops me in my tracks. Then he steps up behind me, and
because I’m on the stair above him, his head’s level with mine.
“Why are you running away?” His words glide along my skin, raising
goosebumps across my neck and down my shoulders.
“I’m not running. I just . . . have to pee.”
“No, Jules. You’re running. I stole glances at you that whole drive
home, and you were so lost in thought, it was like you were in another
world. Where’d you go back there?”
Squeezing my eyes closed tightly, I try not to feel or remember
anything. I just want to go to my room, curl up in a ball, and forget that
Vegas ever happened.
“I was just watching the sky, lost in the music, Colt. Don’t make it into
something it wasn’t.”
“We were listening to Britney Spears circa 2000. If you were lost in that
music,” he says, knowing that I despise pop, “you must be more drunk than
I thought.”
“I don’t get drunk.” I spit the words out. My father’s an alcoholic and it
only took being drunk once to know how easily I could fall down that rabbit
hole of terrible decisions when alcohol is involved. I didn’t drink for years
after Vegas, and even now, I never have more than two drinks in one night.
“So are you saying that back at the bar, you weren’t grinding yourself
against my cock because you were drunk?”
The whoosh of air that leaves my lungs is an audible sigh. I’d love to
use alcohol as an excuse, but now I can’t.
“I’m saying that alcohol impaired my judgment, just like I’m sure it
impaired yours.” Being around him is what impaired my judgment, like it
always does. But I can’t tell him that, so I’ll blame it on the margaritas.
“Jules, I outweigh you by a hundred pounds. Those two beers didn’t
even give me a buzz. Do you think I’d have driven you home if I was under
the influence?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess not? Seriously?” He must twist the fabric of the jersey in his
fist, because it tightens around me even more as he pulls me closer to him.
“I’d never put you, or anyone, in danger like that.”
 “I wasn’t suggesting you would. I was just thinking . . . I don’t know . . .
that the beer made you . . .” Horny? Well, I sure as hell can’t say that. So
how do I explain what happened between us in the bar?
“Want you?” he suggests when I don’t finish my sentence.
“Colt, I know this is all fake. Tonight was just one big show—for the
fans and for your teammates—so they’d believe it’s real. You don’t have to
worry about me getting confused and thinking that you actually want me.”
He lets go of the back of the jersey and wraps that hand around my
abdomen instead, pulling me against him so there’s nothing, not even air,
between us. His body is hard ripples of muscle pressed against me, but what
catches me most off guard is the way the steel pipe he’s packing in his pants
presses between my ass cheeks.
His voice is almost deadly when he says, “Listen to me carefully, Tink.
There’s nothing fake about the way I want you. But I promised your brother
I wouldn’t touch you, and I don’t go back on promises. Jameson’s been like
a brother to me for almost half my life, and I can’t do that to him.” He
pauses for the briefest second before dropping his voice even lower. “But it
doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
My breath hitches, a sharp intake that’s overly loud in the quiet
outdoor space.
Then he says, “Now go inside, disappear up to your room, and give me
a minute to compose myself. Then, we’re going to pretend like this didn’t
happen.”
I don’t know which hurts more: that he values his relationship with my
brother more than what we could have together, or that he’s so ashamed of
wanting me that he never wants to bring it up again.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself as I reach for the back door. You were
holding him at a distance for exactly this reason. He’s never wanted a
relationship with you, and he never will.
 Chapter Nineteen
COLT

W hen we walk into the ballroom where the children’s hospital is holding
their charity gala, all eyes are on us. Even though I warned her what to
expect, Jules still stiffens, drawing her shoulders back and holding her chin
high—something I’ve noticed she does when she’s uncomfortable. I
squeeze her hand, then lean toward her, running my lips along her hair and
whispering, “Relax.”
“Everyone is staring at me,” she says, turning her head and tucking her
chin toward her shoulder to speak directly in my ear. “It’s like they all know
this is fake and I don’t belong here.”
I’m a bit afraid she’s going to turn around and bolt, because that seems
to be her default defense mechanism when she’s scared.
“Jules,” I say, dropping her hand and bringing mine to rest on her lower
back while I guide her deeper into the room. My palm and thumb rest on
the bare skin of her back, while my fingers splay across the gold fabric of
this sexy-as-hell dress where it clings right above the curve of her ass.
When she came downstairs in this dress tonight, I almost forgot all about
what I told her last night—that nothing can happen between us. I don’t want
that to be our reality, but the truth is that I can’t be what she’s looking for,
so I don’t want to ruin the tenuous friendship we’re building. “They’re not
staring because they think this is fake. They’re staring because when you
walk into a room, no one else is even worth looking at.”
 She raises her head to meet my eyes, and the look she gives me is
nothing but a riot of confusion—like she can’t trust my words and so she’s
searching my face to figure out my meaning.
“You seem to have lost the ability to speak,” I tease as I brush my lips
across the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t think that was possible.”
“Why would you say that when no one else is even around to hear? You
don’t have to sell this whole relationship when it’s just you and me, you
know?”
“You wanted to know why people are staring, and I gave you an honest
answer.”
Her jaw drops the tiniest bit as she runs her tongue along her top lip,
and all I can think about is how she tastes. I want her to kiss me again. I
want to experience that kind of possession I felt the last time our bodies
came together, before we were so rudely interrupted.
In fact, sometimes it feels like that’s all I can think about now . . .
hockey and her. How she smells like her body wash and kissed me like she
wanted to own me, the deep sound of her laughter and how I can tell there’s
so many things she’s thinking but doesn’t say, the way she can command an
entire crew of construction workers and is seemingly completely unaware
that what I feel for her is becoming more than just physical.
She’s extraordinary: all the hard, driven parts of her brother, with the
softer sentimental side of her sister. And as if I summoned her up in my
mind, Audrey strides toward us. The smile she’s wearing is so fake, I worry
she’s going to ruin this whole thing—that everyone will see through this.
It’s been hard convincing my teammates that this is real, and if they don’t
see a united front within the family, no one will buy this for a second
longer.
Which is why it surprises me when she stops close to us, takes each of
our hands in hers, and says, “I’m so sorry I got you both into this mess.”
Audrey seemed to accept this ruse just fine last night in the Family Room,
which makes me think that Jules must have said something to her about the
bar or our conversation when we got home. It has me wondering how she’s
really feeling about how close we came to something happening between us
again.
“You didn’t get us into this mess,” Jules assures her sister.
“If I’d been at that dinner, none of this would have happened.”
 “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jules says. “You were where you needed to be.
And it’s fine. Colt and I will manage to get along through this ruse, and then
everything can go back to how it was.”
I don’t know why I hate that idea so much, but I do. I really fucking
hate it. I don’t know when she grew up, or how I hadn’t noticed. But the
woman standing in front of me is so much more than just my best friend’s
little sister—even if I keep telling her that’s all she is.
I don’t want to go back to how it was, when I teased and tormented her
like she was still a kid. No, I want to go back to that alley, where she
squeezed her thighs into my waist while she kissed me so thoroughly that I
still wake up hard after dreaming about it.
But we can’t go there again.
Audrey’s lips press into a line, and she looks like she’s about to say
something when Drew comes up beside her. He slips his arm around her
waist, gripping her hip possessively. “What’s wrong?”
The question is addressed to the whole group, but Audrey looks up at
him. “Ugh, besides me fucking up my sister’s life? Nothing.”
“Hey,” I say, “if you’re implying that being engaged to me is fucking up
her life, I’m insulted.”
All three of them stare back at me.
“What? I’m kind of a catch . . . ask anyone.”
“The only thing I’m likely to catch from you is a venereal disease,”
Jules mutters, barely loud enough for the four of us to hear.
Audrey’s eyes widen, and Drew laughs into his beer before tilting it up
and taking a sip. That beer looks like just what I need, and getting one gives
me an excuse to get out of this foursome, where I feel like everyone is
waiting to see how I’m going to fuck this up.
“I’m going to grab a drink,” I say to Jules. “Do you want anything?”
“Just for this to be over as quickly as possible.”
I bite the inside of my cheek because I don’t think she meant to be
funny, but it’s a relief that she’s back to giving me shit after a whole day of
avoiding me.
“Champagne it is,” I say.
“I don’t even like champagne.”
“I thought it was your favorite?” Audrey calls her out.
When Jules gives her sister a death glare, I pull her back to me,
enjoying the way I can feel her breasts pushed up against my chest as I duck
my head and whisper, “I knew it was your favorite.” I wait for her surprised
inhale of breath, and when I hear it, I turn and head to the bar with a shit-
eating grin spread across my face.
Not only am I here with the hottest woman in the room, but she’s a
whole lot more affected by me than she’s letting on. I should stop taunting
her, leading her down this path that leaves us both sexually frustrated. I
should let us go back to what we were before this whole fake engagement
situation. I should keep my distance, but I can’t seem to stay away.
I’m waiting at the bar for my beer and Jules’s champagne when
McCabe wanders up to me. “Engaged, huh?” He could not possibly sound
more skeptical if I’d told him I’d given up sex. “To Flynn’s baby sister?”
“Ew, you don’t need to make it sound sketchy, man.”
He takes a swig of his beer while raising his eyebrows as if to say, It is
sketchy. “How old is she?”
“Twenty-five.”
His nearly black eyes focus in on me, and the sharp lines of his
cheekbones narrow as his lips press together. “You’ve been sleeping with
women all over the country, all season long. And you expect me to believe
that you’re getting married? To a twenty-five-year-old?”
“First of all,” I say, “no, I haven’t. I’ve talked to women all over the
country all season. I haven’t slept with anyone since well before Jules and I
got together.”
“And when was that, exactly?”
“October.” I’ll have to remember to tell Jules that’s when we started our
secret relationship so we can keep our story straight.
“So why were you out there pretending to be interested in other
women?” He sounds more curious and less skeptical as he leans one elbow
against the bar and turns toward me.
“Because we were trying to keep her family from finding out.”
“Keep her brother from finding out, you mean?”
“Yeah.” There’s no way anyone would believe Audrey didn’t know, and
I’m glad Jules pointed that out before we tried to sell this whole show.
“How’s he taking this?”
“He’s . . .” I almost say he’s fine with it, but there’s no way that would
be believable, especially since he’s not even fine with it knowing that it’s
not real. “. . . coming around to the idea.”
 “You must really like her if you’re willing to risk your friendship with
him,” McCabe says.
“Aren’t you perceptive?”
“You’re basically part of that family. You’ve always treated both those
girls like they were your sisters.” His eyes narrow again. “How are you now
dating one of them?” He really isn’t giving up on this.
Jameson isn’t McCabe’s agent, but McCabe joined the Rebels a year
before Jameson retired, so they played together for a short time. And since
Jameson represents nearly a quarter of the players on the team, and is good
friends with AJ, he’s always around. McCabe knows him well enough to
know how protective he is of Audrey and Jules, and he knows me well
enough to know that I’d never jeopardize that friendship.
“Have you seen her?” I say, rolling my eyes as the bartender slides the
two drinks I’ve been waiting for toward me.
“Yeah, total smokeshow. But you’re not reckless. I still don’t see you
risking your relationship with that whole family just because she’s hot.”
“Obviously, I didn’t go after her just because she’s hot. She’s also
brilliant, she doesn’t take any of my shit⁠—”
He coughs out a laugh. “Yeah, she gives as good as she gets when it
comes to you.”
It’s true, and anyone who’s spent more than five minutes in our presence
knows that. No one else aside from my teammates gives me shit like she
does. “She balances me out,” I say, because it’s the type of thing I think
you’d say about someone you were going to marry.
“I’m still trying to wrap my mind around you being in love.”
That word is like a cold rope of dread wrapping itself around my chest.
In my lifetime, I’ve only told one woman I loved her, and she stabbed me in
the back. The wounds may have healed, but the scars are still ugly.
“You’ll get used to it,” I tell him, even though I know that by the time
he does, the whole thing will probably be over.
I hate the idea of this ending. I hate the reality that someday I’ll go back
to my condo in the Seaport, and Jules won’t be there, or that I’ll go on a
date, and it won’t be with her.
“Speaking of,” he says, and nods toward the end of the bar where Jules
is standing, her hands on the edge as she leans forward like she’s trying to
get the bartender’s attention. I watch him notice her and head straight over
there, like he can’t get to her quickly enough. And watching her from here,
I see exactly why—the gold V of her dress shimmers where it dips low
between her breasts, and her blond hair hangs in soft waves over her
shoulders. Even though I still call her Tink, like I always have, Barbie
would be a more apt nickname these days. And tonight, she’s Glamour
Barbie. She’s wearing makeup, which she never does, and it highlights the
contours of her face, making her look even more spectacular than normal.
As the bartender talks to her, resting his entire forearm on the bar top so
he can lean in as close as possible, I clear my throat.
“Better go get your girl,” McCabe says with a laugh, then tips his beer
at me while I grab our drinks and turn to walk toward her.
Despite the mirror that runs the full length of the bar, she doesn’t see me
coming. I’d like to imagine she’s only giving the bartender her full attention
because she’s trying to be polite, but the way she throws her head back with
a laugh has me about ready to punch this guy. Who does he think he is,
making my fiancée laugh like that?
Fake fiancée, I hear Jameson’s voice in my head, and I push it away.
Tonight, we’re supposed to be selling it like it’s real, and my fiancée would
never laugh at anyone else’s jokes. Would she?
The bartender grabs a glass off the shelf behind him and walks a few
steps away to fill it with ice, and I transfer her champagne flute to the hand
holding my beer so I have a free hand. When I come up behind her, I
smooth my thumb along the ridges of her spine, loving the way this dress
leaves her back bared to me. Goosebumps erupt along the backs of her arms
in response to my touch.
“Is that really necessary?” she asks, her voice husky as she turns to look
at me over her shoulder.
I step up behind her, my right thigh pressed firmly against her ass, and
set the drinks on the bar before planting my hand next to her so she’s fully
boxed in. Even though I told her I wanted her, but that nothing could
happen between us, I can’t stop myself from touching her when she’s
around.
I lean down and, keeping my voice low, I say, “There’s no chance in
hell that my fiancée looks like you do right now and I’m not all over her. So
if we want this to appear real, you better be okay with me touching you.”
I press my lips to her hair where it’s tucked behind her ear and feel her
sharp intake of breath.
 “If you remember, I wasn’t the one who had a problem with you
touching me.” The bitterness in her voice catches me off guard.
“Really? Because if I remember correctly, you were the one who slid off
my lap when I offered to make you come.” Why am I tormenting myself—
and her—like this?
“And then you explained how you didn’t want to want me like that, and
said we were never going to talk about it again.” Her saccharine tone
couldn’t be more fake, and it shows me just how much this actually
bothered her.
“I don’t want to want you, Jules,” I admit. “I’m no good for you. You
deserve someone who wants to fall in love, who wants to get married—and
that’s not me. I’ll only hurt you.”
“Like I told you last night,” she says, straightening up and thereby
forcing me to do the same. Then she turns in the space where she’s
sandwiched between the bar and me. “I’m under no illusion that you have
feelings for me, or that you ever will. But since we have to sell this”—she
trails her finger up my dress shirt and across my pec, then slides her hand
into my suit jacket and over my shoulder—“how am I doing?”
I push forward, anchoring her between the bar and my hips. “You’re
doing so well.” And then I dip my head and litter kisses along her jaw until
my lips meet her earlobe, telling myself it’s all for show. Taking her flesh
between my lips, I let my teeth sink into her earlobe gently, then let go,
whispering, “You’re doing perfect.”
Her fingers curl into my shoulder, and as she turns her head to look at
me, her cheek slides along mine until her lips are only a breath away. Those
eyes are a kaleidoscope of colors getting pushed to the edges of her iris by
her quickly expanding pupils. Her look is desire and an invitation, but it’s
laced with resentment too.
“Now what?” The words fall from her full pink lips so softly she almost
sounds lost.
I can feel myself growing hard where I’m pressed up against her
stomach, and I clear my throat, reminding myself that we can’t go down
this path. It’s too damn easy to forget when I’m around her.
“Now, you don’t flirt with the bartender anymore.”
She rears her head back as my words hit her like a splash of ice water. I
didn’t mean for them to come out all vindictive-sounding, but that’s exactly
how she took it—I can tell by the knowing look in her eyes, like I just
proved her right. The notes of jealousy that I couldn’t hide have clearly
made her think that this was all because I didn’t want her talking to the
bartender, rather than me legitimately not being able to keep my hands off
her.
And even though that’s probably for the best, I don’t like hurting her
like that.
From beside us, a throat clears, and I look over to find Drew standing
there, looking awkward as hell, like he just interrupted us having sex.
“Audrey sent me over here to remind you that ‘selling this’ doesn’t
mean mauling her sister in public.”
“That’s fine,” I say, letting my gaze travel back to Jules where she’s
standing, breath ragged. I don’t let myself look down where I know her
chest will be heaving too, because if I caught sight of that cleavage from
above, I’d have a very physical reaction. I’m already way too close to my
erection being impossible to hide. “I’ll save that for when we’re alone.”
“Colt, don’t traumatize Drew,” Jules says, the teasing lilt back in her
voice and an insincere smile plastered across her face like she’s certain I
don’t mean that. If she only knew the things I’d imagined when we’re alone.
She reaches over and grabs her champagne flute and a glass of water I
hadn’t even noticed the bartender leave next to us, then drops her voice and
tells Drew, “I’ll go reassure Audrey that I’m in entirely safe hands over
here. Nothing but a little pissing contest getting the best of my fake fiancé.”
 Chapter Twenty
JULES

I ’m more keyed up than I should be by the end of the night.

The number of times that Colt’s hands have been on me has left me
flustered and sexually frustrated. He knows just how to turn me on—a
gentle touch that turns firm, his body pressed against mine, his tone bossy
and seductive.
I don’t know if I’m so transparent and my lust is so obvious that he
figured this out easily, or we’re just more sexually compatible than either of
us probably would have guessed. What I do know is that I’ve been on
dozens of first dates over the past couple of years, and not a single guy has
gotten me revved up the way Colt can with a single touch.
“Here,” he says, as he slides his suit coat off and drapes it over my
shoulders while we walk across the lobby of the hotel where the gala was
held. “It’s cold out.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. While being wrapped up in his warm clothing that
smells faintly of him, with his arm around me holding me to his side, is
actually exactly what I want, the need to push him away and keep myself
safe is greater now than it ever has been.
But I’m also aware that we’re walking out with several of his
teammates, and it would be beyond suspicious if I refused his jacket,
especially while the lobby door is being held open and the chilly night air is
sweeping into the space, so I go along with it.
 He gives his ticket to the valet, and we say goodbye to his teammates,
most of whom are half-wasted and piling into cabs to go home. I shiver as
the breeze picks up again, tangling my long dress around my legs. Colt
backs me into the corner of the stone walls, behind the valet stand.
“What are you doing?” My words are quiet because there are other
couples huddled in this recessed area outside the doors waiting for their
own cars.
He leans one hand on the wall behind me, his body close to mine.
“Keeping you warm.”
“Colt,” I say, putting a hand on his chest to keep a little distance
between us. “You can’t keep saying you don’t want me, then acting like you
do.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want you, Jules. I said I couldn’t have you. The
difference between those two things is enormous.”
“That’s not fair to me.” I’m determined not to be strung along like this.
“You’re saying one thing but doing another. It’s confusing, and it’s
frustrating.”
“You don’t seem frustrated.” His knuckles graze my jawline as he traces
a path from my chin toward my ear, and at first, I lean into his touch. Then,
remembering that this can only lead to even more frustration, I tilt my face
away so his hand falls, but instead of lowering it completely, he rests his
fingertips over my collarbone and his palm against my cleavage. I’m sure
he can feel the way my heart is pounding, because his lips curve up at one
corner into a smirk.
“My body is frustrated, Colt. You’re toying with me like this is some
sort of cat-and-mouse game. It’s one thing to put on a show when we need
to convince people.” I glance around this waiting area and there’s no one
we even know left here. We could easily be standing side by side and no
one would question whether we were together. “But what’s this? Right
now?”
“This is me, wanting to be close to you.”
“That’s not how fake works,” I remind him quietly. I’m too frustrated to
stop myself from saying something, even if it means I might reveal too
much.
Leaning his face a fraction of an inch closer, his lips ghost over my
forehead as he speaks. “How does it work, then?”
“You touch me only when absolutely necessary.”
 “Define absolutely necessary. Because this feels pretty damn necessary
to me.”
“No, absolutely necessary is only when other people are around. Only
when we need to sell this engagement as real.”
He shrugs. “Sorry, I am who I am.”
“Yeah, well, I am who I am, too. And I don’t let guys touch me and get
me all . . .” I search for the right word, but Colt beats me to it.
“Turned on?”
“Sure. I don’t let guys get me all turned on if they don’t plan to do
anything about it.” I say this as though I’ve ever moved beyond kissing
someone.
“Do you want me to do something about it?” His voice is a seductive
sound that curls around me. He sounds both hopeful and dubious at the
same time.
I remind myself not to reveal too much. “Colt, I don’t even know if
you’re asking that question seriously. All I know is, you’re too good at
faking it.”
“I told you last night that I wasn’t faking the way I want you.”
“You also said you couldn’t do anything about it,” I say, my voice firm
as I remind him that he was the one who said this was a bad idea. “But you
never even asked me what I wanted, Colt. You’re acting like this is all about
you and your feelings. What about mine?”
His hand slides up from my chest to snake around my neck, pulling me
closer as he dips his chin so that his lips meet my ear, and in that low, deep
voice of his, he asks, “What is it you want, Jules?”
There’s a moment when I consider being honest, telling him how much
my body craves his. My pulse increases as I imagine us going home and not
going our separate ways once we were there. We would be absolute fire in
the bedroom, I’m certain of it with every fiber of my being. I want to know
what it would be like to be with him in that way.
But that’s all it would ever be with him . . . just physical. I’d be just
another woman he’d fucked. Then at the end of the season, he’d cast me
aside, like he has with every other woman who’s shared his bed. It’s what
we’d agreed to earlier, and I’m not sure I could go back to being friends
after sleeping with him.
Keeping my voice hushed, I tell him, “I want you to respect the
agreement we had, and the promise you made to Jameson. This is only for
appearances, and you’ll only touch me when absolutely necessary.”
My hand still rests on his chest, and I use it to create a little more space
between us. When he’s pressed up against me, his hand over my heart or
curled around my neck, I can’t focus on anything but him. I need distance
so I can think clearly. Based on his expression, he’s not only surprised but
also . . . disappointed?
“You’re probably right,” he says.
“Excuse me, sir,” the valet says as he taps Colt on the shoulder, “your
car.”
Colt hands the guy a folded-up bill as he takes the key, then he guides
me to the passenger side, where he opens the door for me, hands me my
seatbelt once I’m seated, leans in, and says, “There’s a photographer about
half a block down, so try to look like you like me, yeah?”
I keep my head tilted up toward him as my eyes flick to the left, looking
down the block. And sure enough, a guy stands there with a camera and a
telephoto lens pointed right at us. What the hell? In general, hockey players
are not famous enough that the paparazzi follow them around. But maybe
there’s more interest in our engagement than I thought?
My eyes flick back toward Colt just in time to notice that his face is
only inches from mine and descending quite quickly. But he doesn’t move
in for the kiss I’m expecting. Instead, he cups my jaw in one hand while
kissing my forehead gently, and then he’s stepping back and shutting my
door.

I spend the short ride back to my house debating the merits of having a
frank conversation with Colt about why this is hard for me. He has to
know I used to have a crush on him, but maybe he doesn’t know the extent
of it, and I’m sure he thinks I’m long over it.
The only way I can think to make him understand is to give him all the
details about Vegas—to tell him why I went back downstairs after he
brought me to my room, and to tell him what happened after I woke up in
the morning. But I’d have to share things I’ve never told anyone but
Audrey.
 How would I tell him everything without him feeling absurdly guilty
and without me looking like a complete moron? There is no way. Plus, I’m
not sure I’m ready to be that vulnerable with Colt.
So we drive in silence while I rehash the past, all while still feeling the
way he touched me over and over again tonight, and I arrive home even
more confused and sexually frustrated than I was when I left that hotel
ballroom with him twenty minutes ago.
“I’m going to bed,” I say, the minute we walk through the door.
“Already?” he asks, glancing at the fancy watch on his wrist.
“It’s after eleven.”
“On a Saturday night,” he says.
“Yeah, but I was up late last night because of the game, and I need to be
up early tomorrow morning.”
“What for?” he asks. Everyone knows I’m not a morning person, but it
doesn’t seem to matter. After years in construction, my body is wired to
wake up before the sun, even on the weekends.
I press my lips together, realizing that I’m going to have to take my
weekly video call in my closet, where he won’t be able to overhear it,
instead of at the dining room table where I normally chat with Jeannine. “I
have my weekly therapy session on Sunday mornings.”
The look he gives me is . . . I don’t even know. Approving? Proud?
“Alright,” he says, a small smile gracing his lips. “Goodnight, then.”
As he turns and walks up the stairs, I watch him go, noting the way his
dress shirt stretches across his back and his suit pants fit his ass. He lifts his
arm, running his fingers under his collar across the back of his neck when
he gets to the top of the stairs, then I hear his footsteps as he walks along
the second-floor landing on the way to the stairs up to his apartment.
It’s then that I realize I’m still wearing his jacket. I’m about to call out
for him to wait so I can run the jacket up to him before he gets up to the
third floor, but I stop myself. It’s better if I don’t, because meeting him in
the hallway right outside my bedroom door has “bad decisions” written all
over it. I’m going to have enough of those to unpack when I talk to Jeanine
tomorrow morning. I don’t need to add losing my virginity to a man who
told me he doesn’t want to want me and said he isn’t any good for me to the
list.
Instead, I hang his suit coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs so
he’ll see it there tomorrow, turn out the lights on the first floor, and head up
to my bedroom. And once I’m in my closet, I do what I do each night
before bed: I take a moment to assess myself in the mirror.
You’re strong.
You’re sober.
You’re safe.
It’s the reassurance that I gave myself after I returned home from Vegas,
and have given myself every night since. Tonight, I add another: You’re
making good choices.
Keeping my distance from Colt, except when necessary for keeping up
appearances, is the right choice.
I reach behind me and tug at the small hidden zipper that starts at my
lower back and unzips several inches down to my tailbone, then loop my
thumbs under the thin shiny straps of the gold dress, letting them slide off
my shoulders. The material brushes my hardened nipples as I let the dress
drop to my hips, then I carefully step out of it, grab the hanger, and return
the dress to my closet.
Then, in nothing but the thin lace thong I wore under the dress, I pad
across the carpet to the top drawer of the island in the middle of my closet.
And there, stored neatly in their boxes, is my entire collection of sex toys. I
know exactly what I need tonight—I need a mind-blowing orgasm that will
knock these thoughts of Colt right out of my head.
Taking my vibrator out of its box, I start to head back to my bed when I
realize that the bedroom door is definitely not soundproof. Colt’s upstairs, I
assure myself, it’s fine. This is one of the reasons I was so adamant that he
stays in his space . . . I don’t want him overhearing me getting myself off.
I pull my covers back and slip into bed, bringing a pillow down and
adding it under my hips to tilt them back for what I know will be the best
angle. Tonight, I need it deep. Rough even. I have another vibrator that’s
thicker and more powerful, which I’d normally use when I’m looking for
that type of experience. But my clit is aching and needs stimulation, and my
nipples are pebbled and waiting for my touch, so this vibrator’s
combination of the thrusting, plus the clitoral stimulation, will allow me to
use my free hand on my breasts.
I give it a few minutes, but even with how revved up I am, how badly I
need this orgasm, my body won’t relax enough to let me have it. My brain
is too busy pushing the thoughts of Colt out of my head, because coming to
images of us together defeats the whole purpose of getting myself off
instead of asking him to do it for me.
Moving up onto my knees, I sink down so the vibrator is as deep as it
can go, and my thoughts return to Colt, imagining what he’d look like if I
was riding him like this. I’m so desperate to come that I stop fighting the
pictures in my mind. Glancing into the mirror that runs across the dresser
opposite my bed, I note how my full breasts bounce with the movement and
imagine his mouth on them. I really want to be riding him instead of this
damn vibrator.
I know how big he is because his damn erection has been pushed up
against me numerous times this week. He’d fill me in ways this vibrator
can’t, and it’s the images of us together, the imaginary feel of him inside
me, of his tongue on me, our bodies slapping together, that finally tips me
over the edge. The orgasm comes on so hard and so fast that I’m
unprepared for it, and I’m crying out as I fall forward on one of my
forearms and bury my face in the covers, groaning out my release while
riding wave after wave of this orgasm.
When I finish, I turn off the vibrator, setting it aside as I roll onto my
back and let out a deep sigh. And that’s when I hear the creaking of the
stairs outside my bedroom door.
No.
I try to assure myself that Colt was just coming down the stairs, and that
he didn’t hear anything. But as I lie there and listen, I hear him moving
around upstairs. Which means he was coming up from the first floor and
passing my room right as I orgasmed.
Fuck. Why the hell wasn’t he upstairs in his apartment where he was
supposed to be?
 Chapter Twenty-One
COLT

I wake up exhausted, having tossed and turned half the night. I’ve never
had to think twice about sleeping with someone so obviously willing, and
having to exercise this kind of restraint is killing me. But she’s Jameson’s
sister. She’s off limits, and always has been. And I promised him I wouldn’t
touch her—something that’s proving way harder than I expected.
As soon as I got upstairs last night and started undressing, I realized that
I’d left my phone in my car. So I headed downstairs to get it, being as quiet
as possible in case Jules was already in bed trying to fall asleep. On my way
back in, I checked my messages to find another text from Gabriel, this time
confirming the B&B reservation and telling me how much Mom and Dad
are looking forward to meeting Jules.
With Game 7 on Friday night in Boston, there’s really no excuse for
why we can’t drive up there on Saturday in time for the party, spend the
night, and come back on Sunday. Especially since, if we win the series, the
next one will start in Boston, so I don’t even have travel plans as an excuse.
Plus, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m actually looking forward to a
road trip with Jules. If I have to go back to my hometown and see my
brother and sister-in-law for the first time in fifteen years, there is no one
else I’d want by my side. Mostly because I’ll be so focused on her that it’ll
be easy to ignore them, but also because she’s fiercely protective, and I feel
like she’ll be the perfect buffer.
 I feel safe with her. Not physically, because my body feels entirely out
of my control every time she’s around. But emotionally, she’s one of the
only people I can let my guard down around. I have a few close friends who
I feel that way about, but she is the first woman who feels like she’s giving
more than she’s taking. She’d go to bat for me, even while giving me sass
about, if that’s what it came down to. Just like I’d do for her.
I was so lost in thought about spending the whole weekend with her that
I almost didn’t notice the low moan coming from her bedroom door as I
passed by, but the second time, the sound finally registered in my brain, and
I fucking froze in that hallway. That low, slow groan of satisfaction turned
hurried, coming out faster with a higher pitch, and I knew exactly what was
happening on the other side of that door. I could picture it so clearly—the
way her back would arch, her tits bouncing with each thrust, her lips parted
and panting as she chased that orgasm.
It was enough to send all the blood in my body rushing toward my cock,
and as if someone had injected it with concrete, it expanded and hardened
so fast it ached—for her touch, for those sounds she was making to be for
me, for the feel of her skin against mine and the taste of her on my tongue. I
ached for her with an intensity I’d never felt before, and the sound of her
hissing out a low Yessss had me turning and heading up the stairs before I
blew my load in my pants right there outside her door.
I had barely shut the door to my apartment before I turned, one hand
already in my pants as I rested the other against the front door, hearing her
sounds in my head as I quickly jerked myself off to the visions I’d had in
the hallways.
And now, even after finally getting some sleep, I still can’t get those
images out of my head. I want to know what every inch of her body looks
like. I want to know what her skin feels like sliding along mine. I want to
taste her, to know what she sounds like when she comes on my tongue. I
want to push inside her and see what her face looks like when I’m filling
her completely—so full that there’s not a centimeter of her that’s not taken
up by me.
But I can’t. I can’t do any of those things, because despite my reputation
and my past, one thing I will not do is go back on my word. Not when it
was given to my best friend, who has stood beside me through some shit,
who has made sure my career and my future weren’t affected every time I
made a dumb, impulsive decision. He trusts me to take care of her, and I
couldn’t do that to him just because I’m fantasizing about her.
I am not my brother.
It takes me longer than it should to pack up my shit for our pre-game
skate, so I’m running late as I take the stairs two at a time on my way out.
Jules said she had her therapy appointment this morning, so I’m hoping
she’s tied up with that and I won’t run into her on my way out. I need to get
her out of my thoughts, and getting on the ice is the only sure-fire way I
know of to clear my head like that.
But when I come down the second flight of stairs, I catch sight of her on
the far side of the kitchen. She’s bent over at the waist, taking something
out of the under-counter microwave, and her short workout shorts are doing
nothing to cover the bottom half of her ass cheeks, which has me wondering
what type of underwear she’s wearing—which has my mind going to the
exact place I don’t want it going.
She must hear me, because she straightens up and spins around, two
hands clutching a steaming coffee mug. “Oh, hey,” she says, like she’s
surprised it’s me. There’s a split second where I wonder if the sounds I
heard last night were actually her in there with someone else, and that
thought makes me even more ashamed of getting myself off to visions of
her.
“Who else would be coming down the stairs in your house?” I ask.
She lets out a small laugh. “No one. I just . . . sometimes I forget you
live here too.”
I grab my baseball hat off the counter and slip it on my head backward.
“I love being so forgettable.”
Her eyes crinkle in the corners as she looks at me, trying to assess my
meaning. “Trust me . . . you’re not forgettable.” She mutters something
under her breath as she brings the coffee cup to her lips and takes a sip.
Then she’s clenching her teeth and lips together in pain, before swallowing
and saying, “Shit, that was too hot.”
“Why were you heating your coffee in the microwave?” I ask. Everyone
knows that things heat unevenly in a microwave. She’s lucky she didn’t
burn her lips or tongue.
“I always reheat it. I never seem to be able to drink a cup before it gets
cold.”
 I set my bag on the floor next to me. “You should get one of those mugs
that just keeps it at a constant temperature for you.”
“I didn’t know there were mugs that did that. I’ll have to look into it.”
She nods at my bag. “Are you headed to the rink?”
“Yeah, pre-game skate. I’ll be back in the early afternoon, and I, uh . . . I
always take a nap before the game. I don’t know if you have any plans that
would be loud⁠—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I know that’s part of any hockey player’s
routine on a game day. I’m actually going shopping with Morgan this
afternoon—I need something to wear to the anniversary party this weekend
—so I’ll stay out of your way.”
I want to tell her she’s never in my way, but in this case, it really is
better if she’s out of the house. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep without
thinking about her? “You mean to tell me that within that expansive closet
of yours, you don’t have anything you can wear to that party?”
“I don’t have anything I want to wear to the party, which is pretty much
the same thing. What are you wearing?” she asks. “Just so I know how
dressed up to get.”
“I’ll probably wear a tie. That’s about as much as I’ve thought about it.
Everyone will get dressed up, but it’s like ‘small-town dressed up,’ not ‘big-
city dressed up,’ you know?”
She smiles, laughter shaking her shoulders. “Yeah, I think I know what
you mean. So how small is this small town? I thought you grew up in
Montreal?”
“No, a small town about forty-five minutes outside of the city called
Pinevale.”
“I thought all the town and city names in Quebec were French?”
“They are. But you don’t speak French, so I’m just going to use the
English names, for your sake.”
“Damn Latin never comes in handy,” she says, as she raises her cup and
blows on the surface of the coffee before taking a small, tentative sip. “Not
that I ever travel . . .”
“Wait, you’ve been out of the country before, right?”
Lifting her eyebrows, she shakes her head.
“But you do have a passport, right?” Holy crap, how did I not think to
ask this before?
“Yeah, I’ve just never used it.”
 I exhale a sigh of relief, because if she wasn’t able to come, there’s no
way I’d be going. That thought has me realizing how dependent I’ve
become on having her in my life, and I have to remind myself that we can
be friends, but nothing more.
“Alright, I’ve got to go. I’m already cutting it close.” It takes so long to
get all my goalie gear on, I arrive earlier than most of the other players.
“Will I see you after the game?”
“I don’t think I can stay for the whole game. I have to be up at five
tomorrow because we’re getting a big shipment of lumber at six.” She lets
out a small groan as she sags back against the countertop. “The neighbors at
this new house we’re starting on this week are going to freaking love me
tomorrow morning.”
“You should get some gift cards for a local coffee shop and drop them
in everyone’s mailboxes with a Sorry for the early morning note,” I suggest.
“That’s actually kind of genius.”
“So, will I not see you before I get on our plane after the game tonight?”
I ask.
“Ahhhh . . . ” She gives me a fake sad face. “Are you going to miss
me?”
You have no idea.
“No,” I huff out a laugh. “But I have a little going away present for you
before I leave.”
Her eyes widen. “I know we’re supposed to be engaged and all, but this
better not be like the gifts Drew sends Audrey when he’s traveling.”
“Why? What does Drew send Audrey?”
Those blue eyes widen even more and then she slow blinks. “Oh my
god, pretend I didn’t just say that. Please.”
“Why, what’s he send her?”
“Nothing. And don’t you dare ask him, either. That would be a total
violation of my sister’s privacy.”
“Ahhh, so something sexy, then?” I’m teasing her just to see if I can get
her to blush. As the pink creeps into her cheeks, I step around the kitchen
table so I’m directly in front of her. “Why, is that the kind of goodbye gift
you’d like?” She’s full-on blushing now, which only makes me want to
push this a bit further. “Because that could easily be arranged.”
“Don’t make promises you don’t plan to deliver on, Colt. Per your
choice, we’re keeping this platonic, remember?”
 Wait a minute. “That’s not what I said. I said I couldn’t do anything
about it, and you said you wanted me to respect our agreement and the
promise I made to your brother.” My voice drops lower. “Are you telling
me that now you don’t want to keep this platonic?”
“Let’s not have this conversation again,” she says breezily, but I can tell
she’s more affected than she’s pretending to be, and not just because of the
way she’s holding that coffee mug between us, her forearms pressed right
over her nipples like she doesn’t want me to see what my being this close
does to her.
“As you wish,” I say, stepping back. “So, this is goodbye? For the next
few days, at least?”
“What time are you leaving here tonight for your game? I can make sure
I’m home in time to say goodbye.”

S heapology
didn’t make it home in time to say goodbye, but she sent me an
text detailing how crappy her afternoon had been, and as we
stand in the hallway waiting to take the ice for our second home game of
this series, I’m trying not to let it bother me.
It’s not that I expect her to drop her own plans—I wouldn’t have even
expected that if this was a real engagement. But standing there in the
kitchen this morning, I’d known the perfect gift to get her, and I didn’t want
to wait for some special occasion to give it to her. I’d gone to three stores
after our pre-game skate before I found exactly what I was looking for, and
I stopped by one of those fancy card stores to get a pretty gift bag that was
big enough for it. I’d just wanted to see her face when she opened it.
Instead, I left it sitting on the kitchen table with a sticky note that said,
“Open me tonight.”
“Why are you in such a fuck-off mood?” Zach asks. But he looks like
he knows the answer. “Not trouble in paradise, I hope?”
How do I even answer questions like that? Am I supposed to pretend to
be a lovesick fool over her? Or should I be acting like everything is
perfect?
“Just gearing up mentally,” I say.
 “Dude, don’t take this the wrong way, but you play like shit when
you’re pissed. I know Hartmann’s starting the game tonight, but you better
get your head on right before you take the ice.”
“I’m sorry, Zen Master.” I taunt him in a way that has a few of the
players closest to us looking over. Zach is our resident Aikido black belt,
so-calm-you-can’t-shake-him guru, but at this moment, his advice is not
wanted. “Am I not chill enough for you tonight?”
Zach just looks at me like I’m pathetic and snorts out a laugh. “Your
funeral, man. I’m just trying to keep you alive.”
And then the music is blasting and the fans are cheering, and we take
turns slapping our hands against the giant Rebels symbol on the wall as we
head down the hallway and onto the ice. And when I skate past our bench, I
glance up six rows where I know Jules will be sitting.
Holding up her phone, I can barely make out a picture of her
rechargeable mug—the travel kind so she can take it to work with her, too
—as she mouths, “Thank you!”
But that’s not the thing that has the smile splitting my face in half. No,
that’s because, despite saying “only this once” before Friday night’s game,
she’s wearing my jersey again.

H artmann goaltends for the first two periods, and when I go in for the
third, it’s because he gave up two goals in the last five minutes. Our 4-1
lead going into the second period is now a narrow 4-3 lead.
“Nothing gets by you.” Those are the instructions Wilcott gave me in
the locker room between periods, and they hang heavy on me. Winning the
game will be up to our other five players on the ice. Losing it will be up to
me.
Florida’s getting sloppy and if we can just keep it together and play
smart, we can prevent them from tying it up before the period ends.
With three minutes left in the period, Drew narrowly misses a goal.
That’s when it gets ugly.
We’re exhausted. They’re exhausted. Tempers are high and so it
shouldn’t be a surprise when the next face-off turns into a brawl that sends
Drew to the sin bin for two minutes. With the power play advantage,
Florida pulls their goalie so they have six players on the ice ready to score.
They’re taking a risk to get the tie because they want that additional
overtime period to give them a chance at winning.
I block four shots before the fifth goes wide, and I leave the crease to
stop it with my stick. But there’s no one to pass it up to because Florida’s
covering all our players, so I send it to the boards near the center line,
hoping that if the puck advances into their neutral zone maybe one of our
players can get to it on some sort of a breakaway. With an empty net on the
other side of the rink and about twenty seconds left on the penalty clock, it’s
our best shot at scoring.
But the puck ricochets off the boards at the perfect angle, and heads
straight toward the wide-open goal. I hold my breath, even as I know how
unlikely it is for a goalie to score. Somehow, though, even as two of
Florida’s defensemen skate back toward it as fast as they can, the puck goes
into the net. The sound of the buzzer fills the arena, and can barely be heard
over the deafening roar of the home crowd.
It’s the first goal of my entire professional career. Our fans scream the
Rebel Chant at the top of their lungs while they swing the white towels with
the dark and light blue Rebels logo above their heads.
I take the moment to skate to the bench, high-fiving my teammates who
are also losing their fucking minds. And then I continue on, stopping at the
glass right past our bench. Jules is already in the aisle, running down the
stairs toward me when I stop and point at her. She comes to a stop before
me, blowing me a kiss before I yell, “That one was for you!”
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head at me like I’m crazy, so I wink
at her before turning and skating back to our goal so we can finish the last
few seconds of this game. And long after the game and the never-ending
interviews with the press, I find her waiting for me in the Family Room
even though she said she wasn’t staying until the end.
It’s close to midnight, and she’s clearly tired, but I’m thankful she’s
waited. The team is headed to the airport in a few minutes, and we’ll be
gone until Thursday unless we win our first game and close out the series.
I’m having strangely mixed emotions about not seeing her for that long.
I stop short, leaving a few feet between us as I hold my arms out for her,
because I need her to come to me. And she does, wrapping herself in my
arms, saying, “I couldn’t let you leave for Florida without congratulating
you.”
 When her lips meet mine, it occurs to me that this is the first time she’s
kissed me, and not the other way around. And I’m starting to wonder if the
line between what’s fake and what’s real is getting as blurry for her as it
already is for me.
 Chapter Twenty-Two
JULES

T hesitting
sun’s only been up for an hour and already my bag is packed and
by the back door. I rarely travel, so I don’t really know what I’m
supposed to bring for a weekend with my fiancé’s family. It’s only one
night away, but we have the party tonight, and then breakfast at his parents’
place tomorrow. And the weather looks unpredictable, with a forty-degree
range in the daily temps.
I’m strangely nervous about the whole thing—about meeting his
parents, lying about our relationship, staying in the same room as him at the
inn. He’d called to ask if we could get a room with two beds because he’s
“a big guy and sharing a small bed would be a problem,” and was politely
told that they didn’t have any rooms with two beds, but that there was a
couch in our room, too. I’ve offered to take that, but he only laughed and
said he’d take it. I don’t know how he thinks he’s fitting his six-foot-four
frame on a couch comfortably enough to sleep, but okay.
I think I’d be less nervous if he hadn’t been gone all week. Luckily,
they’d won the series during Game 6 in Florida, so they didn’t have to play
last night’s home game. I thought that might mean we’d have more time to
talk about this weekend at some point yesterday, but he was booked up all
day with practice, and the media, and an appointment with his massage
therapist, then he went out with his teammates last night. He invited me to
come along, but I’m a nervous traveler and was afraid I’d be a mess today if
I didn’t get enough sleep. But I tossed and turned until I heard him come up
the stairs anyway, so maybe I should have just gone out?
I’m headed out to get my sunglasses from the center console of my
truck, busy thinking that I’m glad Colt’s driving today, when I hear a too-
familiar voice. My shoulders stiffen and I press my eyes closed for a
moment. Even though I’d been expecting this a couple of weeks ago, I
guess I must have let my guard down because my father’s voice catches me
by surprise.
“You’re headed out early for a Saturday morning.”
I turn slowly and find him leaning back against the exterior brick of our
row house, one foot resting on the wall next to his opposite knee. His
tattered jeans and T-shirt with small holes along the seams are practically
stiff from the filth, and even from six feet away, he smells like the inside of
a trash can on a hot day. The hollows under his eyes are a purplish gray, and
his sallow skin sags along his gaunt cheeks, where there’s not an ounce of
fat to fill it out. His body’s so thin it looks like the wall might be holding
him up.
“What are you doing here?” It’s the same question I ask him every time
he shows up. Usually, it’s even earlier on a weekday, and he catches me
heading out to work. He’s never come by on a weekend, which might be
why he’s caught me so off guard.
“I need some cash.”
“I told you last time, I’m not giving you money anymore. Not unless
you go to rehab.”
“Rehab’s a waste for a guy like me. I don’t want you spending your
money on that.”
“No,” my voice is harsh as I look him up and down, “you just want me
wasting it on alcohol and drugs instead?”
His head rears back in surprise. I never talk back to him. I’m always the
obedient daughter, the only person in his life who’s still willing to help him
out. I don’t know why I’ve held on to the hope that he’s going to change,
but I’m finally realizing he never will.
“Listen, girl,” he says, his nostrils flaring as he takes a step toward me.
“You are where you are because of me. You think you’d be running your
own construction company if I hadn’t taught you everything you know?
The least you can do is help me out now.”
 Behind me, the back door slams and I jump in surprise. Colt’s next to
me so fast he must have jumped down the back steps because there’s no
way he could make it down the six stairs that quick.
“With all due respect,” he says, his voice level and firm as he places a
reassuring hand on my lower back, “if you’re going to speak to my fiancée
that way, you’re going to answer to me instead.”
Dad looks at Colt, and his eyes widen in recognition. They’ve met a
handful of times, back before Dad left, when we used to go to all the Rebels
games to watch Jameson play. Clearly, Dad hadn’t heard our engagement
news, which makes me wonder if he still follows hockey at all.
His dull blue eyes, once so bright and similar to mine, slide over to me.
“Ahhh, getting yourself hitched to a hockey player, eh? And you can’t spare
a Benjamin Franklin for your old man?”
Colt’s hand flies out, pulling me behind him as he steps forward in front
of me. I don’t feel threatened by my father, who is so emaciated from his
addiction that he can’t possibly weigh more than I do, but once again, Colt
is putting himself between what he perceives as a potential threat and me.
“She’s my daughter, and I’m not talking to her through you,” Dad
snarls. Everything about him—from the way his knees are a little bent to
the way his lip curls up to bare his teeth, or what’s left of them anyway—
reminds me of a mangy dog about to attack.
“You’re done talking to her, period,” Colt says. “You clearly don’t
deserve whatever sympathy she has left for you. Now get out of here, or I’ll
call the cops and tell them you’re trespassing.”
The way Colt is keeping his calm, the way he doesn’t let my dad’s
veiled threats affect his outward demeanor, surprises me. He’s level-headed,
yes. But I saw him just about lose his shit a few weeks ago when I was
being threatened, and it makes me wonder why he hasn’t gone into attack
mode this time too. Whatever the reason, his calming presence is calming
me, too.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Dad says to me, then he makes a hideous
noise in the back of his throat that sounds like he’s coughing and choking at
the same, before he spits a wad of phlegm at Colt’s feet.
To his credit, Colt doesn’t react. We just stand there together, watching
him hobble down the alley. It’s not until Dad turns the corner onto the
sidewalk that I realize I’m holding Colt’s hand. I don’t even know when
that happened.
 “Hey,” I say, squeezing. “You didn’t have to jump in like that. I don’t
need protecting.”
He obviously didn’t absorb that message after what happened at the
restaurant, but at least there was no catastrophic fallout this time.
“I know you don’t. You could have handled him by yourself . . . but I
wanted you to know you didn’t have to.” Then he turns, giving me a quick
kiss on the forehead that has me softening toward him even more. “Don’t
forget your sunglasses.”

W e’re an hour into our drive north when Colt says, “So, you want to talk
about what happened back there with your dad?”
I shift in my seat, bringing my travel mug with my always-warm coffee
up to my lips and noting, as I do each time I use it, what a thoughtful gift it
was. “Not particularly.”
“How often does he come around asking for money?”
“You asked if I wanted to talk about it, and I said no.”
“Well, I’m going to need some basic information, Jules, so I know
whether I need to be worried about him coming back.”
“Colt, you saw him. It’s not like he’s a threat.” At least, this
confrontation didn’t result in a panic attack like I had after the interaction
with Jerome.
“Do Jameson and Audrey know he still comes around?”
I glance out the windows at the evergreens lining this part of the
highway. Now that we’re farther north, the trees are just starting to get their
leaves, whereas they are completely filled in back down in Boston. “No.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Because I haven’t told them,” I say, swallowing roughly.
“Has he contacted either of them?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would you know if he did?”
“Yeah.”
“And why’s that?” He’s led me straight to the point I don’t want to let
him make. I know exactly why my dad only ever approaches me.
 “Because if he had, either of them would have told him to fuck off, and
then told the rest of us about it.”
“So why haven’t you done that?” He’s got one arm loosely gripping the
top of the steering wheel, and the ends of his sandy hair curl up from under
his backward ball cap. Outwardly, he’s relaxed, but I can tell just by the line
of questioning that he’s not.
“What do you want me to say, Colt? That I feel bad for him, and that
despite the fact that he left us, I feel some obligation to help him?”
“That’s a start. Does your therapist know you’ve helped him out in the
past?”
“You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions for someone who heard, like,
five seconds of our conversation.”
“The kitchen window was open, Jules. That’s how I knew he was out
there in the first place. It’s not like I’d have recognized him if I hadn’t heard
your conversation and known it was your dad.”
It’s true that my dad is barely recognizable. I remember when I was still
very young, back when Jameson was in high school and my parents were
happily married—Dad used to look so much like my brother looks now, but
without the dark eyes. Jameson got those from his own mom, but otherwise,
they’re practically twins. Their personalities couldn’t be more different,
though. Where Jameson is fiercely loyal, staunchly determined, and
completely disciplined in all aspects of his life, Dad’s a loose cannon of bad
decisions. It’s why I try so hard to be more like my brother—I don’t want to
end up like my dad.
“No,” I say finally. “My therapist doesn’t know about my dad.”
“And why not?”
“I don’t know, Colt,” I say, sarcasm heavy in my tone. “Because I have
so many other issues to talk to her about that this one hasn’t come up yet?”
Besides, I’m well aware that just about every issue in my life stems
from my father in the first place. There’s a reason they call them “daddy
issues.”
“So how about this,” he says. “When you talk to her tomorrow morning,
let’s tell her about what’s happening with your dad, and see what she says.
Or, I can tell your brother.”
My incredulous laugh comes out sounding an awful lot like a snort.
“Are you fucking giving me an ultimatum? We haven’t been together long
enough for that. And also, what do you mean let’s talk to her about it. Are
you planning to join my therapy session?”
“I’d like to,” he says. His eyes flick from the road to me quickly before
he refocuses them straight ahead. “If you’re open to it.”
Is he even for real right now? “Why in the world would I be open to
that?”
“I just want to be there when you tell her what happened. Then I’ll
leave.”
I genuinely laugh at that. “No, you won’t. Because she’s going to have a
lot of questions for you, Colt.”
“For me?”
“Yeah. Like she’s going to ask why you keep jumping in to save me in
situations I can clearly handle by myself. And why your first instinct was to
say we’re engaged. And why you have probably hundreds of former
hookups in your contact list and haven’t slept with anyone in half a year,
but you can’t keep your hands off me.”
His lips curve up into what I can only imagine is a classic Colt smirk,
but I can’t tell for sure since I can only see his profile. “You sure those
aren’t the questions you want to ask?”
“I think those are the questions that anyone who knew about our
situation would have,” I say, hoping he doesn’t glance over here and see
how my face is heating up. He hit the nail right on the head, because those
are exactly the questions I want answers to. “Besides, I canceled
tomorrow’s appointment already.”
“Why would you do that? You could have still had a video call with
her.”
“I didn’t know what our plans would be, or if I’d have a private place to
take the call.”
“Jules, those appointments are important. We could have moved plans
around and made sure you had space so that you could have been on that
call.”
I feel oddly defensive that he’s questioning my judgment here. It’s not
like I don’t think they’re important, it’s just that I couldn’t imagine how I’d
take that call when we’re sharing a room at the inn and have some sort of
breakfast plans with his parents. At the same time, I’m touched that he’s
willing to reschedule things like that.
My feelings for him, and about him, are getting so damn complicated.
 He reaches for his phone where it rests on the charging pad and hands it
to me. “2-6-3-8.”
“What?”
“That’s my passcode. Enter it.”
“Okay . . .” I drag the word out as I unlock his phone. “Now what.”
“Open my contacts.”
“Why? I don’t want to see what’s there.” Is this some form of torture,
making me look at the long list of women he’s slept with, with details about
the location and experience noted prominently in their name?
“I’m pretty sure you do, actually.”
“I kind of hate you right now.” I hate him the way you hate something
you know you want, but can never have. I hate the way he always thinks he
knows what I’m feeling. And I hate it even more that he’s always right.
“You don’t hate me, Tink. You just wish you did.” See? Bullseye, every
freaking time. “Now, open my contacts.”
I do as he says, wrinkling my nose in advance of what I imagine I’ll
find there. But I’m not really sure how to process the screen I land on.
I use my finger to scroll through the contacts, all thirty of them. And I
recognize, or can at least place, every single name. His parents and brother,
his teammates, my brother and sister . . . I’m about to object that I’m not in
there, but find myself listed near the end as Tinker Bell.
I know why he’s showing me this, but I still feel the need to hear him
say it. “Yeah, so?”
“I deleted them all. And blocked them. And turned off my DMs on
social media.”
“Why would you do that?” I try to keep my tone nonchalant, making it
sound like this makes no difference to me. But it does matter, and we both
know it.
“For exactly the reasons you think.”
I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t know what I’m thinking, but we’d
both know that’s a lie. So instead, I just say, “Hmmmm.” I’m so intent on
looking out the window at the passing trees like they are the most
interesting thing in the world that I startle when he places his hand just
above my knee and gives my leg a little squeeze.
When he doesn’t pull his hand back, I relax into the seat. I’m starting to
feel safe any time Colt’s hands are on me, no matter how dangerous that
might be.
 Chapter Twenty-Three
COLT

“W hy did you buy so many of those?” I ask when she comes back to
my car with about ten boxes of Hot Tamales.
“They’re your favorite, so I grabbed them all.”
It’s no secret that I’m addicted to cinnamon—it’s my favorite flavor of
candy, gum, and tea. I don’t know what I like about it so much, except that
it reminds me of my childhood. Mom was known for her apple pies, which
were heavy on the cinnamon and sugar, and she baked one every single
holiday no matter what time of year. I find it oddly touching that Jules
apparently bought out all the cinnamon candies in the gas station.
We drive in silence, with me holding my hand out every few minutes
and Jules dropping a few Hot Tamales at a time into my palm, but she looks
lost in thought, so I haven’t tried to engage her in conversation. We’re only
a couple of miles from the Canadian border when Jules says, “I’ll sleep on
the couch tonight, Colt.”
It seems tonight’s sleeping arrangements are weighing on her mind. “I
really don’t mind,” I tell her. I do mind, because I know I’ll get a crap night
of sleep, but I’d rather it be me that sleeps poorly than her.
“Colt, you’re used to sleeping in that ginormous king-size bed you
insisted on moving into my house because Jameson’s existing bed wasn’t
big enough. There’s no way you’re going to be able to get comfortable on a
couch.”
 “I brought my bed with me when I moved in because I sleep there every
night that I’m not on the road. I’ll be fine on the couch for one night.”
“You sure you didn't bring that big bed for all your hookups?”
I’ve made it abundantly clear that I haven’t hooked up with anyone in
months. I even showed her my updated contacts in my phone. But she’s not
willing to let go of my reputation—kind of seems like she’s clinging to it so
she doesn’t have to see that maybe she’s a part of the reason I’m changing.
“I don’t do sleepovers.”
“Because you need that big bed all to yourself?” I can tell by the way
she curls her legs up onto the leather seat and turns toward me that she’s
teasing.
“Because I don’t want to set any expectations.”
“Don’t worry. Not only are we not going to be sharing that bed tonight,
but even if we did, I wouldn’t have any expectations that it meant
something.”
“Maybe that’s your problem, Jules. Maybe you don’t expect enough.” I
chance a quick glance at her so I can watch the flush of embarrassment
creep across her cheeks. It’s too damn easy to make her blush, and I enjoy it
too damn much.
“Like I said”—her voice is defensive—“I wouldn’t expect anything
from you.”
“What if I was your real fiancé?”
Shut up, you idiot, my brain screams. Why am I letting her know that
I’ve even considered that, when I’ve already told her that I can’t act on
anything I’m feeling toward her? I’m a fucking mess.
She coughs out a laugh. “Colt, the world would have to be ending
before I’d actually agree to marry you.” Despite her words, there’s no heat
behind them. It’s clearly an attempt to rebuild those walls she occasionally
lets down around me.
“You’re going to at least have to pretend that you like me if we’re going
to sell this engagement this weekend.”
“Nah, you’d never marry someone who was always fawning over you.
That would be the surest sign ever that this wasn’t real. You need someone
to put you in your place, Colt. And I plan to do just that, even in front of
your family.”
D riving through my hometown is surreal. Everything’s the same, yet
everything’s different. Same buildings on Main Street, different stores.
Same high school, with a huge new addition off the side. Same grocery
store, new name.
It’s been so long since I’ve let myself think about this place, and about
what I’m missing by not coming home, that I actually have a lump in my
throat as we drive through the center of town. As if she knows how I’m
feeling, Jules reaches her arm over and rests her hand on my thigh. It
doesn’t have the calming effect I’m sure she intends. Instead, it has my
heart beating faster. Or is my heart rate increasing because now that we’re
here, I’m going to have to tell her what happened between Gabriel, Cheri,
and me so long ago?
My GPS directs me to take a left, but I’d have been able to find the inn
without it. Pinevale is small enough that you don’t come here unless you’re
visiting someone. There’s only one inn in town. But when we pull up to the
white Victorian with its contrasting pale sage green gingerbread trim and
wide front porch with floorboards painted in the same shade, I realize my
mistake. I’ve waited too long to tell Jules the truth about my past.
Because sitting in three of the rocking chairs on the front porch are my
brother, my mom, and my dad—and they wave enthusiastically when we
pull in.
I drive to the farthest parking spot I can find, down at the end of the
wide circular driveway, and then turn toward Jules in my seat. “I haven’t
seen my brother in fifteen years, and I wasn’t expecting him to be waiting
for us.”
“It’s going to be fine,” she says, squeezing my thigh, but I feel like she’s
saying it as much for her own benefit as for mine.
“No, it’s not. Because I haven’t told you everything that happened
between us, and there’s no way it’s not coming up right now, and no matter
what’s said, I need you to pretend like you already know all of it.”
“Uhh . . .” She glances behind me, and when I look over my shoulder,
my family is standing on the grass waiting for us to get out of the car.
“Please, Jules,” I whisper, then take her hand and bring it to my lips.
“There’s no way they’ll believe that this is real if you don’t already know
the whole story.”
“When were you going to tell me?” she asks, her brow furrowing.
 “When we got inside.” I brush my lips over her knuckles. “Please play
along.”
Dropping her voice, she says, “I like it when you beg.” Then she turns
and is opening her door, leaving me speechless for maybe the first time in
my life.
Mom must go around to the passenger’s side the minute Jules’s door
opens, because as I open my door, I’m face to face with my dad and my
brother. On the other side of the car, I can hear Mom gushing over “finally”
meeting my fiancée.
Dad holds his arms out and wraps me in a hug, and when I pull back,
Gabriel extends his arm, offering me his hand to shake. I just look at it, then
up to his face, nodding in acknowledgment before I head to the back of my
SUV, popping open the lift gate and pulling out our bags.
Mom and Jules come around from the other side of the car, and my
mom takes one look at my carry-on suitcase and Jules’s over-the-shoulder
bag and says, “Where’s the rest of your stuff?”
I point at the suitcase and say, “That’s mine,” and then at the bag sitting
on top. “That’s hers.”
“Wow, you pack light,” she says to Jules.
“I’m pretty low maintenance.”
Mom laughs and says, “Good. Someone in the relationship should be,
and I know it’s not my son.” Then she introduces Jules to my dad and
brother, and I don’t miss the way Gabriel eyes me after Jules shakes his
hand, as if to say: See, at least she’s mature.
“So,” I say as we walk up the path to the wide steps leading to the
porch. “What are you guys doing here? I didn’t expect to see you until the
party tonight.”
Mom looks away as we climb the steps, and Dad says, “We thought
maybe it was best if the first time you and Gabriel saw each other again
was . . . more private.”
“See, now I completely disagree,” I say, setting the suitcase down with
Jules’s bag on top of it once we reach the porch. “I came here to see you
guys. I have nothing to say to him, and the party would have been the
perfect place for us to avoid each other.”
“You can’t avoid me forever,” Gabriel says, frustration ringing out in his
tone.
 “Want to bet?” I push the front door to the inn open, ushering Jules
through. I’m about to shut the door behind me when Dad’s hand shoots out
and holds it open and I hear my family shuffle in behind us.
“Hey, Patrice,” Dad says to the woman standing behind the counter. Her
auburn hair has a few streaks of gray in it, and she looks familiar. But she’s
too young to have been friends with my parents when I was growing up,
and too old to have been in school with me. I can’t place her, and I wonder
how many times that’s going to happen tonight.
“Thanks for setting aside the sitting room for us,” Mom says. “We’ll
head back there while you get Mathieu and Jules checked in.”
“Sure thing. It’s all yours until teatime at four,” the woman says, before
turning her attention back to us. “My, my,” she says, looking at me.
“Haven’t you grown up?” Then she turns to Jules. “This little devil child
was in my third-grade class my first year of teaching. He gave me such a
run for my money.”
“Oh my god,” I say with a laugh. “Ms. Wilder?”
“I’ve been Mrs. Benson for quite some time,” she says. “When Roger’s
parents decided to retire about ten years ago, we took over the inn so it
would stay in the family. I’d had enough of dealing with eight-year-olds by
then.”
“I’m surprised you made it that long after having to deal with this one,”
Jules says with a smile as she pokes me in the side. “I’ve known him since
he was a teenager and he’s barely matured since then.”
Mrs. Benson lets out a laugh, the kind that comes from deep in your gut,
and then says to me, “I’m glad you found someone to keep you in line.”
“Oh, she does more than just keep me in line,” I say, unable to resist.
Jules rolls her eyes, and I do my best to ignore the way that makes my
dick twitch, as always. “See what I mean,” she tells my former teacher.
“He’s pretty much still a child.”
“But the most successful one to have ever left Pinevale.” Pride is
evident in her voice. “It’s been a lot of fun watching you play over the
years.”
“Oh? Are you a Rebels fan now?” I tease. We’re deep in Montreal
territory, and if there’s one thing people around here take seriously, it’s their
loyalty to their local team.
“As if,” she says with a laugh, then turns and grabs a key with a pale
green retro tag off a hook behind her. “You’re in luck with the room. I know
you were concerned about the size of the bed, and we had a cancellation for
this weekend. The couple that was supposed to take the honeymoon suite
had to change their plans, so that room is all yours. It’s going to be the last
door at the end of the hallway.” She points to the wooden stairs next to the
registration desk. Then she turns back, winks at Jules, and adds, “Biggest
bed in the Pinevale Inn.”
I’m already afraid of what we’re going to find when we get up there.
“I’m sure the original room will be just fine,” I say, because at least we
know that one had both a bed and a couch.
“Nonsense,” she insists. “Besides, we already rented out that room to
your cousin, Lane. He and his wife were on the waitlist, and now they
won’t have to stay with your aunt and uncle.” She purses her lips, and we
both understand exactly why this is better for Lane and his wife—my aunt
is a raging bitch, or at least she was when I was younger. It doesn’t even
surprise me one bit that Lane went to Ottawa for university and has lived
there ever since. “They checked in about an hour ago and were so grateful
for the room.”
Jules looks at me and, with laughter in her voice, says, “Guess we get
the honeymoon suite a bit early.” Holding out her palm to get the key from
Mrs. Benson, her eyes meet mine again. “Why don’t I go get our stuff
settled in the room so you can have a few minutes to catch up with your
family?”
It’s the perfect solution, really, as it allows me to explain the situation to
her privately, later, instead of her hearing the drama unfold when I sit down
with my brother for the first time since he got my girlfriend pregnant.
“Oh no, honey,” Mrs. Benson says, gently pushing Jules’s hand away. “I
promised the Coltiers that I’d take your stuff up so you all can catch up
before tonight’s party. You guys go ahead.”
She steps around the desk and grabs the handle of the suitcase from me.
Well, fuck.
 Chapter Twenty-Four
JULES

“L et’s just start by clearing the air,” Gabriel says the minute we sit on
the couch across from him and his parents, and Colt’s grip tightens
around my fingers to the point that it’s nearly painful. I have the
feeling that this is the only thing preventing him from losing his shit, even
though I don’t know why, so I just squeeze back, hoping he knows I’ll back
him up however he needs me to. “I apologize. What Cheri and I did was
wrong . . .”
In the pregnant pause that follows, Colt grits out, “There better not be a
but following that statement.”
“There is, and you know why,” Gabriel says. “You two hadn’t been
happy since before you got drafted.”
I’m trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together, and my best guess is
something happened between Gabriel and the girl Colt was dating before he
went pro.
“She was planning to move to Boston to be with me once her freshman
year was over. You were supposed to keep an eye out for her at college, not
sleep with her.”
Ohhh. So his brother slept with his high school girlfriend when, it
sounds like, they went to the same college and Colt came to Boston for
hockey? But Gabriel is four years older, so the math doesn’t quite add up.
Why would he have been at college when Colt’s girlfriend was a freshman?
“We didn’t mean for it to happen, and you know it.”
 “Do I?” He drops my hand, leaning forward so both his elbows rest on
his knees. “Because it sure seems like the minute I was out of the country,
you were falling into her bed when you were supposed to be focusing on
medical school.”
“Guys.” Mr. Coltier says this the way I imagine he must have a hundred
times a week while they were growing up, like they’re fighting over the last
cupcake or something equally trivial. Mrs. Coltier glances at the glass door
to the hallway like she wants to make sure no one is standing beyond it and
potentially hearing this conversation.
I rest my free hand on Colt’s back, gently pressing against his spine so
he knows I’m here for him.
“Dad, he went after her while she was still dating me.” Colt’s voice rises
a little with anger, but he’s not yelling. He’s just clearly pissed off. “While
she was still coming down to Boston every weekend that I wasn’t traveling.
He was sleeping with her at the same time I was. We had to have a fucking
paternity test to figure out who the father was, and you just want me to
forgive him for that?”
I focus on breathing in and out through my nose in an attempt not to
react to this piece of information. Cheri was pregnant and, at least for a
little while, Colt wasn’t sure if that child was his. The fact that he’s never
had a serious relationship in all the time I’ve known him makes so much
more sense now. How do you ever trust after a betrayal of that magnitude?
“You don’t have to forgive him,” Mrs. Coltier says. “We just need you
to accept that it happened, and move on.”
“Maybe it’s good that we had this conversation,” Colt says, as his hand
slides over to my knee, cupping my leg in his huge hand. His voice is calm,
but from where I sit, it’s impossible not to notice how he’s practically
vibrating with rage. “It allowed us to establish that Gabriel and Cheri are
both cheaters who are obviously suited to each other. And besides”—he
glances at me—“I think everything turned out exactly like it was supposed
to.”
He stands, holding his hand out to me, and I take it, letting him pull me
up from the couch. And as we walk from the room, I don’t turn to say
goodbye. We’ll be seeing them again soon enough, and right now, Colt
needs me more than they need my good manners.
We don’t say anything as he swipes the key from the tray it’s sitting on
at the front desk, or as we climb the stairs to the second floor, or as we walk
down the hallway hand in hand. And when I follow him through the door
into the bedroom, he turns quickly, reaching out and closing it behind me.
I’m stuck between him and the door, watching his ragged breathing as he
looks down at me like he’s at war with himself.
Reaching out, I rest both my hands on his chest and then slide them up
to his shoulders. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” I tell him, and he sucks
in a breath before slowly exhaling, the scent of cinnamon gliding over my
skin.
“I’m not.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “Really? Why not?”
He leans down, resting his forehead against mine. “Because if it hadn’t
been him, it would have been someone else.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. Because it sounded like Gabriel and Cheri might
still be together, which leads me to think she’s not cheating on him.
“We weren’t in love. We were holding on to a relationship from our
childhood even though we should have said goodbye when I left for Boston.
Besides,” he says, as his hand smooths along the side of my neck and into
my hair, his thumb caressing the space behind my ear, “I don’t want to think
about what my life could have been like. I wasn’t lying when I said that
everything turned out exactly as it should have.”
His breathing is still ragged, like he’s losing his grip on his control, and
his lips are closer to mine than they were a moment ago. I want him to kiss
me with every fiber of my being, but I don’t want it to be because of
Gabriel and Cheri.
“Yeah,” I say, with a teasing little laugh, “because having a fake fiancée
is really how you pictured things ending up.”
“Tink.” He says my nickname like he’s chiding me. “You’re not a
consolation prize.”
“I didn’t say I was.” I glance around the honeymoon suite, with its
white shiplap walls and frilly white bedding, so I don’t have to look at him.
But he takes my chin and guides my head back so I have no choice but to
lock eyes with him.
“You’re acting like you wouldn’t be my first choice, in any situation,
every single time.”
Now it’s me who’s struggling to breathe. What is he talking about? My
eyes search his, trying to determine his meaning.
“If you weren’t Jameson’s little sister . . .”
 It’s the sucker punch I wasn’t expecting, but should have been. His
relationship with my brother will always be more important to him than
whatever is growing between us.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I say, slipping under his arm and grabbing
my bag where it sits on the bed. I don’t stop to get my toiletries out; I just
take the entire bag into the bathroom with me. And then I stand under the
spray of the shower, turning the water as hot as I can possibly tolerate it,
and wonder why I keep letting him lead me on like this when I already
know how it’s going to end.
Even though there’s clearly something between us, he’s never going to
choose me.
 Chapter Twenty-Five
COLT

I ’m leaning back against the bar, watching Jules as she chats with my
mom. There’s ease in the way they get along, my mom welcoming her
into our family with open arms because she’s thrilled to see her son happy.
This is exactly why I asked Jules to go along with this—I wanted to show
my family that I’m fine.
The difference between when I asked her to fake this whole engagement
and now, is that I actually am happy. I’m not pretending, and it’s almost
entirely because Jules is here with me. Even the earlier argument with my
brother where I finally admitted how much he hurt me, it felt like letting go
in a way that freed me to finally be happy again.
Tonight, Jules is wearing a black jumpsuit with an open back covered in
black lace. It dips low enough in the front that her cleavage is on display,
but not so low that it’s not still classy. For someone who spends their days
on a construction site, she sure cleans up well.
I watch as she tosses those blond waves over her shoulder, laughing at
something my mom said, and I realize that even as gorgeous and glamorous
as she looks now, I’d rather have her in a tank top and shorts padding
around the house barefoot with her hair in a bun and no makeup. I’ve lost
count of the number of times I’ve come downstairs for some made-up
reason because the thought of us both being in the same house but not being
together gives me hives.
 Watching my parents renew their vows earlier, all I could think about
was how I never thought I wanted what they had—or at least, since Cheri
and Gabriel betrayed me, I told myself I didn’t want that. But today, with
Jules by my side and her smile so genuine as she watched my parents
together . . . I don’t know. I keep wondering what life would be like with
her.
I don’t know what to do about these feelings I have, and how at odds
they are with the promise I easily made to my best friend a couple of weeks
ago. I’m starting to wonder if he might be okay with us being together if he
knew how real my feelings are—that this isn’t just because I’m desperate to
get her in bed, this is me wanting and needing to be with her every minute
possible.
I’ve been viewing this situation as analogous to Gabriel and me fifteen
years earlier. Jameson is asking me to look after his little sister, just like I
asked Gabriel to look after Cheri for me. But is it really the same? Gabriel
and Cheri getting together was a betrayal of my trust because she and I
were dating. It’s not the same with Jameson and Jules . . . she’s his little
sister whom he raised. Making things real between us, as long as we didn’t
go behind his back, wouldn’t be betraying his trust or our friendship. I don’t
think?
“I never thought I’d see you looking lovestruck.” My dad’s voice comes
from directly beside me, but I was so focused on Jules that I didn’t even
notice he was there. His hair is grayer in a way I hadn’t noticed earlier.
“I mean, look at her,” I say, as if it’s her looks that have me feeling all
these conflicting emotions.
“Yeah,” my dad says, “but it’s not the way she looks. It’s the way you
look at her—and the way she practically glows when you do.”
I press my lips between my teeth, wishing I could ask his advice about
this, about how to handle it with Jameson so I don’t break his trust, but still
get what I want. But I don’t just want her—I need her in my life.
However, I don’t have any reason to believe she wants me in the same
way—for anything more than a physical relationship. I also don’t have any
reason to believe she doesn’t want more. Aside from the sexual frustration,
she’s kept her feelings well-hidden as we’ve tried to navigate this
engagement situation together. Clearly, we need to talk.
“She’s pretty incredible,” I say, because my dad’s looking at me like
he’s wondering why I’m lost in my own head. “She makes me feel . . .” I’m
not sure where I’m going with this, so I say the first thing that comes to my
mind. “. . . complete.”
“I think that’s how you know you found the one,” Dad says.
I’m about to respond—to ask him how you can ever be sure that
someone is the one—but then Jules is walking toward us, a big smile on her
face. When she comes to a stop in front of us, she says, “Mind if I steal my
fiancé away for a dance? This is my favorite song.”
As she drags me onto the dance floor, I laugh and say, “Of course
‘Landslide’ is your favorite song.”
She wraps her arms around my shoulders, pulling me close. “Why is
that so predictable?”
“Because Stevie Nicks wrote that song when her life was in upheaval.
It’s all about self-reflection and going after what you want and the fear of
making big changes, of letting go.”
I feel the “Hmmm” she lets out in response as it reverberates between
our chests. “It always makes me think of my dad.”
“Is that a good thing?” I ask. I can’t imagine how it would be, given
what I saw between them this morning, but I know she has good memories
of him.
“In a way. He used to play a lot of Fleetwood Mac on job sites. I
definitely get my musical taste from him. Anyway, this song always
reminds me of how choices have consequences—how they can be a turning
point, or the avalanche that does you in.”
It occurs to me then that in the two weeks we’ve been “engaged,” she
hasn’t had a single panic attack . . . that I know of. “Is that how you feel
when you’re not in control? Like an avalanche is coming?”
“I don’t know, Colt,” she says as she looks up at me and winks. “I never
lose control long enough to find out.”

I glance up from my phone, where I was taking a second look at the photos
of my condo that my contractor sent minutes ago, and Jules and I just
flipped through. The electrical has all been redone, and the plumbers
finished their work earlier today. Pretty soon, we’ll be ready for insulation
and drywall, and I suspect that once that’s done, the rest of the renovation
will go pretty quickly.
The thought of moving back to my condo has a thin layer of sweat
breaking out across my skin. The only thing I miss about that space is the
view, and even as spectacular as it is, it doesn’t have me wanting to move
out of Jules’s place.
Next to me, she toys with the lime in her drink as she stares across the
restaurant, where Cheri stands next to Gabriel at the bar. Her hair is the
same shade of blond as Jules’s, ashy with some light brown undertones,
though hers ends just below her shoulders while Jules wears hers longer.
Cheri’s got blue eyes too, but they’re lighter and washed out compared to
Jules’s.
Cheri’s aged well—she has the natural look of a woman who’s spent a
lot of time outdoors, doesn’t use much makeup, and has chosen to wear her
age instead of trying to cover it up in an attempt to look younger. She also
looks happy. Gabriel was right about the fact that they are better together
than she and I ever were.
“Is that why you were never attracted to me?” Jules asks quietly.
My head snaps toward her, and she looks like she’s in pain, so I reach
out, looping my hand around her hip and turning her toward me. Then
dipping my head close to hers, I ask, “What are you talking about, Tink?”
“Back when I used to have a crush on you. Is that why you weren’t
attracted to me?” She nods her chin toward Cheri. “It’s pretty easy to do the
math. I was nineteen in Vegas, the same age that you guys were when she
slept with your brother. Did I remind you of her?”
My other hand moves to her chin, my thumb on one side of her jaw and
my fingers on the other as I tilt her face up so she’s forced to look me in the
eye. “I was never not attracted to you. I just never let myself look at you
that way. Partially because you have blond hair and, yeah, since Cheri, I’ve
never been with a blonde. But also, because I always thought of you like a
sister.”
“Zero difference between Audrey and me, huh?” she asks, but her voice
is taunting me like she wants to crack me open and figure out all my
secrets.
“Not back then.”
“What about a couple weeks ago? If it had been Audrey at that dinner,
and Jerome grabbed her instead of me, would you have ended up in that
alley with her instead?”
Jerome. That’s the asshole’s name. Noted.
I press my lips together and swallow before saying, “No.”
“Why not?”
“Jules, why are you pushing me like this? Trust me when I say you
don’t want to know the answers to these questions.”
“Why? Because you can’t do anything about your attraction to me?”
She mimics my words back to me.
“You are such a brat sometimes,” I practically growl. Why does it turn
me on when she acts like this? “But yes, that’s exactly why.”
“Tell me, if it had been Audrey . . .?”
“It wouldn’t have been her.”
“What does that even mean, Colt?” She rolls her eyes, and I step in
close enough that I have to drop my hand from her chin because there isn’t
room for my arm between us. God, she drives me crazy—the way she
pushes and taunts me has me wanting to back her up against the wall and
have my way with her.
“It means that I wouldn’t have gone to that restaurant in the first place
for Audrey. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have let her practically fuck me
through her clothes like you were doing in that alley.”
Her gulp is so loud I’m glad no one is around to hear it except for me.
“Why not?” she asks, a challenge flashing in her gorgeous blue eyes as
they lock onto mine.
“I don’t have the same protective instincts toward her that I feel for you,
and I’ve never looked at her the way I look at you.”
“And how do you look at me, Colt?”
“I’m starting to think you’re not just taunting me.” I shake my head as I
stare down at her. “Now I’m pretty sure you’re trying to torment me.”
“Torment you how?” She rolls her eyes again like she knows it’ll get a
reaction out of me, and I clench my jaw so I don’t surge forward and invade
her mouth like I want to do. The tension between us is ever-present, like a
spark ready to turn into a blaze.
When I don’t respond, she says, “Because I’m reminding you that
you’re attracted to me after you’ve told me you don’t want to feel that way?
Sorry, I forgot I’m supposed to focus on your feelings and not my own.”
My fingers curl around her lower back to rest on the curve of her ass as
I pull her flush against me. “Are you saying you have feelings for me?”
 “Relax, Colt.” She lets out a sigh. “I got over my crush on you after
Vegas.”
“What?” I bark out the word so sharply she flinches.
“What part of that requires explaining?”
My hand instinctively tightens on her hip, anchoring her to me. “All of
it, Jules. Because it sounds like you’re saying that what happened in Vegas
had something to do with me.”
I’m expecting her to laugh and say that no, that wasn’t what she meant.
But I’d know she was lying. Why else would she have gotten over her crush
on me after Vegas if what happened there had nothing to do with me?
Instead of giving me an explanation, she digs her heels in, asking, “Why
do you sound mad about this? You’re not the one who almost ruined their
life with their inability to control their own emotions.”
“Because if you had feelings for me before Vegas and you went and
married someone else while we were there, I have to wonder if it was
because of something I did. Or didn’t do. I don’t know. But I have never
wanted to hurt you—not now, and certainly not back then. So if I did, I
deserve to know what happened. And to have the chance to make it right.”
She looks away. “It was a long time ago, Colt. It can’t be made right.”
“The fuck it can’t.” The words are low and feral, and I watch her shiver
as they coast over her skin. “We need to talk about this, and we’re not doing
it here. Let’s go.”
 Chapter Twenty-Six
JULES

6 Years Ago
Las Vegas, NV

I sfreeing,
this what being drunk feels like? Exhilarating and terrifying and
all at the same time?
Brock reaches across his body and intertwines the fingers of his left
hand with mine, while his right arm circles my waist, anchoring me to his
hip as we navigate through the small tables at the outdoor French bistro. I
don’t think I’m swaying, exactly, but everything feels fuzzy and lovely, and
it’s certainly easier to walk in a straight line when he’s helping me.
“Oh my God,” I gasp as I glance up at the lights of the Eiffel Tower
sparkling above us. “We’re in Paris!” I’ve never left the country before, and
I’m shocked and delighted that I’m in France and don’t even remember the
trip here.
The smacking sound he makes when his lips land on my cheek is
adorable. He can’t seem to keep his mouth off me, which is fine by me,
because his kisses are a million times better than the drunk frat boys who
are always trying to steal kisses at the MIT parties I’ve been to this year.
“We’re outside the Paris Hotel, not actually in Paris.” He says it with
the same voice you’d use to tell a child they’re silly, and that has me in a fit
of giggles.
 I don’t know why everything is so funny, but I’m happy and I’m
enjoying this feeling. It’s sort of a new one for me. Brock makes me happy.
Well, Brock and whiskey sours and delicious French meals at an outdoor
cafe under the Eiffel Tower, and some after-dinner drink with a name that
had something to do with Paris and burning. Whatever it was, it was strong
but delicious and went down easy—so easy that Brock had two.
“I’m pretty sure this actually is Paris,” I say, glancing from the outdoor
bistro tables of the French cafe we’re walking through and back up to the
Eiffel Tower.
“Sure thing,” he says and presses his lips to my temple as his fingers
snake a figure-eight pattern over my hip bone.
His touch has my skin on fire, but, like, if fire was pleasant. It makes me
glow. I’ve never felt like this before. Is this what I’ve been missing out on?
Why was I holding out for Colt when there are so many other attractive
guys out there?
Once we’re out of the cafe, he points out the Bellagio’s fountains across
the street. They’re in the middle of their spectacular show, so we head over
to watch them. Standing there with my back pressed up against his chest
and his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight, with the lights and the
fountains and the music all coordinated, he leans his head down and says,
“How about we go back to my room after this?”
My laugh is light and flirtatious, the alcohol pumping through my veins
has me feeling warm and tingly. “Brock,” I say, nervousness creeping up on
me. “I’m not sleeping with you tonight.”
I’ve never even done anything more than kiss a guy, and the thought
that he expects more than that from me has me so nervous I could throw up.
“I wasn’t planning on getting much sleep.” His thumb runs back and
forth over my wrist, and it’s sending sparks of desire through me. He might
not be the man I’d envisioned losing my virginity to, but that man is
currently fucking some random woman he’ll never see again in a Vegas
hotel room. This man, however, has been nothing but sweet and attentive
and wonderful to me all night.
I giggle as his lips trace a path up my neck and consider what it would
be like to actually give myself over to him. Everything he’s doing—the way
he touches me, the way his lips feel on my body—is amazing. Now, though,
I’m suddenly feeling the effects of that after-dinner drink. The fountains in
front of us look like a big moving blob of water, and the notes of the music
blend together in a way that feels overwhelming.
I want to talk to Audrey. I want to ask her what I should do here. But
knowing that she had a one-night stand last summer that resulted in
pregnancy and her facing single motherhood when the baby is born, I
already know what she’d say. I’m on the pill, though, and I can make sure
he wears a condom too. Double protection. Still, accidents happen, and I
don’t want to be a single mom. The only way to avoid that, though, is to
wait until you’re married to have sex.
Yes! That’s it, my brain screams. Tell him you can’t have sex until you’re
married.
When I say that, his chest shakes with a low chuckle. “Okay, let’s get
married, then. We are in Vegas, after all.”
“I didn’t come to Vegas to get married.” I’m proud of myself for
remembering this fact right now when everything is starting to feel fuzzy.
“Neither did I,” he says, then pulls my earlobe between his teeth. “But
we’d be good together, don’t you think?” He takes one of his arms that was
around my waist and moves it up, sliding his hand between his suit jacket
that I’m wearing and my dress so that he can cup my breast in his hand. His
thumb toys with my nipple in a way that has me instantly crossing my legs
to relieve some of the pressure building there.
Right now I want to have sex with him. But I don’t want to be a single
mom, either. Marriage is a good solution, my brain tells me, and in my
drunken state, I don’t even think to question it.
“Okay,” I sigh, leaning the back of my head against his shoulder. “Let’s
get married, then.”
He spins me around to face him and smacks a big, wet kiss on my lips.
“Pretty sure I’m the luckiest guy in Vegas.”
“Because you’re going to hit the jackpot tonight?” In my mind, this is
the funniest thing I’ve ever said, and I almost collapse into another fit of
giggles.
He’s laughing right along with me, pulling me into his arms. “Exactly.”
Then he flags down a taxi, and as we pile in, he asks, “Where’s the closest
place to get married?”
“You have a marriage license already?” the guy asks.
Brock and I both let out big, drunk sighs. “Nope.”
 “You’re in luck,” he says, “the Marriage License Bureau is open until
midnight, so I can get you down there with just enough time to get your
license, then bring you back to a chapel.”
Brock flashes his shiny, white grin at me, then says, “So we’re
definitely doing this, right?”
When I nod in agreement, my head keeps bobbing up and down until I
feel like I’m going to be sick. So I lean back against the headrest and crack
the window open, breathing in the fresh air as we go speeding down The
Strip.
“They’re not going to approve the license if you two are wasted,” the
driver says.
“We’re not wasted, just tipsy. Right, babe?”
My eyes are closed, and it doesn’t really register that he’s talking to me,
until he squeezes my thigh. “Right?”
“Yep, just tipsy,” I lie. “I’m tired, too.” The long day and night,
combined with all the alcohol we’ve consumed, have me feeling like I want
to lay my head in his lap and sleep.
“Alright, we’ll be at the bureau in five minutes,” the driver says. “You’ll
need identification.”
“You’ve done this before, I take it?” Brock asks.
“Several times a night,” the guy responds.
My eyes stay closed as they chat, and it feels like only seconds later
Brock is shaking me awake. “You sure about this?” he asks, pressing a kiss
to my forehead in the sweetest, gentlest way.
“Positive.” In fact, this is probably the best idea I’ve ever had. Or ever
agreed to? At this point, I’ve lost track of who suggested this in the first
place.

M yEverything
head pounds, the pain so intense I wake up wanting to cry.
aches. Do I have the flu? I had it once when I was twelve
and it felt a lot like this—a lot like wanting to die. My stomach flips over in
a way that has me thinking I’m going to vomit, but then it must flip back
the right way because the feeling passes.
 Where the hell am I? Everything feels like it’s moving. Maybe I’m on a
boat?
I breathe through my nose because I think that’s what you’re supposed
to do when you’re in pain? Why does everything hurt? I try to remember
the last thing I was doing before I went to sleep, and that’s when it hits me:
I’m in Paris! No, that doesn’t make sense; I can’t be in Paris. I was in Las
Vegas yesterday. Yes . . . Vegas. The game. Dinner afterward. The casino.
Brock flirting with me. Whiskey sours. Colt demanding I leave. The woman
in the pink dress. My broken heart. The hotel room floor. Brock’s text.
I haven’t opened my eyes, but I can feel the tears leaking down my face.
And the memories just keep coming.
The elevator ride down to the casino. Brock flirting with me, taking me
to dinner. Candles and an outdoor bistro. The Eiffel Tower. And then it gets
fuzzy . . . A car ride somewhere? Paperwork? Elvis?
No, the last things don’t make sense. We were at dinner, we left, the
Eiffel Tower was above us, then we walked across the street where there
were lights and music and water.
I hear movement next to me, so I open my eyes. The stark morning light
through the hotel room windows blinds me at first, and I squeeze my eyes
shut again. Did I not pull the curtains shut last night? No, that can’t be right.
Audrey was already back in the room asleep when I went out, and it was
pitch black in there. She had to have pulled the curtains shut.
I crack my eyes open ever so slowly, trying to let myself adjust to the
light. My head pounds harder, begging me to just go back to sleep.
Anything to escape this pain.
My eyes are open probably halfway when the body in bed across from
me comes into focus. Brock.
Fuck, what am I doing in bed with Brock Lester? We flirted, yes. We
went out to dinner. But why am I in his hotel room, and not my own? I’m
lying on my right side, so I reach out my left hand to nudge him awake.
And just when my fingers poke his shoulder, that’s when I see it. Sitting
prominently on my left ring finger, the stone catches the light, shooting
rainbow daggers back into my eyes. I pull my arm back quickly, suddenly
not wanting to wake him, but it’s too late.
He opens his eyes, takes one look at me, and says, “Why are you still
here?”
 Ouch. This is not the Brock I remember from last night—the one who
flirted with me shamelessly, told me I was beautiful, kissed me like he
meant it, and apparently . . . married me?
My jaw drops open in shock as I consider his question and this reality.
He doesn’t remember that we’re married. Maybe we’re not? Maybe this
ring is some sort of sick joke.
When I fail to respond, he says, “You were much more talkative, and
prettier, when we were both drunk.”
I need to say something, but I’m at such a loss for words. I’ve never
been spoken to like this before, so I have no idea how I’m supposed to
respond. Is this what it’s always like “the morning after?”
Instead of saying anything, I hold up my left hand in front of his face.
“What the fuck?” he says, and as he goes to grab my hand for a closer
inspection, we both notice the ring on his finger. His hand pauses midair,
and he looks from it to me, then rolls on his back and groans out “Fuck!” at
the top of his lungs. His fists are clenched and so are his teeth, and every
muscle in his upper body flexes in rage. It’s enough to actually scare me out
of my stupor.
I jump off the bed and hold my palm to my forehead, pressing to relieve
some of the pressure, as I stare down at him. “What the hell was that,
Brock?”
My eyes flick from him where he’s lying on the bed, to the hotel phone
on the nightstand. Room 712. I still don’t know where I am, exactly, but at
least I have a room number. And at least I’m fully clothed, unlike him. He’s
in nothing but boxers, eyes transfixed on the ceiling.
“That was the sound of someone whose girlfriend is going to kill them.”
“You have a girlfriend? Seriously?” Of all the things I should be upset
about right now, I choose to focus on this?
“Yeah.”
“Then what the fuck was last night?” I can feel the bile sloshing around
in my stomach, threatening to come up at any minute as I continue to press
on my forehead because it feels like if I don’t, my brain might explode.
He glances over at me like I’m trash that got stuck to the bottom of his
shoe and ended up on his hotel room floor. “I was just trying to piss your
brother off. It didn’t mean anything.”
“Piss Jameson off? Why?”
“None of your goddamn business, Jules.”
 Who is this asshole, and how is he so entirely different from the man I
was with last night? “So everything last night . . . it was all just an act? A
lie?”
The bile sloshes around more, burning as it creeps up into my
esophagus in waves that mimic the shame and anger flowing through me.
He looks toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of what I’m now noticing
is a pretty nice suite—not the kind with a separate bedroom, but there’s a
couch, chairs, and a table over in one corner of the spacious room, and a
kitchen with an island and several chairs in the other corner.
Then he looks back at me, his eyes sweeping up and down my body.
Given how hungover I am, I can imagine what I look like standing there in
my sparkly dress from last night, my hair a mess, my makeup smeared from
the tears.
“Honey,” he says, like I’m the most pitiful creature in the world, “guys
like me don’t go for girls like you.”
I grab my phone off the nightstand, then sprint for what I hope is the
bathroom door. Luckily, I guess right, and I shut and lock it behind me, then
collapse, my knees crashing onto the tile floor as I lunge for the toilet and
empty the contents of my stomach. It’s probably at least a half an hour
before I stop retching, even though it’s been nothing but dry heaving for
most of that time.
Brock hasn’t come to check on me, but I also appreciate that he’s not
kicking me out of the room in my state. How sad is it that my standards are
so low, I’m thankful my husband isn’t throwing me out into the hallway?
Finally, I open the map app on my phone and check to see where I am.
Not in my own hotel, as it turns out. I try to stand, but my legs are shaking
like crazy, and I collapse back onto the floor. I can’t ask Brock for help. I
don’t even want to go out there and see him again, and I don’t really feel
safe in his presence after the way he reacted to finding out we’re married.
Pulling out my phone, I text Jameson the hotel name and room number I
noted on the phone earlier.
JULES
I need you to come get me.

I think about what Brock said about wanting to piss him off, and it
makes me wonder what bad blood exists between them. Suddenly, I’m
terrified that Jameson will kill him, and it’ll be my fault.
 JULES
You should bring Colt with you.

Second only to Brock, Colt is the last person I want to see right now.
But he’s generally level-headed and never gets truly upset about anything.
More than once I’ve seen him calm my brother down.
JAMESON
What the hell are you doing there? You’re supposed to be in your
hotel room.
JULES
Well obviously I’m not. Just come get me and I’ll explain when you get
here.

And then I set my phone on the floor and dry heave into the toilet a few
more times. If this is what being hungover is like, why would anyone drink?
It makes me think of all the mornings my dad was bleary-eyed but cracked
a beer for breakfast anyway because he claimed it chased the hangover
away.
That’s the model Dad set for us: alcohol and bad decisions.
I watched him go down a dark path. His heartbreak while my mom was
dying led to heavier drinking, the drinking led to bad decisions that nearly
bankrupted his company and broke our family apart, and the inability to
control that drinking led to him walking away.
In retrospect, his leaving probably saved us. I don’t want to think about
what Audrey’s and my life would have been like if he’d stayed. Jameson
was a better father figure to us than our dad ever was.
And I don’t want to go down “Flynn Road,” as Dad calls it. It’s the
same road his father walked before him, succumbing to alcoholism and a
premature death from it. And it only took one night in Vegas, with too many
drinks and a broken heart, to have me following in my father’s footsteps.
I will never be him. I won’t allow it.
I owe it to my family, and to myself, to be better than he was. It’s why
I’ve been so damn careful. Until now.
The banging on the hotel room door starts a few minutes later. Or
maybe I’ve dozed off with my head on my arms where they’re folded
across the toilet seat? There are angry voices in the hallways outside the
bathroom door, then Jameson knocks and says, “Jules, open the door.”
 I push up to standing, holding on to the countertop for support as I walk
to the door. And when it’s open, Colt’s standing there. Jameson’s behind
him with one hand around Brock’s neck, while Brock holds his hands in the
air, saying, “I swear I didn’t touch her, man.”
“Shit, Tink.” Colt’s words are a whisper as he reaches his hand out to
me. And without thinking, I extend my left hand into his grip. He freezes
when he sees the ring, then holds up my hand for Jameson and Brock to see.
“What the fuck happened last night?”
And that’s when all hell breaks loose. Jameson’s got Brock on the floor
before I can even blink, and Colt scoops me up, cradling me protectively in
his arms as he stands in the doorway of the bathroom looking at the
skirmish below. I wince when Jameson’s fist connects with Brock’s jaw, but
Colt turns us toward the door. “Do you have everything?”
“My phone.” I nod my chin toward the bathroom where it sits on the
countertop, and he reaches over to grab it with one hand while holding me
to him with his other arm like I weigh nothing. “We’ll be outside.”
He flips the lock to the hotel room door, propping it open as we exit—I
assume, in case he needs to get back in there to help my brother—but he
doesn’t set me down in the hallway. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I never want to talk about this. In fact, promise me now that you’ll
never bring it up again.”
I watch his throat bob and his lips twist together before he says, “This
wasn’t your fault.”
“Promise me, Colt. We’re not talking about this now, nor ever again.”
He sighs, and it’s a deep movement that, from my vantage point in his
arms, feels like it deflates him. “Okay, Tink. I promise.”
 Chapter Twenty-Seven
COLT

Present Day

ou’re not saying anything,” she whispers, the sound escaping from
“Y where she’s pressed up against my chest, with my arms wrapped
around her and my shirt wet from her tears. It’s so similar to the way
I cradled her in my arms that morning in Vegas that it has my heart seizing.
At least this time, we’re in the quiet of our own room at the inn, and
hopefully by now she knows I’d do just about anything to make sure she
feels safe.
I’m so consumed by my own guilt that I don’t know what to say. She
got drunk and married him because I hurt her. Not intentionally, but it was
me being oblivious to her feelings that drove her straight into his arms. All
for what? Some random chick I never saw or thought of again. I was
supposed to be taking care of her, and knowing that not only did I fail her in
that, but I actually caused the whole situation, has a knife twisting inside
my gut.
It didn’t mean anything. I think his words—the same ones I said to her
in that alley a couple of weeks back—will haunt me forever. She deserves
so much more than that. She deserves to mean everything to someone.
“I had no idea.”
“About what?”
 “About why it happened. I mean, I got the sense that you had a crush on
me when you were younger, but I thought you outgrew that when you were
old enough to figure out . . .”
“That you were the biggest fuckboy in the league?” she suggests when I
don’t provide an end to that sentence. Then she lets out a small laugh and
relaxes against me. “Yeah, I always hoped there was more to you than your
reputation. And I think I was right.”
“I think maybe you’re the only one who ever tried to see beneath the
mask.”
“What Gabriel and Cheri did to you . . . Colt, if I’d have known, I don’t
think I would have suggested forgiving them.”
The fact that she is even considering what happened between me and
my brother, right now, after telling me what happened to her . . . I don’t
know if she’s just extremely empathetic, or if she’s trying to turn the
conversation away from the huge bomb she just dropped.
“You didn’t,” I remind her. “You said I didn’t have to forgive them, that
I could just choose to move on. And that advice, I think, begs the question:
why haven’t you moved on from what Brock did to you?”
“Besides the fact that this was only six years ago, not fifteen?”
I can tell she’s joking, trying to buy time to decide how to answer the
question. “Touché.”
“It’s not that I can’t move on because I haven’t forgiven Brock. It’s
because what happened back in Vegas proved to me that I can’t trust
myself.”
“I think what you learned, Jules, is a lesson we all learn the hard
way . . . you make really bad decisions when you’re drunk.”
“No. I learned that when I let go of control, I fuck up my life. Alcohol is
one way of losing control, but there are others.”
“Like what?” I ask, wondering how deep her control issues go.
“I don’t know.” I can feel her shrug her shoulder where it rests against
my bicep. “I never test my limits. Being vulnerable in any way . . . it’s a no
from me.”
“Jules, that’s . . .” I stop myself before I say ridiculous. How can she
possibly grow, or be a fully functioning human being, if she keeps herself
so closed off? “. . . limiting your life experiences, don’t you think?”
She shrugs again.
 “What are the things you’d want to do if you weren’t afraid of losing
control?”
“You’re not my shrink, Colt.”
I can already feel her walls coming back up. “No, I’m not. But unlike
your therapist, I’m here right now. And you need to talk this out.”
The hum of her disapproval rattles around in her throat, but her fingers
trace the tattoos on my right biceps.
“Let’s play a little game,” I suggest. “Here’s the sentence frame: if I
wasn’t afraid of . . . blank, I would or wouldn’t . . . blank. I’ll go first.”
“Okay.” Her agreement is tentative, like she might change her mind if I
don’t offer something worthy.
“If I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt again, I would drop my one night only
rule. Your turn.”
She pauses, sighing as if she’s not sure where to start. “If I wasn’t afraid
of the making terrible decisions, I would try more than two drinks in a night
just to see what it’s like.”
“If you ever want to get drunk, Jules, I’ll happily stay sober and make
sure you’re safe. You can try drinking again, and I won’t let you do
anything you’ll regret.”
She shifts on the bed, curling into me like she’s burrowing into blankets.
She’s trying to get cozy with me, and I don’t have the typical urge to get up,
move away, invite her to leave. No, I want Jules curled up with me for as
long as she wants to be here.
“Maybe someday,” she says finally. “Your turn.”
“If I wasn’t afraid of becoming irrelevant, I wouldn’t try so hard to live
up to my reputation.”
“Hmmmm.” That sound rattles against me again, and I’m about to
remind her that it’s her turn now when she says, “If I wasn’t afraid of losing
control, I would date.”
“You’re afraid of losing control on a date?”
“No questions, Colt,” she says. “Just finish the sentence frame. Your
turn.”
My chest shakes with laughter because I’m finally figuring her out.
Knowing she lashes out when she’s scared—especially of being vulnerable
—makes it so much easier to understand her.
“If I wasn’t afraid of hurting someone else the way I was hurt,” I say,
releasing a heavy breath, “I would be open to a relationship.”
 “You think you’d hurt someone else the same way you were hurt?”
Of course not. After what Gabriel did to me, there’s no way I’d ever
cheat. But there are a lot of other ways to hurt someone just as much.
“No questions, Jules. Just finish the damn sentence,” I say, mimicking
her.
“Fine,” she huffs like she’s irritated that I used her strategy on her. “If I
wasn’t afraid of losing control, I wouldn’t still be a virgin.”
I freeze. I think I stop breathing and my blood stops flowing, because
everything inside of me comes to a standstill. I couldn’t have heard her
correctly. And then my body jolts itself back alive in a flash of heat that
flows across my skin painfully.
“What now?” I croak out the words,
“No questions . . .” she says, but I tighten my grip on her with my left
arm and use my right hand to tilt her chin up so she’s looking at me.
“Jules, you can’t lead with a sentence like that and not offer an
explanation.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation, Colt.”
“You’re right. But . . .” But what? I don’t deserve to know this about
her, or know anything else that she doesn’t want to tell me. “. . . maybe
talking about it would help?”
“I’ve talked about it ad nauseam with my therapist and my sister.”
“And has that helped?”
“I’m still a virgin, aren’t I?” The question is sassy and sardonic, but it
seems to hide real pain—or real fears, at the very least.
“Can I ask you a question that’s probably going to piss you off?” In
response, she rolls her eyes as if to say, Everything you do pisses me off.
But I think I’m learning that this is just part of her defensive strategy. “How
do you know for sure? I mean, you were so drunk you don’t remember
getting married. Are you positive that douchebag didn’t take advantage of
you?”
She burrows her cheek into my chest. “Look at you getting all
possessive,” she teases, trying to redirect the conversation so she doesn’t
have to answer the question. I wait her out and finally, she says, “I was
having my period. I still had my tampon in that morning.”
“God, Jules,” I say as I stroke her cheek. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
 “Yeah, it really is. I always felt guilty because, even though I made sure
you got back to your room safely, it didn’t stop everything that happened
afterward. Now I know that it truly is my fault.”
“I was in charge of my own emotions and my own decision-making that
night, Colt. I’m the one who’s responsible. Just like I’m the one who has to
decide when I can trust someone enough to move past what happened.”
“What’s preventing you from taking that last step?”
Why am I asking her these questions? Why am I prying into something
that isn’t my business? Is it because she’s quickly become one of the few
people I trust enough to share my secrets? Or is it because I can’t stop
thinking about her? Can’t stop imagining us together? Have pictured myself
having sex with her almost as often as I’ve taken a breath lately? Jerked off
to images of us together? Want her so bad that I’m having a fucking crisis
of conscience over her?
“You mean, besides the lack of quality men in this world?” she says.
“Yeah.”
She sighs, and I think she’s done with the conversation. But then she
says, “I think sex is one of those things where I would have to trust another
person implicitly in order to be able to . . . do it. And I’ve never met a guy I
can trust like that.”
I have so many thoughts about that—about the fact that sex doesn’t
have to be an emotional experience, how it can just be about blowing off
steam and feeling good. But I guess I don’t have the control issues or the
fear that Jules does, so it’s easy for me to disassociate sex from emotions.
“You’ve never met a single guy you trust enough to have sex with?”
She lets out a little snort of laughter. “The circle of guys I trust, and the
circle of guys who want to sleep with me . . . they just never seem to
overlap.”
Do you trust me? The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t
dare ask it.
Her family is my family, and they don’t want me with her. Jameson is
my best friend, so he told me what everybody else was thinking: I’m not
good enough for Jules. And they’re right. I’ll hurt her in the end, or she’ll
hurt me. Either way, I can’t risk damaging my relationship with the Flynns.
Even if, for a brief moment, every once in a while, in quiet times like this
when it’s just the two of us, I go stupid and think there’s a chance Jules and
I could actually work out.
 Chapter Twenty-Eight
COLT

“C olt,” she whispers while poking me in the stomach. It’s still dark out,
but the light is starting to creep in.
I rub one eye with the back of my hand but can’t rub the other
because she’s got her head on my pillow, our faces pressed together, so that
I don’t have access to it. “What time is it?”
She snuggles in closer. Our legs are already intertwined, as we
apparently wrapped ourselves around each other in our sleep. As she shifts,
her thigh presses into my cock and she laughs, a low, throaty sound that has
me growing even harder against her. She hums her approval. “Time for you
to listen to the brilliant idea I just had.”
“Okay.” The word is full of trepidation because she sounds wide awake
and excited. After her sadness before falling asleep last night, this has me
on high alert.
She keeps her eyes locked on me when she says, “I think you should be
the one to take my virginity.”
“No.” I don’t even think about my denial before it’s out of my mouth. I
don’t have to. There’s no way I’m sleeping with my best friend’s little
sister. Especially now that I know she’s never had sex with anyone else. Her
face doesn’t fall, and she doesn’t look crushed—which I take as a good
sign. She just continues to stare at me like she’s waiting for me to say more.
“Jules, you deserve your first time to be with someone special.”
 “And you don’t think you’re special?” she challenges, but there’s
something in her eyes that softens.
“I think our situation is already complicated enough. It’s hard enough to
keep my hands off you when I’m supposed to. You asked me to keep my
hands off you unless it was absolutely necessary, and now you’re asking me
to have sex with you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “Am I sending you mixed signals? How’s
that feel? Confusing, isn’t it?”
“That’s even more of a reason we shouldn’t have sex. Adding sex to our
already confusing situation would just make things that much harder.”
She snorts out a little laugh, which is quickly becoming one of the
things I adore about her. “I don’t think you could get much harder.” She
presses herself against my length as she runs her hand up my chest and rests
it along the side of my neck.
“Jules, no. This is a terrible idea.”
“I told you last night that there was no overlap between the guys I trust,
and the guys who would want to sleep with me. But when I woke up this
morning, with your hugely hard dick pressed into my stomach, I realized
that you are the overlap.”
I could tell her that I wake up this hard every morning, that it has
nothing to do with the way my body is wrapped around hers, but that would
be a lie. And more importantly, it would hurt her.
“It’s the perfect solution,” she says, seeming so sure of herself.
“Because I know you’re never going to have feelings for me, so I don’t
have to worry about getting hurt. And because the relationship is fake, the
sex would be too.”
She only wants me for sex. The realization guts me—it’s exactly what I
was afraid of. She’s becoming my favorite person more and more each day,
but to her, I’m just someone who can fulfill a physical need. But my body
doesn’t seem to care. My dick is raring to go.
“You can’t fake sex, Jules. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Really? Because based on what I’ve heard from other women, they’re
faking it a lot of the time.”
“Trust me, Tink,” I say, unable to help the way my voice drops low as I
bring my hand up and tuck her hair behind her ear. “You wouldn’t need to
fake it.”
 She presses herself forward, into me. “I’m going to need you to prove
that theory.”
“This is the worst idea,” I groan, even as my dick grows harder. “We
can’t go there.”
“What about everything except sex?”
The temptation to make her beg for me to fuck her, and then deliver, is
so overwhelming that my hips thrust forward into her of their own accord.
Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that, because now she’s wrapping her leg over
my hip, and using her calf to pull me forward so I’m lined up with her
center.
“Fuck, Jules.” I rest my forehead on hers. “We can’t.”
“Why not? What’s going to happen if we do?”
I’m going to fall for you. “One of us will get hurt.” And that “one” is
bound to be me.
“Colt, I already told you, I’m not under any illusions that you’ll develop
feelings for me. And I won’t let myself have feelings for you. So it’s
perfect.”
The thought of her having sex with me to get over that hurdle but it
meaning nothing to her, bothers me so much, even though in the past that’s
always been what I’m looking for in a hookup—something casual, where
no actual feelings are involved.
But this time, my feelings are involved. Can I do this with her, even
knowing it means nothing to her?
Her hips tilt forward, sliding along the length of me again, and before I
can talk myself out of it, I thrust forward to meet her. The low groan of
pleasure she admits rattles through me.
“We’ve already kissed,” she says, her tone way too seductive to ignore.
Sliding her hand up to my jaw, she traces her thumb along my lower lip.
“So that doesn’t feel like it should be off limits.”
“You are playing such a dangerous game right now,” I growl before
sinking my teeth into her thumb. I’m barely holding on by a thread, and
she’s lying here trying to gnaw through that last frayed string of my control.
“It’s not dangerous, Colt.” She pushes me onto my back and straddles
me, hovering just above me. She’s wearing my T-shirt and some skimpy
underwear, and even though I’m in the sweats I put on last night when we
got back from the party, I can feel the heat radiating off her through the
thick fabric. “It’s perfect.”
 Crossing her arms in front of her, she grips the fabric at the bottom of
the shirt in each hand and raises her eyebrow at me. “Tell me not to take
this shirt off and we can stop right here.” She glances down at my crotch,
where my dick is standing at attention as much as the fabric of my sweats
will allow, and then she rolls her hips forward, pressing along my length.
“But I don’t think you want to stop.”
I want to be the kind of person who’s strong enough to resist her, to put
a stop to this before we go any further. Instead, I say, “We’re not having
sex.”
“I’m fine with that, as long as you give me an orgasm. I’d at least like to
know that I’m capable of orgasming with someone other than myself.”
“You’ve never . . .?”
With a shake of her head, she starts to lift her shirt slowly, like she’s
giving me time to stop her if I want to. Even though I should put a halt to
this before we cross over into territory that we can’t come back from, even
though I’m going to enjoy this now, but it’ll hurt later, I watch in
fascination as the shirt rises to show me her creamy skin. There are three
freckles on her abdomen, and I reach my thumb out, tracing them while I
try to memorize their exact locations. Then the undersides of her breasts
come into view, and fuuuuuck. She’s stacked like the Playboy models in the
magazines my friends and I used to steal from my neighbor’s recycling bin.
“Fuck it.”
I sit up quickly, my hands sliding under the shirt and ripping it up and
over her head so fast she lets out a surprised gasp. Then my hands are on
her breasts, cupping them so I can run my thumbs over her nipples, and
she’s holding my face in her hands and kissing me while she grinds herself
against my cock.
I feel like a horny teenager with not enough control over my body any
time she’s around. Lying wrapped up in her limbs and trying to resist her
while she offered herself up to me for the past few minutes has me already
on the verge of exploding. If she keeps rubbing herself along me like that,
with just the perfect amount of pressure, I’m going to come in my pants like
a fucking amateur.
I kiss my way down her neck, and then take a moment to admire a sight
I never thought I’d see. Her breasts spill out of my hands, her nipples
pebbled under the rough pads of my thumbs, and below that her abdomen
flexes and contracts as she controls the movement of her hips, and every
time she pulls back, I can see the neatly trimmed V of curls through the
sheer underwear, right where her body runs itself along my sweats.
As soft as they are, I’m wearing these pants like armor, knowing that if I
remove them, I’ll fuck her senseless. But I already told her that we’re not
having sex, and I need to stick to that, at least, since we’re already hurdling
over so many other lines.
There will be a lot to think about later, probably a lot to talk about too,
but I don’t care at this moment. All I care about is proving to her that she
can let go of her iron grip on control long enough to come by someone
else’s hand . . . or mouth. I haven’t decided yet.
My face descends to her breast, capturing her nipple and pulling it
between my lips, smoothing around and over it with my tongue while Jules
moans, “Yes, Colt!” and my cock surges up, seeking the friction of her body
as it presses into mine. I suck her into my mouth until I hear that small
grunt of pain, then pause and smooth my tongue over her again, before
switching to the other breast. She hums approvingly as I give her other
nipple the same attention, and her hips move faster as she grinds into me
harder.
The familiar sensation at the base of my spine tells me I need to slow
the fuck down before I’m coming in my pants, but the way she’s rubbing
herself up against me, so carefree and unguarded and willing to let me
touch her in any way I want—it makes me hesitant to pull back. I don’t
want her mind to go into overdrive trying to figure out what it means if I
slow us down, or worse yet, drawing the wrong conclusions.
“This is too good,” I say, trying to explain myself, “and I’m too close.
So I’m going to need you to stop pressing yourself up against my cock like
that.”
“Oh yeah,” she says, her voice husky and teasing at the same time. “Or
what?”
“Or I’m going to embarrass myself,” I say. Trailing my mouth up the
side of her neck, I nip at the cord of muscle there. “And I’d much rather
focus on giving you that orgasm you requested.”
“I need you to give me the kind of orgasm that has me seeing stars,” she
says as she reaches up and tugs on the gold necklace with the star engraved
on it that she always wears.
“Jules,” I say as I flip her onto her back, using my extended arm to prop
myself up over her. “I’m going to give you the whole fucking supernova
experience. And then every time you touch that necklace of yours, you’re
going to remember exactly how it feels to explode.”
She relaxes into the bed and lets her knees fall to the sides. Her thong is
tiny, a soft black lace that’s now drenched. Hooking my thumbs around the
fabric, I press her legs together so I can slide them off her, then I press them
to my face, breathing in her scent, before I tuck them into the pockets of my
sweats, telling her, “I’m keeping these.”
“Hey, I made those!”
“You made them?”
I have so many questions, but she just mumbles, “I’ll tell you later,” as
her knees fall open again, baring that perfect pussy to me. Aside from the
little V of curls at the top, she’s completely bare—pink and shimmering
with her arousal.
“So fucking pretty,” I say, reaching a hand out to circle my fingers
lightly over her clit. “The way you’re so wet for me . . .” I bend down and
press a kiss along the inside of her knee. “So needy.”
Trailing kisses down her inner thigh as I continue circling her clit with
light pressure, I make sure to keep my eyes on her face. I want this
experience to be perfect for her. I’m confident she knows what she likes
when she does this to herself, but since no one else has done this to her, she
may not know how to tell me what she needs.
Her eyes flutter shut, and her hips raise to meet my hand, adding
additional pressure where my fingers graze against her sensitive nerve
endings. Okay, maybe she does know how to show me what she needs.
Increasing the speed as well as the pressure, I kiss my way up to the
apex of her thighs and I breathe in deeply, inhaling her scent. And then, I
slide my tongue from the back of her pussy all the way up to the front,
pulling my fingers away as my tongue laps against her clit to match the
tempo of her hips as they move against my mouth. Her soft pants turn into
low moans of pleasure that have me teasing my fingers along her entrance.
As I lift my head, she whispers, “Please don’t stop.”
“Grab those pillows behind you and prop yourself up so you can watch.
I want you to see what it looks like when someone takes care of you like
this, and I want to watch you fall apart on my tongue.”
She arches her back as she reaches for the pillows above her head, and
the movement has the tips of my two fingers pressing into her entrance
enough that her mouth falls open as she lets out a low, throaty groan. When
I slide both fingers into her at once, she hisses out a “yes.”
“Come on,” I say when she freezes, focusing on me inside of her instead
of on getting herself set up on those pillows. “Prop yourself up so you can
see the way your greedy little pussy is devouring my fingers.”
“Jesus, Colt.” Eyes wide, she sits up enough to prop one elbow behind
her and get the pillows situated under her upper back. Then she lies back
against them, her eyes locked on me, and I curl my fingers up, stroking her
from the inside.
She closes her eyes as her hips meet my fingers thrust for thrust. “Eyes
on me,” I say, and her eyes snap open. “I want you to watch every second of
this, so that you remember the first person who ever made you scream their
name.”
“I won’t be screaming your name,” she says with a laugh.
I bend my head back down to her clit, circling it with my tongue before
sucking it between my lips. The moan she lets out borders on a scream, so I
lift my head again and say, “Want to bet?”
I’m determined to give her an orgasm that beats anything she’s ever
experienced and is more than she ever hoped for. Using my tongue on her
clit while my fingers sink deep inside her, I have her moaning and
thrashing, chasing that orgasm in mere minutes. Trailing my free hand up
her side, I skim my palm along her breast and over her nipple before I
spread my thumb and fingers to grasp the base of her throat. I only apply
light pressure, not enough to prevent her from breathing, but it sends her
body into overdrive. Her hips slam into my fingers as she sets the tempo,
and by the way she’s gasping my name in between moans when she finally
comes, I’d say I was successful in helping her let go of control long enough
to show her who owns this pussy. Because as I pull my fingers out of her
and use my tongue to lap up every bit of her cum, there’s only one path
forward . . . us, together.
“I love the way you taste,” I tell her.
“Oh yeah? How do I taste?”
I lean forward, planting my elbow on the bed next to her shoulder as I
bring my lips to her forehead. “Like you’re mine.”
“I didn’t know ‘mine’ was a flavor,” she says, her sass fully back intact
like she didn’t just fall apart on my tongue. “What does it taste like?”
“You.”
 Chapter Twenty-Nine
JULES

C olt’s parents’ house is chaotic and loud, but still warm and inviting. His
aunt and uncle sit at the kitchen table, sipping tea and eating croissants
while his cousin, Lane, plays video games with Colt’s nephew, Simon.
Simon is the spitting image of Gabriel—he has a dark complexion with
dark brown hair like his dad, but he has his mom’s pale eyes.
I know he said that sometimes his nephew comes down to Boston with
his parents, and it makes me wonder how Colt feels every time he sees
Simon, who is the literal embodiment of his brother’s betrayal. He’s also an
incredibly good-natured teenage boy, and from what I can tell, he seems
like he really looks up to his uncle.
Colt said yesterday that everything worked out exactly as it should
have, which makes me think of the saying my mom used a lot: Everything
happens for a reason. After she died, I hated that saying with the burning
passion of a thousand suns. It felt like a lazy way to dismiss real pain and
suffering with a casual promise of a better future.
But now, when I look at Colt’s family and think about how different his
life would have been if that baby had been his, or I think about how
different my life would have been if my parents had both survived my
mom’s illness and my brother hadn’t retired from hockey to raise us . . . I
don’t know that I disagree with the saying as much as I used to.
Both of those things led to good. Not that our lives wouldn’t have each
been good without those catastrophic events, but they’d be different. We
definitely wouldn’t be in this complicated as hell situation we’re in . . . but
it’s feeling less complicated, and more real, by the minute.
Colt tightens his arm around my shoulder where we stand, leaning
against the kitchen counter near the stove where his mom is heating the
kettle to brew more tea.
“I got you that cinnamon kind you like,” she tells Colt, and then asks
me if I drink tea.
“Sometimes? I drink it like my dad used to, with some milk and sugar.”
“How very Irish of you,” Colt says and kisses the top of my head. “You
want to try my favorite kind? I’m sure it’s good with milk and sugar.”
“Sure.” I relax into his side, feeling more at peace than I’ve felt in a
long time, despite the fact that Gabriel and Cheri are standing on the other
side of the island. Based on their history, it should be awkward, but Colt
seems more okay with it than he was yesterday. I’m trying not to read too
much into it, though it does seem that me being here with him is what’s
making the difference.
“How are you feeling about round two of the playoffs?” Gabriel asks
him. Next to me, Colt stiffens the tiniest amount—it would be
imperceptible to anyone not touching him.
“Good. Carolina’s got a really strong defense this year, but so do we.”
They talk for a few minutes about the game, and based on some of the
details he mentions, I realize that Gabriel must follow his brother’s career
closely. As his mom hands us our mugs of tea, I wonder if Colt is picking
up on this too.
“Jules and I are going to take our tea down to the pond. I want to show
her where I learned to skate. But also,” he says specifically to Gabriel, “I
got tickets for Mom and Dad to come see the game on Thursday. I realize
you guys probably have work and Simon probably has school, but I could
get three more tickets if you guys want to join them.”
Gabriel looks at Cheri, and her mouth pops open, but she seems lost for
words.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Colt says quickly. “Just let me know.”
And with that, he moves his hand to the small of my back and guides
me through the sliding glass door that leads to a raised deck. We follow the
stairs down to the ground, and then take the steps built into the steep
hillside to the pond below. When we get to the dock, Colt unfurls a heavy
wool blanket that he must have grabbed on our way out.
 The crisp spring morning air smells damp, the way soil does after it
rains. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders and then sides so that his
butt is on the blanket and there’s just enough space between his legs for me
to sit on it too. I settle in, leaning back against him and sipping my tea as he
pulls the blanket around us to ward off the chill.
“I’m proud of you for what you did back there,” I say.
“Inviting them to the game?”
“Yeah. I know it took a lot for you to extend that olive branch.”
He exhales and his breath skims the top of my head and then condenses
with the mist surrounding us. “It was a lot easier than I’d worked it up to be
in my mind.”
“I think that, maybe, that’s what moving on feels like.”
“Yeah . . . maybe.”
Sitting on the dock watching the mist come off the water and the sun try
to peek through the grey clouds, I marvel at the fact that I’m in Colt’s
arms . . . and have been for the last few hours. I was still ravenous for him
after that single mind-blowing orgasm early this morning, but he wouldn’t
let me take it any further than we had.
Instead, he wrapped me in his arms and fucking cuddled me, and I fell
back asleep while pressed up against his chest with his arms around me. I
woke up at some point when he got up and went into the bathroom, and I’m
pretty sure he took care of that erection that had been pushed up against me
when I fell asleep because it was absent, and he was more relaxed when he
came back to bed to pull me right back into his arms.
When the alarm went off a few hours ago, I was afraid things would be
awkward, especially since the only other time I’d ever woken up in a guy’s
bed had been a nightmare. But everything has felt so natural, so easy, that
part of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“So you learned to skate on this pond in the winters, I assume?” I ask
after a few moments of silence.
“Yeah. I probably spent more hours of my life on this pond, skating in
the winter and swimming in the summer, than anywhere else, ever.”
I look out across the “pond,” which is actually larger than a lot of lakes
in New England. “When I was a kid, my mom used to take us up to her
aunt’s house on Lake Sunapee in the summers. Sometimes we’d just go for
the weekend, and other times we’d stay for a week or two. It was this
amazing old hunting lodge overlooking the water, and I’d go down to the
dock and just sit there in the shade and read in the mornings. It was my
absolute favorite place in the world, but I haven’t been back in years.”
“What happened to it?”
“Nothing. It’s still in the family, but my dad never took us up there once
Mom died—he never got along well with her family. I inquired about
buying the house last year. I’d love to remodel it and make it something that
could be enjoyed year-round. I had all these visions of going up there with
my whole family for holidays and such. But my great-aunt’s kids are not
interested in selling. Apparently, it’s their favorite place, too.”
“I love that you have a favorite place,” he says. “But I’m sorry you
don’t get to go there anymore.”
I shrug against him, and he hugs me tighter. “Is this your favorite
place?”
“I don’t think I have a favorite place. I loved it here when I was a kid,
but this is my first time sitting on this dock in fifteen years. It’s not even the
same dock. The old one was long, narrow, and wooden. This new one is
quite a bit nicer.”
I glance along the floating platform that we’re sitting on, which is
connected to the shore by a short, permanent dock. It’s coated in droplets of
water and, despite the blanket beneath me, I realize that my jeans are damp.
“Did it rain overnight?” I ask. I didn’t hear the rain, but there’s a layer
of moisture clinging to everything, and I can’t tell if it’s just from the mist.
“Not sure,” he says, his whispered words brushing up against my ear. “I
was too busy listening to you scream my name to notice whether it was
raining.”
“First of all, that was this morning, not last night. And second, I did not
scream your name.”
“Want me to demonstrate what you sounded like?” His voice is husky as
he smooths his hand against my stomach, anchoring me back against his
chest. “Or maybe”—he toys with the button at the top of my jeans—“I
should just slide my hand in here and do it again? You’ll have to be quieter
this time, because sound carries over water, and if we go back to talking at a
normal volume, they’ll be able to hear everything up at the house, and
across the pond, too.”
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, even as my hips tilt forward, seeking out
his hand. I know they can’t see us from the house because of the trees, but I
didn’t realize they could hear us. “I do not need the mortification of
everyone listening to me having an orgasm on your parents’ dock.”
“Jules, now that I’ve given you one, I kind of want to see how many
times I can make you come. I bet I could get at least two out of you right in
a row, maybe more.”
An uneasy feeling washes over me. I can’t explain where it comes from,
but the uncertainty and mistrust are there, rearing their ugly heads. “Why?
Do you compare notes with your teammates to see who can dole out the
most orgasms in one go, or something?” I’m joking—it’s not like I really
believe he does this. But guys do talk, and I don’t want to be the subject of
their conversations.
The sudden clink of his mug on the dock sends a few birds scattering
out of the tree above us, their black wings taking shape against the mist
coming off the water as they swoop low over the pond. Colt uses both
hands to grip my waist, lifting and turning me so I’m sitting on his knees. I
reach down and set my mug on the dock as well, thankful I’d almost
finished my tea so I didn’t spill it everywhere.
“Do you really think I’d do something like that, Jules?” Annoyed notes
of frustration ring out in his quiet, but tense, voice.
“What can I say? I know hockey players.” I give a little shrug to hide
how uncomfortable I am. It was so much easier to talk about my past last
night, shrouded in the darkness. Sitting a foot from him and looking him
dead in the eye in broad daylight is different.
“Really?” The word is skepticism come alive. “So your brother, then?”
“No, obviously not him. I’m sure he slept around a fair bit before
Lauren, but I’m confident he doesn’t talk about their sex life with other
people.”
“Jameson’s always been incredibly discreet,” he confirms. “So what
about Drew, then?”
“God no, he was so gone for Audrey the minute he saw her again. He’s
like a goddamn golden retriever with the way he needs all her love and
attention.”
“Okay, so what other hockey players do you know?”
I lift an eyebrow but don’t say anything.
“If this is about Brock fucking Lester, and you’re lumping me in with
him, I’ve got some thoughts about that.” His jaw clenches so tightly I’m
afraid he’s going to shatter some teeth, so I cup his face in my hands and
smooth my thumbs over his cheeks, hoping he’ll relax a bit.
“I hate that what he did has colored my perception of all men, but it is
what it is. He wrecked my confidence and my ability to trust myself.”
“Jules, let’s get one thing straight. Brock is an asshole and what he did
was wrong. He was too fucking blind to see what he had right in front of
him⁠—”
“Story of my life.” I don’t mean for that to slip out, to reference that
Colt, also, apparently couldn’t see me right there in front of him, despite
how desperate I was for him to notice me. But it comes out anyway.
“Don’t you dare compare me to him,” Colt practically growls in an
attempt to keep his voice low. “I saw you. But you were my best friend’s
little sister, and I was never planning to let myself see you like that. I also
wasn’t at a place in my life where I could trust any woman enough to let her
get close to me, and there was no way in hell I’d have slept with you and
then just never talked to you again, which was what ninety percent of my
hookups were.”
“And the other ten percent?” I ask, letting my curiosity get the best of
me.
“I definitely had some repeat hookups, but that’s all they ever were to
me.”
“And now? What about us?”
I’m so fucking proud of myself for asking this question. It would be so
easy to give in to the fear of discussing the future of this relationship, to
ride out this high and wait to see where it goes. But I deserve to know
where we stand right now, even if that might evolve and change over time.
He brushes his lips against the bridge of my nose. “We’re not ready for
this conversation, Tink. I know you think we are. Hell, maybe you are, but
I’m not. You’ve got work to do to be able to trust me enough for this to be
real, and I’ve got work to do to prove to you that I’m worth trusting.”
What does that even mean? Just as I’m about to ask, a throat clears from
behind me and the floating dock rocks as someone steps onto it.
“Ummmm,” Gabriel’s uncertain voice sounds from behind us, “I’m
supposed to tell you that apparently there’s cake? And Mom and Dad would
like you to join us for it.”
I turn my head, and he’s got his arm bent over his head as she scratches
the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable to have interrupted our
conversation. It seems impossible that we didn’t hear him coming, so either
he’s some sort of stealthy ninja, or we must have been intently focused on
each other. I pray that we were quiet enough that he didn’t hear what we
were saying, since the whole point of this ruse was that he and Cheri would
think Colt was happily engaged and had moved on.
“Okay,” Colt says as I stand, “we’re coming.” He gets up, but I don’t
miss the wince as he stands, and when my eyes flick over to Gabriel, I see
that he didn’t miss it either.
“Thanks,” Gabriel says, “for the ticket offer. I have to see if I can get
someone to cover my shift at the hospital and make sure Simon can miss
school on Thursday and Friday. But as long as that works out, we’d love to
be there for the game.”
Colt’s gaze is locked on his brother, and I watch his throat bob as he
swallows down whatever emotions he’s working through. I’m not sure what
he’s feeling, but it certainly seems like these two are long overdue for a
private conversation.
“You know what,” I say quickly. “I’m going to run up to the house so I
can use the bathroom before we have cake. You guys take your time.”
Turning, I practically sprint up the dock, across the outcropping of rocks,
and up the staircase built into the hillside, all the while hoping that giving
them a few minutes alone is the right choice.
 Chapter Thirty
JULES

C olt's
this?”
body stills over mine as he says, “Are you sure you're ready for

My entire core clenches, feeling the emptiness that I need him to fill. I
run my hands up along his sides marveling at the way his cut muscles create
ridges and valleys.
“Oh, believe me, I am more than ready.” When he still doesn’t move, I
say, “Colt, now.”
He hesitates a moment longer, and then he pushes into me, filling me so
completely that there’s no room for anything else. I’m not even sure there’s
space for air to fill my lungs. Nothing in my entire collection of vibrators
could have possibly prepared me for this fullness, this feeling of being
joined together with him, or the way it feels as he brushes his fingers over
my nipple while he says, “I’m going to make you come so hard, they’ll hear
you screaming in the suburbs.”
I close my eyes as I adjust to his size and the delicious sensation of him
dragging his cock along my inner walls, and then pushing back into me,
filling me as far as I can take him. “Yes. Please, Colt . . .” I groan out the
pleading words.
I’m about to tell him how amazing it feels now that he’s finally inside
me, but something is poking me in my side, a persistent nudging that won't
go away. I go to swat at it when I open my eyes back up and realize that I'm
in Colt's fancy SUV.
 Fuck. It felt so real, just like it always does in my dreams.
My underwear is so damp I’m worried he’ll be able to smell my arousal.
I'm so turned on that I just want to close my eyes and jump right back into
the dream. But that poking at my side happens again, and I glance over to
find Colt looking at me. “Hey . . . we're home.”
“Okay,” I croak out because my throat is so thick with longing I can
hardly speak.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, I was just in the middle of a dream, is all.”
“Yeah, there was quite a bit of moaning in that dream,” he teases.
Shit, what is wrong with me—why did I have to say that? Why couldn’t
I have just said my throat hurt or something? And as much as I try not to let
it happen, I can feel the flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks. He
smirks at me like he knows exactly what I was dreaming about. It probably
isn’t hard to figure out.
“So,” he says, “Walsh just texted, and he and Marissa have a babysitter
for tonight so they're going out to dinner, and they want to know if we want
to meet up for drinks afterward? Can you make that work?”
He sounds so hopeful, and the fact that he wants me to go has me
wanting to say yes. But the responsible part of me knows I shouldn’t. It’s
been a long weekend of travel, and I should unpack. Plus, I have to work
tomorrow morning, and 5:30 a.m. comes at the same time every day, no
matter how late you stay up the night before.
You’d probably stay up reading anyway, my brain reminds me, because
it knows all about my romance book addiction and is using it against me.
“I have to work tomorrow . . .” I don’t finish my sentence because I
can’t make myself say no, even though I know I should.
“Come on, Jules. We won’t stay out too late. We need them to believe
that we’re engaged, and I’m sure my fiancée would be too smart to let me
go out on my own.”
Oh. So that hopeful note in his voice wasn’t because he wanted to spend
more time with me, it’s so we can keep up appearances. I shake my head at
my own hopeful stupidity.
What did you expect?
“So you’re saying that you’re not trustworthy enough to be out on your
own without your ‘fiancée’”—I actually use air quotes around the word to
emphasize our fake status, mostly because I need the reminder myself. He
doesn’t seem to have much trouble remembering that this isn’t real—“and
you need me there to babysit you?”
“No, I need you there to protect me from the women who will be all
over me if you’re not around.” The blasé way he says this, as if he knows
women will flock to him even though they know he’s engaged . . . it pisses
me off. I don’t know why. I’m not sure if I’m angry that other women
would move in on “my man,” or if I’m pissed on his behalf that having to
fight off women constantly is his norm. Or am I just jealous?
That’s when it hits me: this is the dynamic that he created and has
played into since he was a nineteen-year-old rookie with a broken heart.
He’s chosen to remain single; he’s flaunted the many women and his party
persona very publicly. And he’s done it all to show Cheri and Gabriel that—
whether it was true or not—he didn’t want what they had.
Now that I understand his past, everything about his fuck-boy status
makes a lot more sense. But what I still don’t know is whether he actually
didn’t want to be tied down, or if it was a defense mechanism to protect his
heart and make it seem like he was much happier this way.
“I don’t really feel like going out,” I say, wanting to retreat to my
bedroom, take care of this ache between my legs that’s left over from my
dream, and then sleep until tomorrow morning. I look out the window at the
back door, wanting to get inside and away from him so I can figure out
what I’m feeling . . . because suddenly, I’m sad. Sad for him, and sad that I
had to go and fall for someone who doesn’t even want to have a real
conversation about what’s happening between us, because he doesn’t think
we’re “ready” for a real conversation, whatever that means. “It’s been a
long weekend.”
“Tink.” He reaches across, sliding his hand around the back of my neck
and gripping me possessively. I like it, and the way his thumb strokes my
jaw, more than I should. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I know it’s not nothing. I just don’t know what I did.”
“I’m just tired.” I don’t want to talk about my feelings when I’m so
unsure of them myself.
“You just slept for two hours,” he says, using his fingers around the base
of my skull to turn my head so I’m facing him. He eyes me like he’s trying
very hard to understand me, and still can’t. Which is fine. Half the time, I
don’t understand myself.
 I shrug and say, “And yet I’m still tired.”
“Are you getting sick?” The concern in his voice about does me in. I
need to get out of here.
I reach over for the door handle. “No, I just . . . I need to go inside.”
Hopping out of the car, I rush up the stairs to the back door, leaving him
to bring our stuff inside.
Two hours later, I’m standing in my closet, putting the finishing touches
on the new bra I just created. Now that I’ve had some time to let my
emotions decompress, and to process this weekend while also working on
something creative, I’m feeling centered again.
What’s happening between us still feels nebulous and uncertain, but at
least I’ve figured out what he meant on that dock. He said that we both had
work to do—me to learn to trust him, and him to show me he was
trustworthy. That’s not something you say to someone you’re just fake
dating. That’s something you say to someone you want to build something
with. But the problem isn’t really that I don’t trust him. It’s that I don’t trust
me. And that’s the part I don’t know how to get over.
As I tuck the sewing machine back down into its cabinet, there’s
knocking on my bedroom door. I half expected it, and it still takes me by
surprise.
When I open the door, he’s standing there in jeans and a collared shirt
with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows so that some of his tattoos peek out.
He looks so delicious I have to gulp down my sigh.
“I’m not going out without you.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why not?”
He reaches up and grips the doorframe as he leans in closer. “Because I
don’t want to. I want to be wherever you are, and I’m sorry if I made it
sound like I only wanted you to come out to make this relationship look
real. I was feeling a little desperate to say whatever would get you to hang
out with me, and obviously that was not it.”
I hug myself a little tighter, fighting off the flutters awakening in my
stomach. “How do I know this isn’t the thing you’re saying now because
you’re desperate for me to come out with you tonight?”
“I don’t really care if we go out, Jules. But after spending the weekend
with you, I don’t want to be without you.”
I try to keep my walls up, to keep myself safe, but when he says things
like that, it’s harder and harder to remember why I need those walls to begin
with.
“What if I want to stay home?”
“Then I’ll stay with you.”
I glance over at the clock on my nightstand and am surprised to find that
it’s not quite eight o’clock. “Fine, I’ll go. But I need to change.”
He bends down and swoops me over his shoulder so quick I barely have
time to shriek before he’s walking through the door to my bathroom and
heading toward my closet.
“Colt, stop.”
He freezes.
“I can change by myself.”
“What is it about this closet that makes it so secretive, huh?” he asks.
“Does it turn into a sex dungeon or something?”
I laugh. “What in the world would a virgin need a sex dungeon for?”
He pulls me down, letting my body slide along his until my feet meet
the floor. His voice is even deeper and more gravelly than normal when he
says, “Why do you keep emphasizing the fact that you’re a virgin?”
I reach up and hook my finger into the space above the top button on his
shirt. “Because I still need someone to help me out with that situation.”
Leaning forward, he kisses my forehead. “We can revisit this when you
have a better answer.”
Then he’s turning me toward my closet, and he smacks my ass to push
me through the door, telling me I have fifteen minutes to get ready.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Audrey squeals when Colt and I slide into
the booth at the Neon Cactus.
“Why’s that?” I ask, feigning an air of nonchalance that I certainly
don’t feel. Obviously, I know everyone sitting at this table: my sister and
Drew, Zach and Ashleigh, and Walsh and Marissa. But there’s something
about being here with other well-established couples, when this thing with
Colt and me has only started to feel real recently. Zach and Ashleigh have
only been together since right before Christmas, but she moved in with him
weeks after they met because she was relocating from Seattle to Boston,
and he insisted it didn’t make sense for her to get her own place.
 “Because you have to work tomorrow morning,” Audrey says.
“So do you.” I shrug.
“Yeah, but I’ll stroll into the office whenever I feel like it, which will
probably be about three or four hours after you leave for work.”
“Must be nice,” I say with a little roll of my eyes. Then again, I’m often
home long before Audrey finishes up for the day. “I’ll be fine. It’s just one
night. Plus, we’re starting a little late tomorrow because we’re waiting on a
delivery.”
“How was Montreal?” Walsh asks.
I look at Colt, waiting for him to respond. He just shrugs, still looking at
me, and says, “It was interesting.”
They pepper us with questions about what it was like for me to meet
Colt’s family for the first time, and it’s a relief when the waitress comes
over to take our drink orders. Colt and I are both being purposefully
evasive, and I’m half-afraid someone’s going to call us on it.
By the time we’re on our second round of drinks, the conversation has
shifted to the upcoming series against Carolina. Colt’s lazily tracing figure
eights on my bare thigh when Walsh starts going through the list of players,
and what their strengths and weaknesses are.
Colt slides out of the booth and holds his hand out to me. “Let’s go play
pool.”
“I don’t really play pool,” I tell him, but I take his hand and let him pull
me up to standing.
He dips his head and says, “I’ll teach you.” When he sees my doubtful
look, he adds, “I think we established that it’s good for you to try new
things. Look how much fun you had golfing.”
“That wasn’t exactly golfing.” I laugh as we walk over to the pool tables
in the back. Predictably, most of them are empty on this Sunday night. “It
was more like hitting balls at an outdoor party.”
“Well, this won’t exactly be pool either, because I’m going to be playing
on both teams.”
“So, speaking of trying new things,” I say, my lips pursing. “Maybe
tonight should be the night I try having more than two drinks.”
“You think you should be making that decision when you’re already
drinking?”
“Colt, I’ve only had two. And I don’t have to get up as early tomorrow
as normal. Plus, there’s virtually no one here except our friends. And there
are no twenty-four-hour wedding chapels nearby.”
“So those are your reasons to try drinking again?”
“No, those are my counterarguments. I’ve spent too many years letting
one night of bad decisions affect my life. I just want to see what it’s like to
be buzzed when I know I’m safe.”
“I’m a little nervous about you making this decision less than twenty-
four hours after I made the offer, and with two drinks already in you.”
I stop in front of the rack of cue sticks lined up on the wall. Turning to
look at him, I say, “I’m going to have a couple more drinks. Are you going
to make sure I’m safe and don’t make any bad decisions, or not?”
“I’m always going to make sure you only make good decisions, Tink.”
I grab a pool cue off the wall, but Colt’s hand covers mine. “That one’s
way too short for you. You need something longer.”
Lifting my margarita, I say, “That’s what she said,” before taking a sip.
His hand is on my hip as he steps in so close I have to look up to see his
face, and now my old-fashioned glass with the salt rim rests along his pecs.
“Trust me, no one’s ever said that to me.”
I feel my throat bob as I swallow down the longing with the sweet,
tangy margarita. “Those women just had more of a filter than I do.”
“Bullshit, Tink.” Taking my drink, he sets it on the edge of the pool
table before bringing his hand to the back of my head and threading his
fingers into my hair. “You might have everyone else fooled, but no one has
a stronger filter than you do. And it’s the things you don’t say that have me
most curious.”
Goddamnit, why does he always have to see me?
Trying to change the subject, I bat my eyelashes at him. “So, how long
of a stick do I need, then?”
He presses his lips together to hold in his smile and raises an eyebrow.
“I guess we’ll find out.” Turning me so I’m facing the wall where the pool
cues are hung, he lifts one out of the stand and holds it up to me. “This will
do.”
Then he takes one for himself, and I barely have a chance to grab my
margarita before he pulls me over to the table in the back corner. The only
light is the long one hanging over the table, and the angled shades ensure it
only illuminates the green felt and barely anything beyond. We’re shrouded
in darkness back here, and I’m certain that was his intention.
 He sets our cue sticks on the table and then goes about racking the balls,
the same way I used to see my dad do it at the bar down the street from our
house. Audrey and I spent a lot of time there with him when Mom was sick,
because of course that’s where an alcoholic takes two pre-teen girls on a
Saturday afternoon. I never really enjoyed playing pool, but I’m a boss at
darts.
Once the balls are racked, Colt steps up behind me, his feet spread on
either side of mine. His hand lands on my hip, gripping it possessively—it
feels like he’s always looking for a way to hold on to me.
That’s just wishful thinking, I remind myself. Because every time he’s
not holding on to me, he’s pushing me away. It’s like he can’t make up his
mind. We’re drawn to each other, no doubt, but he’s clearly unwilling to do
anything about it because of some stupid promise he made to my brother. I
have half a mind to just ask Jameson if he’d actually care if anything was
happening between us, but I don’t want to potentially damage their
friendship. That’s a conversation they need to have, when and if Colt’s
ready to have it.
“I’m going to grab myself another drink before we start.” Colt’s words
flow into my hair, sending a shiver down my neck and spine. “Do you want
one?”
“Yeah. Let’s try the coconut margarita this time.”
“Sounds good. And I’ll make sure you don’t do anything crazy after
drinking it.”
The only crazy things I want to do are with you.
“We’re stopping at four, no matter what.” I can remember how four
drinks felt. I was happily buzzed at that point. But the bad decisions started
right after that, because once I hit four, I felt like I should keep going, and
going hard.
“No matter what.” He nods his agreement. “Let me go get us another
round, and you can practice taking some shots with this white ball.”
Reaching out, he picks it up off the table, tossing it in the air and catching it
again. “I’ll leave the rack on the balls, so you don’t mess them up.”
When he heads to the bar, I glance over at the table where our friends
are sitting, and Audrey is staring at me. Then she takes her phone out of her
bag, taps it a few times, and mine buzzes in my pocket.
AUDREY
You good?
 JULES
I’m great, why?
AUDREY
This is seeming less and less fake each time I see you together.
JULES
You want my honest response?
AUDREY
Always.
JULES
It’s feeling less and less fake the more time we spend together.
AUDREY
Are you sleeping with him?

I can feel the alcohol coursing through my blood. Not enough that I’m
drunk, but enough that my filter is fading fast. It’s the only reason I’m
honest with her.
JULES
Not yet.
AUDREY
Are you sure this is the path you want to go down with him?

I barely stop myself from making a joke about going down on him.
JULES
We’ll see.

Audrey’s gaze flicks over to the bar, then back to her phone.
AUDREY
Are you having a third drink?

She knows about my two-drink limit, and it’s the same one she has. Not
because she’s had a bad drinking experience like I have, but because with
our family history, she doesn’t want to tempt fate.
JULES
Yeah. Colt said he’d make sure I’m safe and don’t make any bad
decisions if I wanted to have more than two, and I’m taking him up on
the offer.
AUDREY
Who’s going to keep you safe from HIM???
 JULES
Trust me, I’m plenty safe from him. He’s got an iron will and finds it
way too easy to resist me.
AUDREY
I trust you, but this feels like playing with fire.

I glance up to give her a reassuring look, but Colt’s between us as he

walks toward me with a margarita for each of us in his hands.
JULES
I promise you, everything is going to be fine.
 Chapter Thirty-One
JULES

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I am absolutely living to drive
Colt crazy. He doesn’t want to want me? Fuck that. I’m going to make
sure he can’t resist me by the end of the night.
Actually, never mind, I know exactly what’s wrong with me—this is the
liquid courage of four margaritas. Will I regret this in the morning?
Possibly. Do I care? Not in the least.
Leaning back against him while he bends over me to help line up the
pool cue, I revel in the feel of his hard length where he’s cradled in the
crevice between the pockets of my jeans. He shifts his weight forward,
pressing his rock-hard dick into me. He wasn’t lying. I’m absolutely
convinced that no woman has ever thought she needed something longer
when she was with Colt. I should probably be scared of the size of his dick.
Instead, I’m trying to encourage him to use it to deflower me.
“What are you laughing about?” he asks, his voice extra-husky and
quiet, even though his face is next to mine.
It’s then that I realize my chest is shaking as I try to hold in the giggles.
“The word ‘deflower.’ It’s such a bizarre word. Like, who thought of using
that word to describe taking someone’s virginity?”
Colt’s sigh is so forceful it engulfs me in his margarita-scented breath,
then he stands. I miss his body heat immediately, so I stand too. Turning
toward him, it’s hard to miss the tortured look on his face—the way his eyes
focus in on me with longing, but his jaw ticks with the effort of restraint.
Good.
“What’s wrong, Colt?” My voice is the kind of teasing that borders on
mocking. “Does it bother you that I’m a virgin?”
“It only bothers me that you keep bringing it up.”
I take my fingertips and trail them down the front placket of his shirt,
over the ridges of the small buttons, and stop when I reach the buckle of his
belt.
“Why shouldn’t I bring it up? It’s not something I’m ashamed of.”
Tilting my chin up defiantly, I meet his heated gaze. In the low light, his
eyes are practically black, and they’re so focused on me that I almost shrink
back and admit that it’s a lie. That I am ashamed—not of my status as a
virgin, but of my inability to be trusting and open enough with another
person to give myself over in that way. But I could, with him.
He grips my jaw, tilting my head up so I’m forced to look at him. “Why
do you really keep telling me you’re a virgin?” His hand slips down my
throat until he’s got his fingers resting along the side of my neck. I’m
certain he can feel the way my heart is racing, pumping blood through me
so fast that I can feel my pulse pounding beneath his fingertips.
“Because you can solve this problem for me.”
“Wrong. Answer,” he grits out, his voice low and growly.
“What do you want me to say, Colt?” I ask, already knowing the
answer. He wants the truth. He wants to know why I’m asking him.
“Why me, Jules?”
“I already told you this morning.” I feel myself sway as I look up at
him. He’s not gripping my neck hard enough for me to lack oxygen, so this
dizziness must be the alcohol. I think the fact that I can deduce this means
I’m not that drunk? “You’re the one person who, I think, wants to sleep
with me, and who I also trust.”
“That might be the start of it,” he says, his eyes searching mine, “but
that’s not the whole reason.”
“Oh yeah? What’s the whole reason, then?” My tone is back to mocking
him.
“When you figure it out, you let me know.”
“Colt,” I say, letting my body slump back against the pool table. “You
are the ultimate tease. You know I’m willing, and I know you want me.
Why are you making this so hard?”
 “Trust me, Jules. One day, you’ll be glad I did.”
“And why’s that?” I ask, crossing one foot over the other as I lean back
farther.
“Because when we finally have sex, it’s going to mean something.” He
steps up close, spreading his legs so one of his feet is on either side of mine.
“And no amount of begging me for my cock is going to convince me to
sleep with you before then.”
My laugh is a bark. “I’m not begging you for your cock!” I reach one
hand behind me to steady myself on the pool table, but my palm lands on
one of the balls, it moves under my weight, and I fall backward onto the
table.
Lying there across the hard felt table, with a ball under one of my
shoulders and Colt looming above me, I can’t stop laughing. Of course that
would happen, and of course he looks mad about it. To everyone else, he’s
the happy-go-lucky goalie, but apparently I bring out this always-glowering
side of him. Lucky me.
Actually, it is kind of lucky, I think to myself, because annoyed Colt is
HOT. He always has been, which is probably why I’ve always taunted him.
“Alright, then,” my sister says, stepping up next to him. With the
darkness behind her and her fair skin lit up by the light above the table, she
looks like an angel. A mad angel, who God would send down to punish the
wicked.
I must say as much, because she rolls her eyes and says, “I’m not an
angel, Jules, and I’m not mad.” Then she looks at Colt. “How much did you
let her drink?”
“Like three and a half drinks.”
“Well, she’s clearly had enough.” Audrey reaches her hand out to me,
and I grab hold, letting her pull me up to a sitting position. When we’re face
to face, I realize that she looks like she could use a hug. So I wrap my arms
around her and give her the biggest bear hug possible.
“You’re very huggable,” I tell her.
“You’re very drunk.” She’s using her I am not amused voice that she
uses on Graham when he’s done something she finds funny but shouldn’t,
like when he sticks French fries up his nose and claims they’re extra-long
boogers.
“I’m only a little drunk. Trust me, I know the difference.” I let go of her
then, and almost lose my balance again because my butt is perched on that
narrow wooden ledge around the table, but she and Colt both reach out for
me, each grabbing a different arm. “And I’m not going to do anything
stupid this time. Colt promised he wouldn’t let me,” I tell her, then look at
him. “Right?”
“Right. But I am taking you home because that third drink hit you
harder than I thought.”
“It was probably the fourth.”
“What? I took the fourth away from you after you had like two sips.”
“Yeah, but you set it on the counter there,” I say, pointing to the empty
glass where it sits on a ledge along the wall. “And I drank it when you
weren’t looking.” I sound so damn pleased with myself.
“Oh my god, are you a fucking child?” Audrey asks with a laugh. Of
course she’s laughing—alcohol makes me funny.
“Don’t know.” I shrug and look down at my body, which appears fully
grown to me. “I don’t think so. I think I’m too big to be a child.”
“Jesus,” Audrey laughs. Then she turns to Colt. “I hope you’re planning
to walk home. She needs the fresh air and some movement to help sober her
up.”
“Yep, walking all the way,” he confirms with a nod.
“But we’re a long way from our house,” I whine.
“No, we’re not. We can be there in twenty minutes. Provided you can
walk in a straight line.”
“I totally can.” My head bobs in agreement like I’m reassuring both of
us, even though I have no idea if that’s true. Everything is pleasantly fuzzy.
But the thought of walking home with Colt’s arm around me opens up the
possibility, in my mind at least, that I’ll be able to convince him to sleep
with me. Surely, he needs to do something about that massive erection he
was grinding against me a few minutes ago, just as much as I need him to
do something about the painful ache between my thighs.
I hop off the ledge of the table, but the ground’s closer than I expect,
and so when my feet hit it, I topple toward him. Wrapping my arms around
him, I’m hoping to pass it off as intentional, and say, “Let’s go!”
He tucks me under his arm, and turns me toward the table of our
friends, but then I realize if we’re walking home, I need to use the bathroom
first. Audrey offers to go with me because she seems to think I’m not
capable of peeing alone while tipsy, and when we come out of the
bathroom, Colt’s over at the table.
 There are two additional women there now, and I’m not sure when they
arrived, but I don’t like the familiar way one of them is resting her hand on
Colt’s arm while she leans into him and whispers something in his ear.
“Who’s that?” I ask Audrey, nodding my chin toward Colt.
“Oh, do you remember my roommate from college? Jasmine?”
“From senior year? The one who basically ghosted you after you got
pregnant and couldn’t go out partying with her?”
“Yeah, the very one. I haven’t seen her in years, but when she showed
up here tonight and I invited her to sit with us, I regretted it almost
immediately. Apparently, she’s . . . familiar . . . with a lot of the guys on the
team.”
“Looks like she knows Colt pretty well.” I hate the acidity of my tone.
He’s been with other people; it’s not like I don’t know that about him. At
least he hasn’t been with anyone else in a long time.
Audrey grasps my forearm and gives me what I think is meant to be a
reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay if he has a past. It’s only the present and
future that matter. Don’t let that get to you.”
I wonder for a second if my brother would feel the same way. He knows
Colt in a way neither of us do. He’s seen him living his wild ways. And it
makes even more sense to me now why he’d make Colt promise not to
touch me. It doesn’t change how I feel, or what I want, but it helps me
understand Jameson’s insistence.
We walk up behind Colt and Jasmine as he slides her hand off his arm
and says, “I’ve told you I’m not interested.” There’s a hard edge in his
voice that even drunk me doesn’t miss. I wonder if he’s slept with her in the
past. I wonder if I’ll have to ask that question about every woman he
knows?
You’re not actually engaged, I remind myself. Who he’s slept with in the
past is none of your business. Still, I hate that he’s been with so many
women, whether it meant anything to him or not.
He glances over his shoulder like he senses me standing there, and his
face is nothing but happy and grateful to find me standing there. Pushing
back his chair, he steps toward me, asking, “You ready?”
“You’re not going to introduce me to your friend?” I ask, giving him a
little wink so he’ll know I’m giving him shit. To be honest, I just want this
chick to meet his fiancée, because either she doesn’t know he’s engaged, or
more likely, she knows and doesn’t even care.
 “Jasmine,” he says, glancing down at her, “this is my fiancée, Jules.
Jules, this is Jasmine.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, but I don’t even bother extending my hand.
Instead, I wrap my arm around Colt’s waist and say, “Let’s go home, babe.”
We head straight toward the door of the bar, and on the way there, he
says, “Babe, huh?” with a laugh.
“Felt appropriate in the moment. I’ve never seen you needing to be
rescued before.”
“I didn’t need to be rescued, but I’m glad you were there, anyway.”
The steep hills and uneven sidewalks of Beacon Hill are more of a
challenge than I expect, but finally we arrive at the Boston Common, where
the streets give way to wide, more modern sidewalks. They don’t have the
charm of Beacon Hill, but they’re a hell of a lot more practical.
“Are you really going to make me walk the whole way home?” I ask.
“Yes, I am,” he says, sounding very proud of himself.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you need to sober up a bit, and I’m taking good care of you.”
I laugh and give his chest a light smack. “You’re barely putting up with
me.”
He comes to a stop, his arm around my shoulders making me stop as
well. “What are you talking about? I enjoy taking care of you. You’re one of
my favorite people.”
“Yeah, well, you like everyone, so that isn’t saying much.”
“No, I tolerate everyone. You, I actually like.”

I wake up feeling like I’m both suffocating and incredibly turned on—
neither is a normal morning occurrence for me. Opening my eyes, I find
my face pressed into Colt’s bare chest. One of my legs is wrapped over his
hip, and my center is right up against the hot, hard cock he’s pressing into
me. The slow drag of him along my clit has my eyes rolling back in my
head, but when I tilt my head back to ask him what he’s doing in my bed,
not to mention why he’s dry humping me in my sleep, I realize that he’s still
asleep.
 Shit, did I wrap myself around him and start this? Ewww, I am such a
creep. One who clearly needs to take care of some business that obviously
wasn’t taken care of last night.
Despite my many attempts to convince him we should have sex, Colt
was resolute that we were “only making good decisions.” Which makes me
wonder if that means that sex with me is a bad decision? Or if it’s just drunk
sex that would be a bad decision?
I try to lift my leg off him and roll onto my back as discreetly as
possible, so maybe I can hop in the shower without waking him. My mouth
is dry, my head has a dull ache, and I might be sweating out tequila at this
point. Still, I don’t feel that bad—nothing like last time. And I didn’t do
anything crazy like go and marry some asshole hockey player. Wait . . . I
hold out my left hand and look at my ring finger just to make sure, and sure
enough, there’s a five-carat ring sitting there. At least I know why this time.
Next to me, I hear Colt chuckle. “Did you forget you were wearing
that?”
I glance over at him. “Yeah. I had had this moment where I was like ‘at
least I didn’t get married,’ and then I saw the ring and . . . you know . . .”
“I promised I’d take good take care of you.” His voice has a small
undercurrent of hurt, like he thinks I didn’t trust him.
“I know, and you did. It’s just . . .” I pause, and he waits patiently for
me to tell him what it is. “. . . I’m used to being the one who’s in control of
my decision-making. I like feeling strong and safe, and knowing that it’s
because of me and not because I’m relying on someone else.”
“Sometimes, strength is knowing when to let other people help you. You
don’t have to do everything yourself, Jules.”
My laugh is muffled because I’m pressing my lips together to stop the
scoff from escaping. Taking care of others has been my entire life. It’s my
love language, but sometimes I do wonder: who’s taking care of me?
“You don’t,” he insists. “You’re always so busy helping everyone else,
doing things for other people, sharing your strength so they can be strong
too. It’s okay to let people help you, too. Not because you can’t do things
yourself, but so that you don’t always have to.”
His words remind me of what he said after my confrontation with my
dad a few mornings ago. It brings tears to my eyes, making me feel
uncomfortably vulnerable. I’m way too keyed up sexually to be having an
emotional or meaningful conversation like this. So I do what I always do, I
deflect. “Right now, the only thing I need help with is an orgasm to take the
edge off.”
“Wow,” he says, barking out a laugh. “Way to slow roll right into the
whole using me for sex thing this morning.”
“Listen, I have to leave for work in”—I raise my head to look at my
alarm clock, which is on the other side of him. Shit, I still have well over an
hour, which is way more time than I actually need—“not too long. So if
you’re not going to help me take care of this problem right now, I guess I’ll
have to do it myself.”
“By all means,” he says with a smirk.
“Awesome.” It’s spoken with all hard edges and bitterness. Of all the
things he wants to help me with, why can’t this be one of them? “I’m
hopping in the shower. I’ll leave the door unlocked, in case you change
your mind.” I roll out of bed and pad toward the bathroom.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” he calls out. And just for that, I
leave the door open a crack. He can listen to the fucking orgasm that I have
to give myself because he’s being obstinate about us having sex, or he can
leave. Either way, I’m going to prioritize taking care of myself.
 Chapter Thirty-Two
COLT

S he literally has no idea how hard this is for me.

Which is probably for the best, honestly. She’s wrapped herself
around my heart so tightly it actually hurts. It might be because it’s the first
time in the last fifteen years that I care about someone, but I’m determined
to take it slow with her.
Achingly, painfully slow, apparently.
For me, this isn’t about sex. And I can’t move forward with her until I
know it’s not just about sex for her, too. I don’t want her to use me so she
can check lose my virginity off her list. But I absolutely will be the first—
and hopefully last—man she ever sleeps with. As soon as she finally figures
out why she wants me to be her first and is willing to be honest about it.
As I listen to Jules turn on the shower, I grab my phone and re-read the
text messages Jameson and I exchanged last night after she fell asleep.
COLT
Got the name of that investment guy Jules had dinner with.
JAMESON
How’d you manage that?
COLT
She was drunk. . . .
JAMESON
You let her get drunk? Do you not remember what happened last
time?
 COLT
Don’t worry, I took good care of her.

Last night, I watched the dots appear, then disappear, as he typed. I

imagined he was typing something about how I was supposed to be taking
care of her last time, too. I know we’re past that, but we wouldn’t be if he
knew the real reason it all happened. Just as I was giving up hope that he’d
reply, his message came.
JAMESON
Name, please. I will have Derek get us more info.

Jameson’s personal assistant, Derek, is a man of many talents—and

getting Jameson exactly the intel he needs is one of his specialties.
COLT
Jerome Waters. Tell me when you have more info and we’ll pay him a
visit.
JAMESON
Don’t make plans for tomorrow evening. Derek will have what we
need by then.

I’ve just finished re-reading when the first moan comes from the
bathroom. It’s distinctly sexual. The kind of sound that makes my dick
strain against my boxer briefs. I want to know exactly what she’s doing
that’s resulting in that sound. Is she touching herself? Is she thinking of me
while she does it?
The second moan is significantly louder. The kind that I’m certain she
wants me to hear. I glance over at the door and notice that it’s cracked open.
Light is streaming through, but from where I’m lying on her bed, I can’t see
anything.
She moans again, so loud I’d probably hear her if I was upstairs in my
own apartment, and I have no doubt whatsoever that it’s for my benefit. She
wasn’t even this vocal yesterday morning when my face was between her
legs and she was coming on my tongue.
I should get up and leave. She knows my willpower is only going to last
so long, so she’s testing me. And even though I know exactly what she’s
doing, I still can’t make myself go. My dick is so hard it’s painful, and all it
wants—all I want—is to be with her.
 You don’t have to have sex with her, I tell myself. There are plenty of
other things that will satisfy both of you until she figures her shit out.
My feet hit the floor before I’ve even decided I should get up, and I take
the few steps to the bathroom tentatively. Through the crack in the door, I
can see the top half of her on the other side of the glass. One of her arms is
resting against the wall under the showerhead, her back arched and her face
tilted up so the shower spray hits her tits and rolls down her flat stomach, as
her body rocks backward and then forward. She’s letting out small grunts of
pleasure, and I can’t contain my curiosity—what is she doing to pleasure
herself?
I tap the door slightly, pushing it into the room just enough that I can
see the rest of her body. I regret it instantly, because the image in front of
me is straight out of a porno and will live rent free in my head forever.
Her fingers circle her clit slowly as she leans back onto some sort of a
dildo suction cupped to the wall of the shower, and watching her pussy take
it over and over has a grunt escaping straight from the back of my throat.
As she turns her head and looks at me, there’s not even a hint of surprise on
her face—it’s like she knew I’d be standing there eventually.
“Fucking hell, Jules.”
Raising her eyebrow as if to challenge me, she asks, “You joining me?”
I couldn’t say no right now if my life depended on it. Even the awareness
that this could jeopardize my friendship with her brother and make me an
outsider in this family I’ve found for myself in Boston, even knowing that
this is taking what we started yesterday morning to a whole new level, one
we can never come back from . . . none of that feels like a reason to stop
myself from accepting her invitation. In fact, it all feels like a reason I
should—a first step in making this permanent.
I don’t know what permanent means for a guy like me, or if it’s even
what she wants, but it’s suddenly the only thing I can think about: I want
her in my life forever. I want to come home to her after a road trip, I want
her at my games with my last name on her back, I want to wake up with her
in my arms, I want to make her grilled cheese sandwiches when she doesn’t
feel like cooking, and make sure her dad doesn’t come around harassing her
for money. I want to take care of her, and mostly, I want her to want me for
more than sex.
I bend, sliding my boxer briefs to my ankles before I step out of them.
Her eyes are huge and her smile is feline as she eyes my cock where it
stands at attention, straining to be near her.
She sinks back onto that dildo as she stands, and with her ass pressed
against the tile wall, she leaves room for me to step past her and into the
shower.
“Get in here.” Her words are practically a purr even while she’s being
demanding.
I take a step closer, noting the way her back is arched so she can tilt her
hips to accommodate the toy, while still standing up enough to leave me
room to fit through the opening left where the glass wall ends. Her
shoulders are back, and the water runs down her chest in rivulets—I want to
trace their path with my tongue, I want her nipples between my lips, I want
to feel the way her whole body shakes when she orgasms.
“I love that you think you’re giving the orders here,” I say.
One more step and I’m at the edge of the shower, I’m teetering on the
edge of my sanity as well. Stepping over that marble ledge and not having
sex with her is going to take every ounce of self-control I have. But she
deserves better for her first time than being fucked in a shower. Hopefully,
there’ll be plenty of opportunities for that later.
“I’m glad you’re already in the shower.”
“Why’s that?” she asks coyly.
“Because I fully plan on getting you dirty, and this will make it easier to
clean you up afterward.”
Reaching out, I wrap my hand around the back of her neck as I step into
the spray. The water hits my back, and her slick breasts slide along my
chest, resting my other hand on the wall behind her as my mouth crashes
onto hers.
It’s a greedy kiss, full of the need and longing we’ve both been
reluctantly holding on to. Our lips and teeth and tongues clash like we’re
devouring each other, both of us fighting for dominance in this situation. I’ll
give it to her, because I know she wants to feel like she’s in control . . . but
I’m going to make her fight for it first.
Her hands skim up my sides lightly, then she hooks her arms up my
back, pulling me closer to her so she can slide her body against mine as she
starts rocking her hips. I feel her groan of frustration a moment later.
“What’s wrong, princess? Am I too tall for you to rub your clit along
my cock like you’re desperate to do?”
“Yes,” she pants.
 “Allow me, then.”
I drop to my knees, and when my tongue meets her clit, she hisses out a
deep, guttural, “Yes!” I know she’s close because she’s been in here for a
while already, but this first time, I want her coming only because of me.
I scoot back on my knees and with the shower raining down on the back
of my head, I pull her forward so her toy slips out of her. She cries out at
the loss, but I fill her with my fingers, and then she’s moaning my name
interspersed with expletives and grunts of satisfaction. As I increase the
speed and pressure with my tongue, I’m rewarded with the sweet sounds of
her pleasure. Not the fake moans she was letting out before to tempt me, but
the real ones that are quieter, deeper, and more desperate.
Sucking her clit between my lips, I run my tongue over it as I hold it in
place, and her moans turn to raspy cries of pleasure as her muscles contract
around my fingers, gripping me so solidly my dick is painfully jealous.
Her eyes shut tightly, her face scrunches up, and her lips part. As the
orgasm rolls through her, heavy breaths replace her cries and finally she
opens her eyes and stares down at me.
“Holy shit, Colt. You keep delivering orgasms like that and you’re
going to ruin me for all other men.”
“It’s almost like that’s the point, Tink.” If the last twenty-four hours
have proven anything to me, it’s that she’s mine. Even if she doesn’t know it
yet.
I stand, cupping her face in my hands and kissing her like I want to
brand her with my tongue the same way she’s somehow branded herself
onto my heart.
But instead of telling her how I’m feeling, I say, “Hearing you come
like that, and knowing I’m the only man who’s ever made you make those
sounds, that fucking does something to me.”
Her response is lifting one leg and wrapping it around my lower back,
anchoring our hips together so I can’t help but thrust my cock along her
warm center, still slick with her cum. She hums out an appreciative sound.
“You could be the first man to be inside of me, too, you know.”
I try to hold in the smirk, but the way her eyes flare makes me realize I
haven’t been successful at that.
“Oh, don’t worry. I will be.”
“Now, Colt,” she says, her voice pleading as she slides herself along my
cock. I call on every ounce of restraint I possess, telling myself that this will
be worth the wait—for both of us.
“No, not now, Jules. When you’re ready.”
“I. Am. Ready.”
“Not when you’re ready to fuck me—when you’re ready to admit why.”
She leans her head back against the tile and lets out an exasperated
growl. “The why is because I want to have sex with you. And you very
clearly want to have sex with me, too. Why isn’t that enough of a reason?”
“Because when we finally have sex, it’s going to change things. I want
more than just sex with you. And right now, I don’t think either of us know
what ‘more’ means, or what that would look like, and we deserve the
chance to figure it out before we fuck it up by having sex.”
“Colt . . .” She slides herself along me, her breath coming out in
desperate little puffs of air. Fuck, she’s sexy when she’s panting for me like
this. “I need you.”
“No, what you need is to come again, and I’ll make sure that happens.”
She releases a frustrated sigh. “I can’t come a second time.”
“Like hell you can’t.”
“I’ve tried.”
“Well, we haven’t tried together,” I say, stepping back and lining her up
with the dildo that’s still attached to the tile wall. The relieved hum that she
lets out as it slips inside her has her lips parting, and she licks them as she
looks down at my cock. She reaches out tentatively, glancing up at me
before gripping the base and bending forward, bringing her tongue to circle
the head.
The sheer effort it takes not to push into her mouth has me gritting my
teeth so hard I can feel every cord of muscle in my neck straining with the
effort. She dips her head, taking my cock between her lips and swirling her
tongue around the head again, before pulling back and looking up at me.
“I guess if we aren’t going to have sex, this isn’t a terrible alternative.
I’ve always wondered what it would be like to suck a guy off while another
fucked me⁠—”
“And this is as close as you’re ever going to get to that fantasy,” I say,
“because I don’t share.”
“That’s good,” she says breathily, leaning forward and using her flat
tongue to lick her way from my base to my tip before circling over the
sensitive flesh at the top. “Because neither do I.”
 And then she slides me into her mouth until I hit the back of her throat,
but somehow, she doesn’t gag. She just tightens her lips and tongue along
my cock as she welcomes me in farther than should be possible, and then
she’s using her hand and her mouth to give me what might be the best blow
job I’ve ever had.
I’m not sure what’s sexier right now—the way she’s deep throating me,
or the way she’s doing it while slamming her hips back onto that dildo? Or
is it the small hums of satisfaction and the way they reverberate along my
cock? Is it the way I’ve wrapped her hair around my fist as I rested my hand
at the base of her skull to help set the right pace, or the way she moans
when I lean forward, sliding my hand under her ribcage until I’ve got her
nipple between my fingers?
She likes that so much that I release her hair so I can use both my hands
to play with her nipples until she’s moaning louder, and her movements turn
nearly frantic. Seeing her about to come unhinged like this, with her mouth
around my cock, has me close as well. Leaning forward a bit, I stretch one
of my arms beneath her so I can reach her clit. That hot bundle of nerves is
already swollen from her last orgasm, and it pulses beneath my fingers,
coated in the evidence of her arousal.
The moan she lets out at the contact has an electrical current racing
through me. It starts at the base of my spine and travels straight to my balls,
and I can feel them tightening up, so I move my hand from her breast to her
ribcage and guide her off my dick.
“Grab hold of my shoulders,” I say.
“What?” She looks down at my dick longingly. “Why?”
“Because I want to see you painted in my cum,” I say as I grip my cock,
jerking my hand up it quickly, and circling my fist over the head before
sliding back down my shaft. “And then when I’m done, I’ll clean you off,
but we’ll both know that you’re my dirty girl.”
My fingers press harder on her clit as I pick up the pace, and she’s
breathing heavily as she continues sliding her hips back and forth along the
dildo.
“Say it.” I grind out the words while trying to hold in my orgasm until
she’s there with me.
A groove forms between her eyebrows. “Say what?”
“Tell me you’re my dirty girl,” I say, lifting my fingers off her clit so
I’m barely touching her. She whimpers in response. “And then I’ll let you
come again.”
“Yes,” she says with an eager nod, shocking me when she doesn’t argue.
She’s so desperate for this release, and it’s a goddamn pleasure to watch her
let go of her control like this. “I’m your dirty girl. Now fucking make me
come, Colt.”
Pinching her clit between my fingers, I gently stroke her from all sides.
As she cries out over and over with the orgasm that rips through her, I
finally stop holding back. Ropes of my cum shoot across her stomach and
up onto her breasts, as I press my forehead to hers and I let out an
anguished groan myself.
I’m not used to these feelings accompanying sex, and it’s almost too
much . . . too overwhelming, too thrilling and scary at the same time. I’m
falling so fast and hard for her and there’s absolutely no question in my
mind . . . she’s it for me.
When we’re both spent, I pull her to me, letting our bodies press
together as I run my hands up her back and into her hair. Tilting her head
backward, I let all my affection for her pour out through a tender kiss. The
way Jules slides her arms over my shoulders, one hand moving into my hair
and the other down my spine as she holds me to her, I’m praying she feels
the same way.
“I know I didn’t give you exactly what you wanted, but hopefully it’ll
hold you over?” I ask the question like I’m teasing her, but there’s a small,
vulnerable part of me that’s worried that being with me like this won’t be
enough for her. That she won’t be willing to wait, to let this grow into
something that’s more than just physical for her. And that thought terrifies
me because Jules has already burned a hole straight into my heart, and if
she doesn’t feel the same way about me, I’ll probably bleed out.
 Chapter Thirty-Three
JULES

“W hat do you think of this?” Morgan asks as she brings the camera
over to Rosie, to make sure that she doesn’t move from her seated
position, so that if she’s happy with the angle, we can re-record
from the same place.
Rosie takes a look at the camera as Morgan plays the clip back and says,
“It’s fine. I don’t know why I even care about showing the other side of my
face.” She sounds like she’s disappointed in herself.
“Because you’ve been through hell,” I say, “and you don’t need to be
reminded of it. We can show the world what a badass you are, without
having to dredge up your past.”
I want her to know that part of what makes her strong is how much
she’s endured and overcome, but that’s not the only reason she’s amazing.
Rosie takes a deep breath and says, “Yeah, but would this testimonial be
more powerful if I talked about my past? That way, people would know
what you helped me overcome to achieve what I did.”
I hear the side door open in the kitchen, and glance over to see Colt
walking through it before I say, “You overcame that. You did the work. I just
gave you a little guidance.”
Rosie shakes her head. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?” I ask.
“Your worth.”
 Tears spring to my eyes and my nose waters, and I have to sniff and
look away before I start crying. When Morgan first suggested developing
some sort of school-to-career pipeline to help more women enter the trades,
I never could have imagined the women I’d meet. Rosie was the first
woman to accept the offer of mentorship, and while we’ve been able to help
a dozen more women too, Rosie will always hold a special place in my
heart. As apparently, I do in hers.
Colt steps up behind me, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling
me to him so my back is against his chest as he presses a kiss to the top of
my head. “She really doesn’t,” he says. “But if we keep working on her,
maybe we can convince her.”
A smile spreads across Rosie’s face. “And who are you?”
“I’m Colt, Jules’s fiancé.” He lets me go as he leans forward and holds
his arm out to shake her hand, and even as I glance over at them, I’m still in
shock. He’s introduced me to his family and friends back home as his
fiancée, and to his teammates and their wives and girlfriends too . . . but it’s
the first time I’ve ever heard him introduce himself as my fiancé. And I’m
trying really hard not to read too much into it, but the pride I heard in his
voice keeps me teary-eyed.
Rosie’s eyebrows are practically at her hairline as she shakes his hand,
then looks at me. “You got engaged and didn’t even say anything? Where’s
the ring?”
“I don’t usually wear it during the week because I don’t want anything
to happen to it at work.” And, you know, because we’re not really engaged.
“The woman wanted a silicone ring,” Colt tells Rosie. “And I insisted
on something a bit more . . . traditional.” He reaches into his pocket. “It’s
funny, though, because I just picked this up for you today.”
He holds out his hand and in his palm rests a silicone ring made up of
small gold dots linked together. I had no idea they made silicone rings in
anything other than plain bands. “It’s actually . . . beautiful.”
He looks down at me with his lips quirked up slightly in a knowing
smile. “It reminded me of the gold disk on the necklace you always wear.”
Instinctively, I reach up and run the disk with the stars between my thumb
and forefinger, and then Colt takes my hand and slides the ring onto my
finger. “That’s better.”
“Alright,” Rosie says, her voice overly loud. We both turn to look at her,
where she’s sitting with Morgan still standing next to her, fanning her face.
“Now I’m about to cry because you two are too cute. So before I go and
ruin my mascara, can we film this video?”
We all laugh, and then Colt says, “Okay if I stay?”
I’m about to tell him that it’s better if we have some privacy for this,
when Rosie says, “Of course you can.”
When Morgan begins recording, Rosie shocks the hell out of me by
starting out talking about her abusive ex-boyfriend and how she escaped
that situation, all so she could give her daughter a better life.
She explains how isolating electrical school felt because there were only
three women in the entire program, and how hard it had been to build
connections with her classmates or see herself being successful in that field.
“And then, one day, they announced a guest speaker. It was an optional
thing, after classes were already over, and I almost didn’t go because it
meant I’d have to pay for an extra hour of babysitting, and Lord knows I
didn’t have the money for that. But something told me I needed to be
there.”
My throat tightens, and Colt wraps his arm around my abdomen, pulling
me back against him again.
“And there was this woman, all blonde and looking like Construction
Barbie, talking about how we needed more women in the trades, and how
she was organizing a mentoring program to connect women in trade school
with women already working in the field. At that point, I was almost ready
to give up on this path. I could have just dismissed her, thinking that her
experience and mine were too different. What could this woman, who
looked and talked like she was some rich girl from the city, possibly know
about helping a woman like me? As it turns out”—Rosie turns to face the
camera, moving her long hair back over her shoulder so the jagged, raised
scar along her cheek is clearly visible—“everything. See, one of the things
Jules taught me is that some of us wear our scars on the outside . . .” She
points at her own face. “But some people wear their scars on the inside and
use their pain to help others.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and she notes the tears streaming down my face
before she looks directly at the camera. “I’m so glad I didn’t let my initial
assumptions, based on nothing more than outward appearance, dissuade me.
Because this mentoring program . . . it saved me. Not only did it provide the
guidance and support I needed to figure out how to make it through
electrical school, but it’s also helped me line up the work experience I need
before I can sit for my exam and get my journeyman license. Now that I’m
working and have a steady income, it’s the first time in my life I feel like I
can breathe. I have absolutely no doubt that the day I earn that license is the
day I fully break the cycle of poverty and abuse I was born into. And I’m
equally certain that without this mentoring program, I wouldn’t have been
able to do it.”
I’m pressing my fist into my lips so hard I can taste blood, but it’s the
only thing preventing my sob from escaping. I knew we’d helped Rosie,
and a dozen other women like her, but I honestly didn’t know how much.
And it kills me that we have a waiting list and can’t help more people until
we get the funding to expand the program.
At this point, Rosie breaks down crying, and I don’t even think about it
before I step out of Colt’s arms so that I can cross the room and wrap her in
my embrace. “You healed me too . . . I hope you know that. You showed me
what true strength looks like.”
A million thoughts are running through my mind at this point—thoughts
of gratitude for the privilege that’s allowed me to do this work, and sadness
for the women who have walked this path before me all alone. But none of
the thoughts are screaming louder for my attention than the one that says,
“You need donors NOW.” At a minimum, we need to hire someone to run
the nonprofit—to recruit and coordinate the mentors and mentees, to handle
all the administrative stuff that I simply don’t have time for.
I think back to how both Jameson and Colt have offered donations. I
said no, initially, because of my pride. Because I didn’t want the mentoring
program to succeed based on relatives donating, I wanted it to succeed
because other people in the industry saw the need and recognized how we
met it.
But does it really matter where the money comes from, if it helps us do
the work we need to do? And once the foundation is in place, maybe that
will free me and Audrey up to look for other donors.
Rosie pulls back, saying she needs a minute to collect herself, and she’s
going to step outside. I point her toward the sliding glass door off the living
room that leads to the tiny backyard, and she steps through.
“Wow,” Morgan says. “That was . . . powerful.”
I wipe my face and turn toward her and Colt, who stands slightly behind
her where I left him. “Yeah. I wasn’t expecting to get so emotional.”
 “I think that’s how you know the work is worth it,” Morgan says. She
glances at me and then over her shoulder at Colt. “You know, I think I need
a minute too. I’m going to take a quick walk.” She turns and heads out the
front door, leaving us alone in the living room.
Tenderness lines his features as he gazes at me with what I can only
describe as some combination of love and pride. “I hope you know how
amazing you are.”
I wipe under my eyes again, hoping I’ve gotten most of the streaked
mascara off my cheeks. “Remember when you offered to donate? I hope
you have your checkbook ready,” I say.
He steps up close and wraps his arms around me. “There’s no one I’d
rather invest in than you.”

o,” Morgan says as she takes a sip of her drink and eyes our friends
“S where they sit around the table now littered with drinks and
appetizers. “Since Jules isn’t telling you what happened this
afternoon, I guess I will.”
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I say, shooting her a look.
“Like hell it wasn’t,” she says, then shares the story of filming Rosie’s
testimonial, beginning with Colt giving me a new ring and ending with
Rosie and me sobbing in each other’s arms.
“Holy crap,” Audrey says. “I can’t believe I missed that. The one day I
have an offsite meeting?” She’d been at the house of our next clients,
reviewing their renovation plans so we can order the necessary materials
once they’re approved.
“You missed the best part,” I tell Morgan as I reach into my purse for
the check, then hold it up in front of me with two hands.
“How many zeros is that?” Audrey asks, snatching the check from my
fingers. She looks at it, then up at me. “Are you for real?”
“Are you going to tell us what it says, or just tease us?” Lauren asks.
“It’s a donation, from Colt, for a hundred thousand dollars.” Audrey’s
voice is full of awe.
Lauren turns toward me. “Have you talked to your brother about that?”
It sounds an awful lot like, You’re going to be in so much trouble when your
dad gets home.
“No, why?”
Lauren sighs. “Because I was telling Jackson and Nate about your
nonprofit when we were visiting them at Blackstone last week . . . and
Jameson mentioned that he’d wanted to invest, and you wouldn’t let him
because you didn’t want handouts from family. Is Colt not family?”
I’m sure my face reddens, because suddenly my mind is reeling with
images from our shower this morning. He very clearly doesn’t see me like a
little sister anymore.
“I came to a really important realization when Rosie was talking today,”
I say quickly, trying to get those thoughts of Colt out of my head. I tell them
about my epiphany that maybe all we need is a bit of starter money from
whoever wants to donate it, regardless of why they’re donating, to let us
start growing the program.
“I wish you’d talked to me about that.” My sister sounds hurt. “I mean, I
know this program is really your baby, but so far, we’ve made all the big
decisions together.”
“Audrey,” I say, looking over at her. “I’m so sorry, I was just so excited
at the prospect of helping more women, and you’ve said all along that it
shouldn’t matter who donates, so I thought I was doing what you would
have wanted me to.”
She shrugs. “It’s fine. You’re right. I’m just being . . .” she trails off and
looks away before glancing back. “I don’t even know. It’s just weird, like
you have this other person now that you go to before me, and I’m used to
being that person who helps you make decisions. Now you have Colt.”
I give her a small smile. “I know exactly how you feel.”
She tugs at her necklace, and I see now how we both do the same thing
when we’re worried or uncomfortable. It’s like the small reminder of our
mother, who gave us our necklaces, soothes us. “Is this how it felt when
Drew and I got together?”
“Yeah, especially once you moved out.”
Reaching across the table, she squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s natural that things will change . . .”
“Yeah, I guess I just didn’t see this coming with Colt.”
Morgan sighs. “You should have seen them together today. He is so far
gone over her.”
“So, is this not fake anymore?” Audrey asks.
 “I don’t know,” I say. It sure as hell doesn’t feel fake. “Things are
definitely . . . shifting.”
“What’s that even mean?” Lauren asks, her brow furrowing with what
looks like concern.
“It means we’re figuring it out.”
“Please tell me you’re at least getting laid,” Morgan says. She clearly
has no idea about my status as a virgin because I’ve never told anyone but
Audrey, and now Colt.
“Not exactly,” I say, biting the inside of my lip. “But . . . things are
definitely heating up.”
“I really don’t want to know this.” Lauren makes a sing-song voice as
she playfully covers her ears. Then she drops her hands and says, more
seriously, “Because when Jameson asks me if I think anything is actually
going on between you two, I want to be able to say that I don’t know.”
“Well, since I haven’t actually given you any details, you can say that
you don’t know anything.” I laugh to myself, because this reminds me so
much of when Drew first came back into Audrey’s life, and Audrey refused
to give Lauren any details because she wanted her to have “plausible
deniability” if Jameson asked her any questions.
The waiter comes over then to see if we want another round of drinks or
more food, and after we order, the conversation turns toward Lauren’s
upcoming bridal shower. She’d insisted she didn’t want one, as there was
absolutely nothing she and Jameson needed.
Honestly, I think she’s still just traumatized by memories of the bridal
shower her ex-mother-in-law threw for her in Park City, before she married
her first husband, Josh. Lauren knew almost no one there, except her
mother and sister who had flown out, and her mother-in-law had made her
feel like the whole event, which she’d insisted on throwing, was an
enormous imposition.
So it felt like a small victory when Lauren finally agreed to let us have a
small brunch as long as there were no “silly wedding games.” As we chat
about the upcoming event, I’m relieved that the conversation doesn’t come
back around to Colt and me.
But as if he knew I was thinking about him, my phone buzzes with a
text.
COLT
What time will you be home tonight?
 JULES
Not sure, why? Miss me already?

I don’t know where Colt went once we were done filming Rosie’s
testimonial. He’d said he “had something to take care of,” kissed my
forehead, told me he’d see me when I got home from dinner with my
friends tonight, before heading out the door.
COLT
You know it.
JULES
We just ordered another round of drinks.
COLT
Let me know if you need me to come walk you home.
JULES
LOL, you really DO miss me, don’t you?

Why does that realization tug at my heart so much? I told myself that I
didn’t have to worry about falling for Colt, because there was no way he’d
ever fall for me. But if he has, what’s stopping me from falling, too?
COLT
Like I’d miss breathing if there was no air.
 Chapter Thirty-Four
COLT

“I fyou.”
this goes wrong and I get arrested—or worse, benched—I’m blaming

“Me?” Jameson says as he pushes the button for the thirty-third

floor. “You’re the one who gave me his name and suggested we pay him a
visit.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still blaming you if I don’t get to play tomorrow
because of this.”
“We’re not going to jump him, you idiot.” Jameson rolls his eyes.
“We’re just here to let him know that his company is officially no longer a
sponsor of the Boston Rebels.”
This is news to me. “How the fuck did you make that happen?”
“I showed AJ the footage from the restaurant’s security cameras, which
clearly show him grabbing Jules and getting up in her face, and she took it
to Frank,” he says. Frank Hartmann is the billionaire owner of the Rebels,
and our second-string goalie’s dad. He has a largely hands-off approach and
generally lets AJ manage all aspects of the team, and only occasionally gets
involved in the business operations. The fact that he put his foot down on
this is surprising, to say the least.
“And they rescinded his sponsorship based off of what they saw?”
Given how much money a sponsorship involves, and how little actually
happened in the restaurant, this seems unlikely.
 “It didn’t take much to convince them that if that video got out and
people found out Jerome was a sponsor, it would reflect poorly on the
organization.”
“And who has access to that video besides you?”
“No one. But they don’t need to know that.” Jameson eyes the lights
above the elevator doors and sighs when he sees that we’re only at the
twenty-fifth floor.
“How the hell did you even get that? And how long have you had it?”
“I got it the night it happened, and that’s all you need to know.”
“Jesus. So who’s taking over the sponsorship?”
“I was so tempted to write a check and have Our House be the new
sponsor,” he says, and I laugh out loud.
“Jules would have been so pissed, but it would have been total poetic
justice.”
“Yeah, but in addition to pissing my sister off, it would have been a fuck
you that made no sense financially for me. So it’ll go to the next
corporation on the waiting list for a sponsorship opportunity.”
The elevator dings as we arrive on the thirty-third floor, and Jameson
mutters, “Let me do the talking,” right before the doors open.
I follow him as he approaches reception, and the young guy sitting there
looks from Jameson to me, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “Oh my
god,” he says, clearly a little starstruck. “You’re Colt.”
“This is my client, Mathieu Coltier.” Jameson emphasizes my full name
as if to point out that this guy and I aren’t on a nickname basis, even though
no one but my family, and occasionally the hockey sportscasters, has called
me Mathieu in fifteen years. “We’re here to see Jerome Waters.”
The guy pulls at the knot of his tie as he glances toward his computer
screen. “Is he expecting you?”
“Yes,” Jameson says, “and we know the way.”
He starts walking past the reception desk quickly, and I assume I’m
supposed to follow.
“You can’t just barge into his office,” the guy calls out from behind us.
“Watch me.” Jameson doesn’t turn his head back toward the guy, but his
words carry across the mostly empty office. Apparently, things wrap up
right at five here.
“Does he know we’re coming?” I ask Jameson quietly as I follow him.
He somehow seems to know exactly where he’s going.
 “Derek got a meeting on his schedule, but no, he doesn’t know it’s us.”
I don’t bother asking how Derek managed this, because the guy’s
clearly a magician.
When we get to the large double wooden doors with Jerome Waters
engraved across them, Jameson doesn’t bother knocking, he just pulls them
both open and we stroll through. Jerome is at his desk and glances up with a
distinctly annoyed look across his face. Then his eyes narrow in on me.
“You.” He spits out the word like I disgust him, which is fine, because
the feeling is very mutual. Then he looks back and forth between Jameson
and me, and I can’t tell if he recognizes my best friend or not. Jules
mentioned that Jerome was a huge Rebels fan and season ticket holder, but
it’s been over a decade at this point since Jameson played, so maybe he
doesn’t remember him.
“I’m Jameson Flynn,” he says, holding out his hand to Jerome, who
dubiously extends his own hand before Jameson crushes it in his grip. “I’m
a former Rebels player, Colt’s agent, Jules Flynn’s big brother, and close
friend of just about everyone on the Rebels’ management team. So on
behalf of my family and the entire Rebels organization, I’d like to give you
this.”
Jameson reaches into a pocket on the inside of his suit coat and hands
over a folded piece of paper. The groove between Jerome’s eyebrows
deepens as he unfolds the check. “Why are you giving me a check from the
Boston Rebels?”
“I’m glad you asked.” Jameson’s voice drips with sarcasm and reminds
me what a shrewd businessman he is. I never saw this side of him when we
played together, but he has just the right disposition for negotiation and he
doesn’t mind doing something underhanded every once in a while, if it’s
really necessary. “This is a pro-rated refund on your sponsorship for the
team. Your signage has already been removed from the rink, your logo is no
longer on the website, and you’ll never be listed as a team sponsor again.”
“What? You can’t do that,” Jerome says, sounding an awful lot like a
man who’s never been challenged . . . or at least, never defeated.
“Funny, I already did. You fucked with the wrong family, Waters. Next
time you decide to lay your hand on a woman, I hope she cuts off your
fingers like my sister should have done.”
“Nothing even happened.” His gaze flies to me. “You made a big deal
out of nothing.”
 “Nothing?” The word rips from my throat like a roar. “You put your
hands on the woman I love, and you think that’s nothing? You’re lucky that
all we did was rescind your sponsorship. Piss me off again, and we’ll come
after your business next.”
He scoffs. “Like there’s anything you could do to my business.”
“Would you like to try me?” I ask. “Because that’s exactly what will
happen if you don’t stop running your mouth.”
I have no idea what I’m even saying. I wouldn’t know the first thing
about going after his business, but the man who’s been my best friend for
most of my life and is standing right next to me looking at me like I’m
amusing him, will know exactly what to do.
“You can leave now,” Jerome says. He’s backing down but trying to do
it without losing any authority—as if he has any in this situation.
“Gladly,” I say. “And by the way, we didn’t touch your season tickets. I
wanted to make sure that you’re still able to enjoy watching me win.”
With that, we turn and leave. We don’t speak until we’re in the elevator
and the doors have closed.
“So you love her?” Jameson asks the question without looking at me.
He’s eerily calm, which has me a little worried.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I do.”
“Does she know yet?”
“I’m trying to show her every day.”
“I’m having a really hard time being okay with this,” Jameson says,
turning to me. His jaw ticks, and I realize there’s a lot he’s not saying.
I steel myself against his disapproval. I wish it wasn’t this way, but I
understand why it is. “I’m telling you what my intentions are. I’m not
asking for your permission.”
“That’s good, because you don’t have it. She’s my baby sister. She’s
way too young for you. And you’ve got a reputation and a past that she
shouldn’t have to deal with. I hope that you truly have changed your ways
like you seem to think you have, and that you deserve her. But just know: if
it goes badly and I have to choose, I’m always choosing her.”
The elevator dings to let us know we’re at the ground level, right as I
say, “As you should.”
My best friend walks out of the elevator and across the lobby, and I
stand there, hoping that I’m doing the right thing. Hoping that Jules will one
day trust me enough to feel the same way, because if she doesn’t, I’ve just
ruined my relationship with the only family I have in Boston.

W hen she gets home from dinner with her friends, I’m sitting propped up
against the pillows on her bed, watching some game footage from
Carolina’s last series in preparation for our first game against them
tomorrow. She didn’t take me up on my offer to walk her home from the
restaurant, but there was no way I wasn’t seeing her tonight.
After two nights in a row of sharing a bed with her, I’m in no hurry to
get back up to my own bedroom. Is it too soon to move my bed down here
into her bedroom?
She takes one look at me, lying there in nothing but a pair of black
athletic shorts, and says, “Change your mind about fucking me?”
“Nope. Change your mind about just using me for sex?”
“Nope.” The way that word comes out of her mouth—hard and certain
—is at odds with the way her eyes soften while she looks at me.
“Come here.”
She walks around the bed to the far side, where I slept last night. And as
she comes up to what I’m already thinking of as “my side of the bed,” I turn
so my legs hang off the edge and I pull her between my knees, holding on
to her hips as I look up at her.
“I missed you.”
Staring down at me, her face heats under my gaze, then she closes her
eyes and shakes her head with a little laugh. “I missed you, too.”
“I need to tell you something, and I need you to stay calm and not panic
when I do.”
Her exhale is shaky, but she manages to squeak out, “Okay?”
I should probably tell her where I was tonight while she was at dinner. I
should tell her about Jerome, and about my conversation with Jameson. But
that doesn’t seem as pressing as the reality she doesn’t know she’s going to
face when she walks into Liberty Arena tomorrow night.
“You know how we’re playing Carolina in this next round of the
playoffs?” I ask, and she nods in response. “Do you know who plays for
Carolina now?”
 She shakes her head, but I can see on her face that she realizes there’s
only one reason I would ask her this question. Closing her eyes, her head
drops forward.
“I didn’t realize you didn’t know. When Gabriel started talking about
Carolina yesterday, I expected some sort of a reaction, but I thought maybe
you were just holding it in because we were with my family. But when
Walsh started listing the players off at the bar last night, and you didn’t
tense up or seem uncomfortable, that’s when it finally occurred to me that
you didn’t know.”
“Is that why you wanted to play pool? So I wouldn’t accidentally hear
his name?”
I use the tips of my fingers to massage her lower back, hoping she’ll
relax from the rigid pose she adopted the minute she realized Brock Lester
now plays for Carolina. “Yeah. That, and I wanted to get you alone. I have a
hard time sharing your attention with others.”
A single, silent laugh shakes her body. “Well, I appreciate you making
sure I didn’t find out from someone else. After Vegas, I made it a point not
to follow hockey because I never wanted to think about, or hear about, him
again.”
“You don’t have to come to the home games this week if you don’t want
to. As much as I would love to have you there, I will completely understand
if you stay home. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not totally
comfortable with.”
She slides one knee up onto the bed, resting it against my hip, and then
does the same with the other so that she’s fully straddling me. Wrapping her
arms around me, she clings to me like a koala, and I’ve never been so happy
to be smothered in my life.
Holding her tight against me, I realize that the only thing I want in the
world is for her to feel safe, and for me to be the one who makes her feel
that way.
“I’m not sure if I can go to the game,” she murmurs into my neck, her
hot breath caressing the muscles there. “But also, the thought of staying
home when everyone else is there . . . Why should I have to miss out,
because of him?”
“Don’t come if it’s going to be too hard. Or do if it helps you feel like
you’re over what happened. Whatever you feel is going to be best for you is
what we’ll do.”
 She sits up and cups my jaw in her hands. “Part of me wants to show up
in your jersey and prove that I’ve moved on.”
“Jules.” Her name is rough coming off my tongue. I don’t know how to
be vulnerable and ask the question that needs to be asked, but I want her to
be honest with me about how she’s feeling, and I won’t know unless I ask.
“Is that what it would mean? Because last time you wore my jersey to a
game, you did it to keep up appearances. If you wear it now, is it because
you’ve truly moved on?”
Her thumbs stroke my face, running along the line of my cheekbones
above my beard. “I think so?”
I wish she knew for sure, but this is progress, at least. She’s still got
work to do to learn to trust, and I need to keep being there so she knows she
can trust me.
“I’m not here to break down your walls,” I tell her. “You put them up,
you have to choose to dismantle them. But don’t fucking think for one
second that I’m not going to climb over them whenever I can, hoping that
eventually you won’t feel like you need them anymore.”
She presses her lips to mine gently, raining tentative kisses across them
before moving to my nose and my forehead. “I know. And I’m working on
it. I promise.”
“As long as you’re doing it for you, Jules. I don’t want to move faster
than you’re ready for,” I say as I rest my palm in the space between her
breasts. “I’m going to be here for as long as it takes, because you’re worth
waiting for.”
 Chapter Thirty-Five
COLT

“I know I’m starting,” I tell Hartmann as we take the ice for warm-ups,
“but you’d better be ready to play tonight.”
“Are your knees bothering you?” He asks the question with
complete empathy, unlike my teammates who give me shit for being the
oldest player on the team, because he knows what it’s like even though he’s
only a couple years into his career.
“No. Because there’s at least a fifty percent chance I’m getting into a
fight tonight, and if I do, I plan on winning.”
“Whose ass are we kicking?”
“You’re not kicking anyone’s ass, because we need you to goaltend if I
get kicked out.”
“Okay, whose ass are you kicking?”
“Brock Lester.”
Hartmann snorts. “That guy’s such a douche. What did he do this time?”
I consider what I can say that won’t betray Jules’s confidence or invade
her privacy. “It’s an old grudge about something that happened a long time
ago.”
“And it’s just rearing its ugly head now?” His eyes squint as he looks at
me, then he looks past me at the stands and nods his chin in that direction.
“You sure it has nothing to do with her?”
I turn and find Jules descending the steps toward her family’s seats right
behind our bench. I didn’t think she’d be here—when I left for the arena
this afternoon, she still wasn’t sure. But now, she’s strutting down the stairs
like she owns the whole damn arena. Her hair is in loose, bouncy curls and
she’s wearing a touch of makeup. Her bootcut jeans with heeled boots make
her legs look a mile long, and over her tucked in scoop-neck T-shirt that
shows quite a lot of cleavage, she’s wearing a Rebels playoff jacket.
I’m pretty sure the WAGs start working on those way in advance. I
think they wore them for the first round and Jules wasn’t wearing one, so
I’m not sure where this came from. But the navy-blue satin material of the
oversized starter jacket shimmers, while the Rebels logo on the front breast
sparkles.
When she sees me looking at her, she gives me a little fist bump in the
air with her left hand, and her ring almost blinds me. Good. I want everyone
to know she’s mine.
I skate toward her, and she walks straight past her family, sitting in their
seats, and meets me down at the glass. And just like the first time I saw her
in my jersey, I loop my finger through the air so she’ll turn around. Like last
time, she rolls her eyes at me but turns, sweeping her long blonde hair over
her shoulder so I can see COLTIER where it arches across her shoulder
blades.
When she’s fully turned around and facing me again, I say, “You trying
to kill me, Tink?”
She just smirks at me and presses both her hands against the glass. And
that’s when I notice that not only is she wearing her engagement ring on her
left hand, but she’s got the gold silicone ring on her right.
Someday, I’m going to propose to her for real—I’m certain of it. And I
hope she’ll still want these same rings, so we can remember where we
started, and see how far we’ve come.
“Where’d the jacket come from?”
“Marissa unexpectedly dropped it off at my house a couple hours ago.”
“That the only reason you’re here tonight?”
She gives me a small smile. “You’re the only reason I’m here tonight.”
My fucking heart is in my throat as I drop my gloves and press my
hands against hers. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” she says. “You got this.” Then she blows me a
kiss and turns to head up to her seat. I stand there, watching the way her
jeans cling to the curve of her ass as her hips sway with each step, until
McCabe skates up, spraying me with ice.
 “Dick.”
“Get your head in the right place, Colt. This is too important of a game
to be distracted.”
“I’m not distracted,” I say, now even more focused on the game, and on
giving Brock Lester the beating he fully deserves. “Speaking of this game.
You should know that I’m probably going to get a game misconduct, so just
be prepared.”
“What the fuck are you on about?” Half the things that come out of
McCabe’s mouth sound like he’s growling. Good luck to the woman who
ends up having to put up with his surly ass.
He’s a single dad, and his dating life was severely curtailed this past
summer when his ex showed up at his place to drop off their newborn—
whom he didn’t know about until that moment. Since then, he’s a dad first.
He rarely goes out anymore, but he was dating this chick named Annabelle
at the beginning of the season, which is how I met her friend, Jasmine.
Seeing her at the bar the other night reminded me of exactly why I stopped
sleeping around.
A shiver runs through me when I think about how meaningless all the
sex I’ve had in my life has been . . . It only makes me want Jules more. I
want to know what it would be like to sleep with someone I actually care
about.
“Dude,” McCabe growls when I don’t respond. “What the hell are you
thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“About that penalty, then?”
I tell him the same thing I told Hartmann about Lester. “I’m surprised
Lover Boy doesn’t want in on that fight,” McCabe says, referring to
Hartmann’s nickname, which Walshy gave him because he said the heart in
his last name equates to lover and his baby face makes him look like a boy,
not a man.
“Why would he?”
“They played together in high school, I think. Or juniors or something. I
know there’s bad blood there, somewhere.”
“Well, tonight, he’s mine. I’m just waiting for him to say something,
and then it’s gloves off.”
“You sure? In all your gear?”
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
I t’smynear the end of the first period before Lester makes it anywhere near
crease. But from that point forward, he makes it a point of being there
as often as possible. Not because he’s looking to score, but because he’s
trying to be an agitator.
The first few comments he throws my way could be mistaken for
friendly banter. Things like “Nice save, keep” and “Way to not be a sieve.”
When he gets a little too close, skating back onto the crease, I reach out
and shove him forward so he’s out of my way, telling him to “move along.”
At the beginning of the second period, he shoots and I knock the puck
away with my glove when I really should have caught it. “Sloppy,” Lester
mutters as he skates up, “just like your fiancée.”
“The fuck you say?” I spit out.
“You heard me. You enjoying my sloppy seconds?” he asks as he skates
just out of reach like the fucking coward that he is. The puck is still in play,
and I can’t take my eyes off it for a second, but the minute he’s close
enough again, he’s going down.
I get my chance half-way through the third period, when he skates
backward just as the whistle blows to stop the play, and says, “Just
remember, I had her first.”
“Like hell you did.” Dropping my stick, I reach out and grab him by the
neck of his jersey, pulling him back and slamming him to the ice where he
slides into the net. He tries to get up, but I’m throwing my mask off and
pinning him to the ice with my knees as I rip my glove and blocker off
before pummeling his face.
“You were too drunk to get it up, you fucking lightweight. So don’t ever
speak about Jules as if you’ve known her in that way. She might have worn
your ring for a night, but she’s going to wear mine for the rest of her life.”
I don’t actually know if that’s why they didn’t have sex, but I have to
imagine that being too drunk at least had something to do with it. And I’m
relishing the thought of him thinking that this is what Jules remembers
about him, that this is the story she tells about their wedding. It’s so much
better than the reality of how he shook her confidence and made her
question herself.
In a matter of seconds, I’ve pounded his face until it’s bloody and his
nose is twisted and ugly—all before the refs are able to pull me off him. It’s
only then that I notice the fighting going on all around me.
And when I’m given a game misconduct penalty, I happily skate off the
ice and head to the locker room. Whatever fines I get from the league, or
whatever lecture my coaches give me, it’ll be worth it. Because for the rest
of his life, Brock Lester is going to look at his now-crooked nose and
remember the beating I gave him for disrespecting Jules. And she’ll
remember that she’s worth fighting for.
 Chapter Thirty-Six
JULES

I don’t know what it is about watching my fake fiancé fight my ex-

husband, but it does something to me—elicits some sort of primal need to
claim him and be claimed by him. I don’t even want to know what Brock
said that made Colt fling him to the ice and pound the shit out of him; I just
want to kiss his face and tell him how much I love him for it.
Wait . . . what?
“What’s wrong?” Audrey asks, glancing over at me after we watch Colt
skate off the ice. Below us, Drew is lining up for a faceoff, but Audrey’s
eyes are flitting between her fiancé and me, her face contorted into a
worried grimace.
“For a second there, I just had this thought that terrified me.”
“Yeah,” Audrey says, throwing an arm around me and squeezing me to
her side as she looks back at the ice. “Love can be like that.”
How does she know what I’m thinking? “But I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”
“Yeah,” Audrey says, “you can. It’s okay, Jules. Don’t you think, after
everything, after the way he keeps showing you he cares, that it’s okay to
trust him? Okay to care about him in return?”
“I’m so scared,” I whisper, reaching across my body and taking her
hand where it rests on my shoulder, squeezing her fingers. “I can’t fall for
him. Not when we already agreed it was all fake.”
“How long do you think it’s been since it was fake for him?” she asks
quietly while her gaze darts back and forth, following the puck along the
ice. Now that Colt’s not in the game, I’m just staring at her, trying to figure
out what she’s talking about.
“What do you mean?”
“When’s the last time this felt fake? Like the last time that you thought
he was just putting on a show for people?”
I think back, before this weekend when we went away, trying to figure
out when things changed. It didn’t feel fake at the party, even though I was
worried he was only touching me, only paying attention to me, for show.
But that was the last time I needed to worry about it, because from that
moment on, whether it was just the two of us or we were with other people,
there was never a moment that it felt like we were pretending. No, as soon
as I stopped reminding him it was all pretend, it stopped feeling fake.
And the way he takes every opportunity to touch me, to hold me, to tell
me he cares and that he’ll wait and that I’m worth it . . . it can’t be fake for
him either.
He’s slowly, brick by brick, dismantling the walls I’ve built around my
heart. He said I had to be the one to take those walls down, but he’s doing it
for me every single day in the way he shows me how he feels.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, and instead of looking at me in shock, Audrey just
smiles. Lauren looks over at me from the other side of Audrey. Jameson
headed to the locker room the second that Colt got a game misconduct, so at
least he’s not here to witness his sister realizing she’s in love with his best
friend.
“I knew you’d find the right person someday,” Audrey says. “I just
never thought it would be Colt.”
My laugh is almost a bark. “Yeah, me neither.”
Teenage me couldn’t even have dreamed up how great he actually is.
And the fact that I thought this whole thing was “safe” because there’d be
no way he’d ever have feelings for me? The irony is too much.
“I always kind of thought it would be him,” Lauren says, one eyebrow
raised.
“Did you now?” I ask. I’m so tempted to say that the only reason she
could believe that would be because she didn’t know what happened in
Vegas. But none of that seems to matter anymore, so I hold my tongue. “I
need to go see him.”
Audrey tells me how to get to the door closest to the locker rooms.
“You’re going to have to text him to come meet you, though. They won’t let
you in there.”
And then I’m running up the stairs to the exit and following her
directions. I don’t text him, though, I call. When I get his voicemail, I tell
him where I’m waiting for him. I’m only standing there, chatting up the
security guard, for a few minutes before a loud cheer goes up in the arena,
which I assume either means the Rebels scored again, or we won the game.
Maybe both.
And then the heavy metal door flings open, and Colt is striding through
the door in his suit, heading straight toward me. He wraps me in his arms,
burrowing his face into my neck and breathing in deeply.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t let go. Instead, he clings to me like I’m the
only thing holding him up.
I pull back, cupping his face in my hands and looking every square inch
of him over. “You sure?”
“I’m completely fucking positive, Tink. I feel fantastic.” Then he kisses
my nose and says, “Let’s go.”

W e’re at the Neon Cactus having a drink with his teammates when the
text comes through.
LAUREN
You know Jackson’s husband, Nate? His dad is interested in your
nonprofit and wants to meet with you.
JULES
He’s interested in donating?
LAUREN
Yeah, apparently Nate told him about it after I explained it to him and
Jackson. He owns a ton of commercial property in Boston and is
interested in donating. But I think he also genuinely wants to know
more about the program and may want to be involved somehow.

My stomach drops when I think of the last guy who wanted to be

“involved” in our nonprofit.
I turn my phone toward Audrey and her eyes scan the screen before she
raises her eyebrows and says, “Do you want to meet with him?”
 “I keep thinking about how I felt when we finished recording that video
of Rosie. That realization that we need the money now so we don’t have a
waiting list a mile long. So yeah, I think we need to move on this.”
LAUREN
I’m going to send you his contact info. Nate told him you’d reach out if
you were interested.

“Do you want me to be involved in this?” Audrey asks. “Or do you

want to handle it yourself?”
I realize that my sister is putting the ball in my court, letting me decide
if I want this to be an “us” thing, or if I need to go by myself like I did last
time, just to prove to myself that I can do it.
“This nonprofit, like Our House, is ours. I can’t, and don’t want to, do it
without you.”
“From a business perspective,” Audrey says, leaning over and resting
her head on my shoulder, “yes, it’s ours. But you are the face and the
lifeblood of this nonprofit, Jules. You’re the one with the passion and the
knowledge that helps these women. I couldn’t do it without you, but you
certainly could do it without me.”
I hear her acknowledgement of what I bring to this process, but it
doesn’t change the fact that Audrey and I are in this together.
Tilting my head to the side, I rest my cheek on the top of her head.
“Even if I could do it without you, I don’t want to.”
Nate’s dad’s contact comes through via text a moment later, and I don’t
let myself think too much about it before I tap on the number to send a
message.
JULES
Hi, this is Jules Flynn. Nate suggested reaching out to you about the
mentoring program for women in the trades that my sister and I
recently started in Boston. He mentioned that you might be interested
in donating or being involved. I’d love to talk more about that
opportunity whenever you have time.
JAY DAVENPORT
How is tomorrow, late afternoon? I have some time around 5pm.

Audrey sits up and we just look at each other. I wasn’t expecting a reply
this late at night, or for a meeting so quickly.
“Let’s do it,” she says.
 JULES
We can make that work. I’ll send you some info tomorrow in case you
have a minute to look through it ahead of time. Where would you like
to meet?

He texts me the address to his office in the Davenport building

downtown, right near the old State House, and it’s only then that I have the
“ah ha” moment of realizing exactly what a big deal he is. Jackson’s
husband, Nate, while obviously wealthy, is so down to earth I would never
have guessed that he’s part of the historic Davenport family that the
landmark building is named after.
“What’s going on?” Colt’s voice is low, the words spoken directly in my
ear from the opposite side of me.
“Just setting up a business meeting with a potential donor tomorrow.”
“At . . .” Colt glances at his watch. “. . . eleven at night?”
“Yep.”
“Why do you need more donors? Should I have made a bigger
donation?”
“You can’t be our only donor, Colt.”
His hand slides along my lower back and loops around my waist,
pulling me toward him. “And why not?”
“Because I don’t want to milk you for all you’re worth,” I say,
squeezing his strong thigh playfully where it rests beneath my hand.
His laugh is deep, and his breath ruffles my hair when he says, “I think
I’d be okay with you milking me for all I’m worth, Jules.” I know he’s not
talking about money right now, and immediately my thoughts go to
yesterday and the way he left his release all over my body. I cross my legs
to quell the ache between them as the memories rip through me. I need this
man. I need him in my bed, but I also need him in my life and in my house.
I need him taking care of me the way that only he can—the perfect
balance of showing me how strong I can be and holding me in my moments
of weakness.
Looking over my shoulder at him, I shake my head through a laugh. “I
think you should take me home.”
His hand presses into my belly as his thumb strokes the underside of my
breast. “I was thinking the same thing.”
We scoot out of the booth, saying our goodbyes, and I tell Audrey we’ll
chat tomorrow morning about the meeting. McCabe looks at his phone,
grumbling about his nanny being flighty and unreliable, and slides out of
the booth with us. We walk out together, and even though they’re both
heading back to the arena to get their cars, Colt tells McCabe he’ll see him
later.
As McCabe speeds on ahead, Colt backs me into the glass wall of a
storefront half a block down the street from the Neon Cactus.
He steps in close—not enough that he’s touching me, but enough that I
can feel the current of sexual tension humming between us. His stance is
wide, so I barely have to look up at him as he reaches out to stroke his
thumb along the tender flesh of my lower lip.
“I don’t want to leave after the game on Thursday,” he says, his words a
whispered admission.
“And I don’t want you to go.” But he has to. We both know it. I don’t
know how many more years he plans to play, but the thought of feeling like
this every time he travels, and knowing that he’s gone about half of every
season . . . I don’t know how I’d do it. I don’t know if that’s even what he
wants?
Leaning forward, he rests his forehead on mine. “Is this what falling in
love feels like?”
My stomach flips over almost painfully in my belly, and I have to clear
my throat because it feels too thick to speak. “I don’t know. But I
think . . . maybe it is?”
“Are you telling me I’m not in this alone?” The vulnerability in his
question hits me hard.
I guess this is what Audrey meant when she asked me when the last
time was that it felt fake. And I can’t remember anymore, because in all
honesty, it stopped feeling fake almost immediately.
“I don’t even know what this is, Colt. But whatever it is, I’m in it with
you.”
Colt leans down, kissing me tenderly, before he pulls back and says,
“You’ve gradually become the single most important person in my life.
None of this is fake for me. I’m not sure it ever was.”
His tender kisses turn needy and insistent, and I want to be alone with
him. I want his clothes off and our bodies pressed together, and I’m not
willing to wait a second longer. When I tell him as much, he links our
fingers together, pulls me to the edge of the sidewalk, and hails a cab.
 “What about your car?” I ask, even though I don’t want to waste time
going to get it.
“Fuck the car. I’ll get it tomorrow.”
He opens the cab door for me, and I slide in behind the driver, and when
Colt gets in, he tells the driver the address and promises him a good tip if he
can get us there in five minutes or less. We speed through the streets of
Boston, as Colt’s hand moves up my inner thigh and his fingers trail
between my legs. As he runs his fingers along my seam, pressing the thick
fabric of my jeans into my clit, I have to swallow down the moan that wants
to erupt from the pleasure he’s already bringing me. He teases me over and
over until I’m craving him in a way that feels nearly uncontrollable. I want
his fingers inside me so I can fuck them right in the back of this cab.
And then the cabbie takes the turn a little too fast, and I’m thrown
toward him. He easily captures me in his hands and sets me on his lap. I’m
sitting on his huge erection while he quickly undoes the button of my jeans
and pulls the zipper down, and I’m hoping the cabbie can’t hear the drag of
metal against metal over the music he’s playing.
Colt slides his hand down the front of my jeans, dipping his fingers into
the front of the lace thong I sewed myself and sliding his fingers along my
slick seam before bringing the moisture up to circle my clit. My back arches
as I react to his touch and he brings his other hand under my shirt, running
his thumb over my nipple as he slides one long finger of his other hand into
me. The contact—him entering me while also stroking my breast—has me
bucking my hips to meet the shallow thrusts of his finger. His movement is
hampered by my jeans, and in this moment, I have no shame. I’d pull them
down right now if we weren’t already turning onto my street.
“Alright,” the cabbie says after clearing his throat like he knows exactly
what we’re up to back here. “Under five minutes, as promised.”
When Colt pulls his finger out of me, I want to cry. I need him so badly
I’m not sure I can wait until we get into the house. But I don’t have a
choice, because he’s pulling my shirt down over my open jeans, then
opening the door for me. He reaches into his wallet and takes out several
bills, which he hands through the opening in the divider between the front
and back seats before he steps out of the cab himself.
The way his pants are tented at the zipper as he stands on the sidewalk,
looking at me through a lust-filled haze, has me reaching out to stroke him.
He lets out a groan, then grabs my hand and pulls me up the front steps,
clearly in as much of a hurry to get naked with me as I am with him.
As soon as the door closes behind me, he’s pressed me up against it,
pulling my legs up so they’re wrapped around his waist, and then he’s
thrusting his enormous and ridiculously hard cock against my clit. The
sensation has me moaning into his mouth as his tongue tangles with mine. I
slide my hands along his shoulders and push his jacket down until he lets it
fall off each arm before bringing his hands back to my ass. I thread mine
into his hair, dragging my fingertips along his scalp gently. It’s a caress at
first, and then I’m digging my fingers into his head, pulling him closer,
changing the angle as I pour all my feelings into that kiss.
A minute later, he pulls back, looking at me in awe and saying, “Holy
shit, Tink. You kiss like you’re ravenous.”
“I am,” I say with a small shrug, “for you.” And then I’m holding on
tightly with my legs and pulling my shirt over my head.
He looks down at the sheer lace bra and hisses out his appreciation.
“Look at you,” he says, gazing down at me as my chest heaves with heavy
breaths. A small, private smile graces his lips. It’s nothing like the one he
flashes for everyone else, and it makes me wonder if anyone but me has
gotten to see it.
Before I can ask, he’s turning and striding across the entryway to the
kitchen. He glances at the table, then turns toward the countertop instead
and sets me right on the edge. It’s the perfect height, because I’m still
wrapped around his waist exactly where he wants me, but now his hands
are free to explore.
“This bras is . . .” He looks down at me and shakes his head slightly,
like he’s forgotten how to speak.
“Thanks. I made it myself.”
“Really?” His eyebrows raise as he trails his fingers lightly across the
lace, like he forgot that I told him this about the thong he kept.
“Yep. The underwear too.”
“This I have to see.” He hooks his thumbs into the open waistband of
my jeans. “Lift,” he commands, and I press up on the countertop to lift my
ass off it so he can slide my jeans down over my hips. He pulls them gently
down my legs, kneels to remove my shoes and pull the jeans over my feet,
then tosses them to the side before standing back up.
 My legs are spread on either side of his hips, my heels resting on the
drawer pulls below. He stands there staring at me, his eyes raking up and
down my body before he finally looks up and meets my gaze. “You are so
fucking beautiful.”
“Is that why you like me so much, now?” My tone is teasing, but I need
to hear from him how he feels. He said he was falling in love, but why?
Stepping forward so that he’s between my open legs, he grips my hip
bones and leans in to say, “Fuck no. You’ve always been beautiful, but I
never really knew you until recently. It’s who you are—your generosity,
your honesty, the way you always take care of others, the way you turn
prickly when you’re hurt, and the way you’ll open up to me even when you
won’t with others—that has me truly falling for you. Now I can’t imagine
my life without you in it.”
His admission seems to suck all the oxygen from the room. It’s so
cliché, and yet it must be true, because I’m having a hard time breathing.
“I feel like you’re freaking out internally right now. It’s okay if you
don’t feel the same way yet,” he says.
“I do.” The words barely make it past the lump in my throat, and I can
feel my nose heating up the way it does when I cry.
I should be happy—this is what I always dreamed of having with him.
But instead, I feel raw. I’m on the verge of tears because he’s peeled back
all the layers, seen who I really am, and . . . it’s made him like me more?
It’s made him love me, even? I didn’t know this type of vulnerability with
another person was something I could ever let myself experience.
“I don’t know what the future looks like for us, Jules,” he says as he
leans down and rests his forehead on mine. “I just know that my only path
forward is with you.”
“Yes.” It’s a whispered plea coming off my lips, both because that’s
what I want with him, and because he’s reached out and is running his
thumb along the damp lace of my thong, then stroking upward to my clit.
And as he teases me, I undo his tie and unbutton his shirt, until I’m sliding
it off and pulling his undershirt up and over his head.
I want him naked, but for now, this view—the hard ridges and planes of
his abdomen and chest, his strong arms, his muscular shoulders and neck—
will do. This man is mine, and I will enjoy him.
When he brings both his hands to my shoulders and hooks his thumbs
under the straps of my bra, dragging them down my biceps, I hook my legs
around his waist and pull him flush against me. I already miss the feel of
him, and as I tilt my hips up, grinding myself along his hard length, he frees
my breasts from the lace. His thumbs toy with my nipples as he watches me
writhe against him.
“Goddamn, Jules. You keep grinding yourself against me like that and
we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”
In response, I tighten my hold on his hips and press myself against him
even harder. “I need you, and only you. Whether you knew it or not, it’s
always been you. And right now, I need to know what you feel like inside
me.”
 Chapter Thirty-Seven
COLT

I scoop her up and set her on the ground in front of me, and she practically
shrieks when her feet meet the cold tile of the floor. Dragging the stretchy
lace of her sexy-as-hell bra down her waist and over her hips, I let it drop to
the ground. And then I turn her toward the entryway and give her ass a light
smack, saying, “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going, exactly?” she asks, her feet remaining planted in
place.
“Upstairs.” Stepping up behind her, I drop my voice when I say,
“because the first time we have sex, it’s not going to be on the kitchen
counter.”
“But another time?” she asks, her voice hopeful.
“There’s pretty much no surface in this house where I haven’t already
imagined you spread out before me. I’ll take you wherever you want,
whenever you want. But not this first time.”
“Such a gentleman,” she teases as she reaches behind her and grasps my
belt buckle, pulling me along as she walks across her entryway in nothing
but her thong.
I step behind her as we approach the front door. We didn’t turn any
lights on, and it’s unlikely someone’s on the sidewalk outside her
brownstone but, just in case, I make sure to block her from view with my
body. And then when we reach the stairs, I pull her hand off my buckle.
 “I want to watch you walk up those stairs, just like I did earlier tonight
at the arena. But instead of imagining what you look like naked, I’m going
to enjoy every moment of seeing all of you.”
She glances over her shoulder at me as she takes the first step. “You
were picturing me naked during your warm-ups?”
“I’m always picturing you naked, Jules. Get used to it.”
She takes each step, just like she did at the arena tonight, and the gentle
sway of her hips above her muscular thighs and ass has me wanting to grip
her hips and watch myself slide into her from behind.
When she looks back at me and says, “Are you coming?” I take the
steps two at a time, and she does as well, as we hurry to get to the bedroom.
But the minute she crosses the threshold to her room, she stops, and I have
to put my hand up on the top of the door frame so I don’t run right into the
back of her.
I snake my other hand along her bare waist and pull her back to me,
relishing the way her hair feels pressed up against my bare skin.
“What’s wrong, Tink?”
She turns, running her palms along my chest on their way to my
shoulders before she wraps her arms around my neck. The feel of her
breasts against my chest has the blood rushing to my dick so fast I almost
feel lightheaded.
“What makes tonight different than all the other nights you turned me
down?”
“You really don’t know?” When she shakes her head, I say, “I needed
you to feel the same way about me that I feel about you. I didn’t want you
to sleep with me because I was convenient and willing, I wanted you to
want me.”
Her voice is practically a whisper when she says, “I’ve always wanted
you, Colt. I just never thought you’d feel the same way. I’m sorry if . . .”
She takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry if I made you feel
like I was using you to cross something off my bucket list.”
I kiss the bridge of her nose. “I’m one hundred percent fine with you
using me for sex, now that I know how you feel.” Bringing my hands to her
inner thighs, I scoop her up so she’s wrapping her legs around me again,
and walk over to the bed, where I set her on the edge and step between her
parted legs. “In fact, I see a lot of sex in our future.”
 Without breaking eye contact, she undoes my belt, then unbuttons my
pants and pulls the zipper down. As she slides them down my thighs and
lets them pool at my ankles, my cock strains against the fabric of my boxer
briefs now that my zipper is no longer holding it back. Jules reaches out and
touches me, cupping her hand and smoothing her palm along my shaft as
she brings her fingers to my head, circling it before she hooks her thumbs
into my briefs and lifts them over my dick to push them down my legs.
As she leans forward to do so, her lips part and she sucks me into her
mouth. It’s impossible to resist pushing into her as her tongue laves against
my length, and her hum of approval makes me do it again. She doesn’t
seem to mind me hitting the back of her throat, which makes me wonder if
she has a gag reflex at all. Something to explore another time, I think to
myself.
She grasps the base of my cock with one hand as the other slides down
between her legs, and then she’s moaning around me, and I watch in
fascination as her fingers dip into her underwear and work her clit with the
same tempo she’s taking me into her mouth. I reach out, brushing my palms
along her nipples, and she moans again, sending shock waves through my
body and spurring me on. Her hand begins moving frantically between her
legs as she lets me fuck her mouth, and when she starts moaning through
the orgasm she’s giving herself, it’s all I can do to hold myself off from
coming right down the back of her throat. But I cling to that last, thin thread
of self-control because there’s no way we’re not having sex immediately
after she’s done.
As her orgasm recedes, she releases me from her mouth and looks up
into my eyes as she licks a circle around the head of my cock like some sort
of vixen. Then she’s standing and sliding her thong down her legs before
she steps forward and presses her fully naked body against mine. I sweep
her legs up in one arm while I hold her back, cradling her as I take a step
toward the bed and lay her down.
“You’re a fucking masterpiece and I want to see every inch of you,” I
say, standing over her and taking in the sight of her long limbs and
muscular body. The bed dips under my weight as I plant my knees between
her legs.
She lets her knees fall open, baring herself to me, and I suck in a breath
at the sight of her—even in the moonlight streaming through the window, I
can see her smooth skin glistening with evidence of her orgasm.
 Planting one hand above her shoulder, I lean down and kiss her
forehead. I’m about to promise her that I’ll take it slow, be gentle with her,
when she says, “I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve dreamed about
this.”
“I don’t know what you dreamed up, Tink, but I can promise you, this is
going to be so much better.”
She reaches out and strokes the entire length of me, and I almost lose
my mind and push into her bare. Shit. “I, uh, I have to go upstairs and get a
condom. I don’t have one on me.”
“I have a whole drawer full,” she says, nodding her chin toward her
nightstand.
“Why do you have a whole drawer full?”
She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Because I planned on having a lot of sex
with you when you finally gave in.” With slow, gentle strokes, she
continues sliding her hand along my shaft, making me impossibly hard.
“What are we waiting for?”
I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “This is going to change
everything.”
“Good.” She gestures toward the nightstand again, and so I reach over
and slide the drawer open, grabbing a condom out of a bowl they’re sitting
in. As I tear the foil packet open, she says, “Show me how to put it on you.”
The sight of her lying beneath me, using her long fingers to roll the
condom over my tip and down my shaft with so much care and reverence, is
doing funny things to my heart. This couldn’t be more different from all the
one-night stands I’ve had in the past—mostly because I want to see this
sight every night for the rest of my life.
When her hand reaches the end of my cock, I lean in to kiss her, and she
sucks my lower lip into her mouth, sinking her teeth into it lightly like I’ve
noticed she likes to do. As she wraps one leg around my ass, pulling me
closer to her, I know what she wants, but I want to make sure she’s ready.
Reaching between us, I slide my fingers over her clit and down to her
entrance. She’s so wet that two fingers slip into her tight pussy easily.
“Colt, when I said I wanted you inside of me, that wasn’t what I meant,”
she growls against my cheek after pulling away from the kiss, making me
chuckle.
“You’re adorable when you’re frustrated.”
“Please, don’t make me wait any longer.”
 “Well, if you’re going to beg⁠—”
“I’m not begging,” she says, using her lower leg to push down on my
body until my cock hits my hand. “But I will if you want me to.”
I slip my fingers out of her and make sure I’m lined up with her
entrance, and as I push into her, I tell her, “There’s no reason to beg for
something I can’t wait to give you, Jules.”
She sucks in a breath when she takes the first couple of inches of me,
and then she relaxes as I drive my hips forward slowly. She’s hot, and tight,
and wet, and lying there with all her hair fanned out beneath her, and those
big blue eyes staring up at me, she’s basically a goddess. The dream girl I
didn’t know I was looking for and was lucky enough to find anyway.
She winces when I’m not even all the way in yet, and I freeze. “Are you
okay?”
“Just . . . so full. I’ve never been this full.”
“Not even with your extensive toy collection?” I tease.
Her eyes widen. “How do you know about that?”
“Besides the one I got a first-hand view of in the shower, you mean?
You told me all about your collection on our walk home when you were
drunk.”
“No, I didn’t,” she says, tilting her hips up to take more of me. “There’s
no way I was that drunk.”
I lean my face down and nuzzle into her hair next to her ear. “So you’re
saying you told me about all your different vibrators while sober. Got it.” I
draw my hips forward, pushing into her farther.
And then she tightens her leg over my ass and slams her hips up so I
enter her completely. She hisses as her muscles contract around me, and I
swear to God I see stars.
“That’s better,” she says on a breath. “Stop treating me like I’m going to
break. I need you to fuck me like you mean it.”
“Like I mean what, exactly?” I ask as I start to move inside her with
long, slow strokes.
“Like you mean all the things you said to me earlier tonight.”
Moving one of my knees up under hers, I smooth my hand up her
ribcage on the opposite side of her body, letting my thumb graze under her
breast and across her nipple. And then I’m sliding my palm around her
collarbone and up her neck until I’m cupping her chin in my hand.
 Kissing her lips lightly, I whisper, “The problem is, I don’t want to fuck
you like I’m falling in love with you. I want to fuck you like I’m trying to
ruin you for every other man in existence.”
I feel her chest shake with laughter and I still because I can’t figure out
why that would make her laugh. She responds by tightening the walls of her
core and squeezing my cock, then she reaches out and cups my cheek in her
hand.
“You already have, Colt. You’ve shown me how I should be treated by a
man. You’ve shown me that I can trust you, and that I don’t have to control
everything. Now, I just want to lose control with you. So fuck me however
you want to because I’m going to love it no matter what.”
Her words unleash whatever part of me I’ve been holding back. I am
absolutely feral for this woman, and determined that she know it, feel it,
and understand it before this is done. And as I move inside her with
abandon, she meets me thrust for thrust. Our lips, tongues, and teeth tangle
together as we devour each other wholly—it’s like the first time I kissed her
in the alley, but a hundred times better, too. While I kiss her, my free hand
explores her body, caressing and gripping the smooth expanse of her skin,
learning every nook and cranny of her. I want to memorize every single
thing about her, so that I can still feel her with me when I leave for a road
trip later this week.
I don’t want to go.
Later on, when I’m not in the middle of having sex with the girl of my
dreams, I’ll have to figure out what it means that I’ve had that thought twice
tonight. I’ve never dreaded going on a road trip. I’ve never wished I was
home with a woman instead.
Then again, I never had anyone like Jules in my life before.
“Yes,” she hisses as I drive into her deeply. As I bottom out, I tilt my
hips so the end of my cock hits the ridges deep inside her that I know will
help her orgasm again. With my body grinding against her clit, and her legs
wrapped so tightly around my waist that I can barely pull out of her, I know
I’m hitting all the right places.
“Holy shit,” she says, her breath catching, “please don’t stop.”
“There’s no chance we’re stopping, Tink. Not until you’re screaming
my name so loud someone alerts the media.”
She wraps her hand around the back of my head and pulls my face to
hers, sinking her teeth into my lower lip before she says mumbles into my
mouth, “How about you make me?”
“Don’t worry, I plan to.”
I bring my other knee up under her other thigh and wrap my arm around
her lower back as I continue with the deep thrusts that have her chanting,
“Yes, fuck yes,” over and over. And then her chants are practically screams,
as her muscles pulse around me while her orgasm overtakes her. And when
she yells, “Oh my god, oh shit, Colt!” I trail gentle kisses up the side of her
neck and behind her ear as I let her ride the waves of her release on my
cock.
The feeling of her coming on me, the way her body rhythmically
squeezes mine, has electricity flowing through my veins until the pulsing in
my balls has me emptying myself into her in several long, hard thrusts.
“Holy shit,” she says as I collapse on my elbow, hovering just above
her. Her lower body is still wrapped around mine, but she exhales until the
rest of her is almost lifeless beneath me. “I don’t know what that was, but it
was magic. Is it always like that?”
I look down at her flushed cheeks, the way she’s still panting and not
letting me go. I want to be joined to her like this forever.
“No,” I tell her honestly. “It’s never like this. Except with you.”
 Chapter Thirty-Eight
JULES

“A lright, we’ll be in touch then,” Jay Davenport says, shaking my hand

and then Audrey’s as the elevator dings to alert us to its arrival on
his floor of the building.
Meeting with him has been the polar opposite of my meeting with
Jerome weeks ago. Jay has been nothing but professional, explaining that
his interest in the program is because—with the number of commercial
properties he owns in downtown—he has his own crews for repairs and
renovations but has trouble finding qualified, reliable people to keep on
staff. When he told me what the starting salary was at his company, I was
floored. That kind of income could make a huge difference in people’s
lives, and I’m thrilled that he’s specifically looking to hire women too.
“Thank you so much for your time,” I say as we turn and step into the
elevator.
“Looking forward to working with you,” Audrey adds, and then the
doors close.
We turn toward each other, and I hold my index finger to my mouth as I
look up and watch the floors count down while the elevator descends. When
we’ve gone down fifteen floors, I figure that’s far enough, and I reach over,
bracing my hands on Audrey’s shoulders as I say, “Holy shit!”
Both of us are squealing with excitement, because the donation he just
promised us is a game changer. We’ll be able to help so many people, and
I’m confident that his guidance will be extremely valuable as we grow the
mentoring program.
“Okay, we need to meet with Morgan and figure out our next steps,”
Audrey says. Morgan’s only official role in Our House is to run our social
media accounts, but this mentoring program was her brainchild. We’ll need
her help messaging out more information about expanding the program, and
she may even be able to help us recruit a director for the non-profit. Her
recently acquired MBA, combined with her social media experience and her
willingness to share her wealth of business knowledge, have been
invaluable.
“Can you set up some time with her?” I ask as the elevator arrives at the
lobby . “I have to run over to the Seaport and see the progress on Colt’s
condo, but I can make time tomorrow or Friday.”
“Wait, is Colt’s place done already?”
“God no,” I tell her as we cross the lobby. The fact that she thinks
damage that extensive could be cleaned up and rebuilt in the past several
weeks is proof that she knows very little about the construction side of our
business. “But drywall is going up tomorrow, so he wants me to look at
everything before it’s all closed up.”
“Alright. I’ll text you and let you know when Morgan’s free so we can
meet and figure out next steps.”
We go our separate ways, me to where I parked my truck down the
street, and her toward the Boston Common because she says it’s too nice of
an evening not to walk home. Getting over to Colt’s building in the Seaport
is easier than I’d expect at this time of day, mostly because Boston traffic
seems to start well before rush hour and is generally better by the time I’d
expect it to be bad.
I leave my truck with the valet, who tells me it’ll be parked next to
Colt’s in the garage, keys inside, when I’m ready for it. And then I’m
headed up to the thirtieth floor. Colt greets me at the door, but I hardly
notice him as he stands there taking up most of the doorframe, because in
the space beside him, I have a clear view directly out the floor-to-ceiling
glass walls. And with the sun already on the horizon, Boston Harbor looks
like it’s on fire with ribbons of gold and orange dancing across the surface
of the water.
“Holy shit,” I sigh, one hand pressed to my chest. “This view . . .”
 Colt looks down at me. “I’d say thanks, but I don’t think you’re talking
about me.”
“You’re so full of yourself.” I laugh as he pulls me to him, circling his
arms around my back and pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“If I had my way right now, you’d be full of me too.”
“I don’t know why I like you so much,” I say, rising onto my tiptoes so I
can trail kisses across his jaw.
“Because I’m a likable guy.”
I snort out a laugh. “You’re tolerable, I suppose.” I don’t know why I
keep pretending to resist him—but it’s like a defense mechanism I can’t let
go of after so many years.
“You seemed to tolerate me just fine when I was buried inside you last
night.” The words are a low caress against my ear and send a shiver down
my spine.
I can’t help the way my body tries to curl into him, how my hips want to
rise and meet his, how my skin wants his rough hands skating gently across
it, how my core aches to have him inside me again.
“Meh,” I say, and go to move past him.
But he captures my hand in his, pulling me back to him as he drops his
voice so deep it’s practically a growl. “Every time you try to push me away,
I’m going to pull you right back. If I’m going to fall, you’re coming down
with me.”
A chill runs up my spine as his words sink in, and then my hands are
sliding up his chest and my arms are snaking around his neck as I pull him
close. “I’m right there with you. I’m sorry I keep pushing you away. I know
it’s a defense mechanism, I just don’t know how to stop it.”
“You’ll know.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you’ll know when you can fully trust me because you
won’t feel the need to do it anymore.”
I gaze up at that perfectly sculpted face. “I do trust you, Colt.”
“You’re getting there.” He dips his head and kisses my forehead.
I’m about to tell him that he doesn’t get to decide when I trust him
enough. But then he spins us around and shuts the door behind us, pushing
me farther down the hallway toward his living room. The view is fucking
spectacular.
 As I come down the few steps to the sunken living room, which has to
be bigger than the entire first floor of my brownstone, I can see the islands
of the harbor dotting the water. Beyond them, the horizon is streaked with
the same orange and gold as the water, but with pinks and lavenders as well.
Because we’re on the Eastern Seaboard, we don’t get true sunsets over the
water in Boston. But every once in a while, before it dips below the
buildings on the other side of the city, the sun reflects off the water and the
sky like this, giving us a textbook-perfect sunset.
“What do you think?” Colt asks, coming up behind me where I’ve
stopped in the middle of his living room.
“I still can’t believe this view.”
“I meant about the condo?”
I glance around, and between the steel studs, the foam insulation is
neatly cured. The electrical wires and plumbing tubes run exactly where
they should. “How can you expect me to talk about work with a view like
this?”
His eyes flick toward the windows, then back at me. “The view’s okay.”
“Okay?” I drag out the word. “What the hell are you talking about?
How could you be desensitized to a view like this?”
“Trust me, you just get used to it.” He reaches out, pulling me to him
like he always does. I love that he can’t seem to keep his hands off me, and
always wants me as close as possible. I always thought that I’d hate it if a
man were clingy, but with Colt, I love it. Knowing that he could have
anyone, and only wants me—it’s the reassurance I didn’t realize I needed.
“This view, though,” he says, focusing in on my face, “I can’t get enough of
this view.”
I smooth my palm along his jaw, cupping his face. “Good. You’ll need
to get your fill tonight, though, because after the game tomorrow, I won’t
see you for almost four days. Not that I’m counting,” I add hastily.
“Clearly.”
“I don’t like feeling this way.”
“What way’s that?” he asks, amusement tinging his words.
“I hate the ups and downs—being thrilled to see you when you’re here,
and then missing you like crazy when you’re gone. It’s too much.”
“There’s no such thing as too much, Tink. You can never be too excited
to see me, or miss me too much when I’m not here.”
 “But I don’t want to feel all those emotions,” I tell him. Life was
simpler when I got up every day, worked my job, mentored a few women,
spoiled my immediate family, and occasionally made some beautiful
lingerie, and then went to sleep to do it all again in the morning.
“More things to talk about in therapy, it sounds like.”
“Yeah, I promise I won’t cancel this weekend’s meeting,” I assure him.
“Good. Okay, so can you take a quick look around, let me know what
you think of everything so I can give them the go ahead to put the walls up
tomorrow?”
“Sure.” As I walk the perimeter of the large space, looking at things the
way I know an inspector would, it occurs to me that if they’re putting walls
up tomorrow, the inspector must already have signed off on everything.
When I ask him why he’s having me look at it in that case, he just
shrugs and says, “I want to make sure it’s done right, and I know you’d
never accept anything less than the best work.”
“Everything looks good,” I say, crossing the room to where he stands,
waiting for me near the sliding glass doors.
He takes my hand, leading me out to the large and incredibly private
balcony. Full walls on both sides prevent you from seeing onto any
neighbor’s balcony. It’s a full-on outdoor room out here, and the only view
is directly out beyond the glass half-wall, toward the ocean.
It was beautiful the last time I was here, but we were distracted by the
wreckage that was his apartment—and I was so busy trying not to
eavesdrop on his conversation with Gabriel—that I didn’t fully appreciate
this view.
He gestures to the large sectional couch off to the side. There’s a coffee
table with two place settings and heaps of takeout containers stacked there.
“I got us Italian.”
We’re sitting on pillows we’ve put on the floor and are almost done
with dinner, when I finally work up the nerve to ask the question that’s been
bothering me since I first walked in here. “So, are you looking forward to
this renovation finally being done?”
Leaning back against the couch, he lifts his arm and rests it along the
cushions as he turns toward me. “I’m dreading it, actually.”
“Why?” It springs from my mouth, because his place is beyond amazing
and it’s going to be even better than before when it’s done. I know that for a
fact because Audrey and I helped him pick all the finishes.
 He just stares at me. “Why do you think, Tink?”
My lips part, but the words don’t come. So he reaches up, tracing my
lower lip with his thumb as he waits for me to speak.
“Why don’t you tell me, so we can avoid this whole guessing game,” I
say, hating the way I can’t make myself admit that I hope it’s because the
thought of not living with me is tearing him up.
His hand slides from my face to my neck, holding the side possessively,
like he’s reminding me I’m his.
“Because I don’t want to be two feet away from you, much less halfway
across the city. I don’t want to spend a second away from you that I don’t
have to. So no, I’m not looking forward to my place being done, because I
don’t plan on moving back in here unless you kick me out.”
My breath is trapped in my lungs, which refuse to expand. Then I take a
heaving gasp, and nod out toward the ocean view. “You’d give all this up to
live in your fake fiancée’s childhood home?”
“I’d give everything up to be with you. It’s not even a question.” He
sighs, his fingers tightening around the back of my neck. “The only way
I’m moving out is if we break up. And if you remember, the only way this
is ending is if you break it off.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I guess you’re stuck with me . . . and that ring.”
I stiffen involuntarily, and he gives me a questioning look.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be with you. But I don’t want my inaction
to be the reason we stay together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being together should be a conscious choice, not the default thing that
happens because I don’t end it.”
“Isn’t not ending it a conscious choice? We agreed that we’d stay
together until the end of playoffs. If we decide to stay together beyond that,
isn’t it a choice?”
Shrugging, I pause for a moment as I try to put my feelings, and
worries, into words. “Colt . . . I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I’ve never done
any of this before. I’ve never fallen for someone. I’ve never had sex with
anyone. I’ve never been in love. It’s . . .”
“We’re going to take this slow, because I know that’s what you need.
But I want to remind you . . . you have done all of that before. You’ve done
it with me. And as scary as you’re finding all of it, just know that I am too.”
 “Is this what love feels like? I don’t even know, and I’m not sure you
do, either,” I admit. I don’t want us to fall into this because it’s convenient
—because we like spending time together, we cohabitate well, and the sex
is great. It has to be based on more than that . . . doesn’t it?
“I was nineteen—a damn child, and a fool one at that—the last time I
told someone I loved them,” Colt says. “I thought I knew then what love
was, but that wasn’t it. My heart didn’t literally ache when I was away from
her. I didn’t spend every spare moment planning ways to spend more time
with her. She wasn’t the first thing I thought of when I woke up, or the last
person I wanted to see before I fell asleep. I didn’t know what every single
sound she made meant . . . never even thought to catalog that information
away like I do with you. So don’t tell me I don’t know what love is. I’ve
experienced what it isn’t well enough to know what it is.”
My heart is pounding, in response to his admission, so I lean toward
him, resting my head in the hollow where his raised arm meets his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t have these feelings. It’s that I don’t know
how to deal with them. Emotions scare me.”
“At least you can admit it.” Stroking the back of my head, he leans
down and plants a kiss on top of it. “And they scare me, too. We’re
learning, together. I think maybe you just need to remember what you told
me last night.”
“What was that?” I ask.
“You said I’d already ruined you for any other man. That I’d shown you
how you should be treated, that you can trust me, and that you’re not afraid
of letting go of your need to control things when I’m around. And then you
said you were going to love me no matter what.”
“Did I really?” My heart feels like my chest is constricting around it.
Every word of that is true, but I must have been feeling especially safe and
secure to say it out loud. Either that, or sex made me lose my mind.
“I think that maybe,” Colt says as the beginning of a smirk quirks his
lips, “you are more honest when you’re naked.”
“Are you trying to get me naked right now?” I ask, eyes narrowing
playfully.
His hand slides down to the buttons of my sleeveless blouse. “I’m
always trying to get you naked.”
The way the heel of his hand grazes my nipple as he toys with the first
button has a wave of longing rippling through me. I push up on my knees
and swing my leg over his so I’m straddling him. I already knew I had a
high sex drive, but now having had sex has made me feel like an addict. All
I’ve thought about every waking moment today is having him inside me
again, as soon as possible.
“Someone’s eager.” He chuckles, and the vibrations run along my
abdomen, like the shock waves of a bomb detonating. Between my legs, I
can feel him growing hard where my center is pressed up against him, so I
slide my hips forward and back right along his length, pulling a deep sigh
from the back of his throat.
“Now that you’ve shown me what sex can be like, you’re going to have
to provide a repeat performance so I know it wasn’t a fluke.”
He glances up at me, taking his eyes off the narrow buttons he was
undoing. “A fluke, huh?”
I raise an eyebrow in response, taking over and unbuttoning the last two
buttons without even looking at them. Sliding the blouse down my arms, I
toss it onto the couch.
Colt sucks in a sharp breath when my bra comes into view. It’s made of
a stretchy sheer nude-colored mesh, with the palest pink flowers
embroidered right over my nipples. The drag of the embroidery over my
hardening peaks has me feeling extra turned on, but the heat in his eyes
almost drives me over the edge. “Did you make this one, too?”
“Yep.”
“Are you going to show me how you do this?”
“How I make them?” I clarify, and when he nods, I say, “Sure, someday.
But right now, all I want to do is show you how to take it off without
ruining it.” My fingers meet between my breasts, and I fold the two pieces
of the plastic clip forward so that the clasp opens, and then I pull the bra
open in the front.
“You are so goddamn stunning,” he says, his eyes focused on my
breasts and then moving up to my face. “Not just the way you look . . . but
everything about you. I didn’t expect you.” His hands skim my breasts on
their way to my chest, where he presses his palm against my sternum. “You
take up all the space in my heart.”
Goddamn. “You seem to have fixed all the cracks in my heart, too.”
“I feel like I put most of them there,” he says, his voice low and raw.
“The least I can do is help repair them.”
 I reach between us for his buckle, wanting to get these pants off as
quickly as possible. “Stand for a sec,” he says as he works to push his pants
down, but is hampered by the way I’m sitting on his lap.
I do as he asks, and with my legs spread on either side of him, he’s
looking right at my thighs, where he sits on the ground with his back
against the frame of the outdoor couch. And as he pushes his pants and
underwear down his legs, kicking off his shoes and following them with his
remaining clothing, he leans forward. Then his hands are pulling my skirt
down over my hips, and he brings his nose to my center, inhaling deeply
through the thin scrap of fabric.
“Jesus, Jules. I can tell how much you want me.” He presses his tongue
against my already damp underwear, licking me through the sheer material,
and making me gasp. “You’re so wet for me.”
He glides his tongue over me, adding additional friction as he circles
around my clit, while reaching up and cupping my breasts together,
dragging his rough thumbs over my sensitive nipples in a way that brings
me along quickly. “Fuck that feels good,” I breathe out. “But it’s not
enough. I need you, Colt.”
Pulling back, he smacks my ass lightly, and I look down at him in
surprise.
“Hands on the railing. I want to see myself enter you.”
“Aren’t you . . . worried someone is going to see us?”
His chuckle is deep. “On the thirtieth floor? Look around, Jules,” he
says, and I turn, my eyes scanning the horizon.
There are no other buildings, and only a few small boats dot the water
of the harbor. In the distance, Boston Light is sending its beam of light out
into the ocean as a warning to ships that land is near. But for me, it’s a
beacon, calling me home, showing me that I’m exactly where I’m meant to
be.
“Who’s going to see us?” he asks.
I lean toward the glass wall with its steel-framed railing along the top,
planting my hands there and spreading my legs slightly as I tilt my ass up
toward Colt. The hum of anticipation that flows through my body has me
practically shaking, and it’s a relief that it’s from excitement and not fear.
I’ve never felt so comfortable around anyone before.
“My god, you’re a fucking vision,” he says, kneeling behind me. Strong
hands grip my thighs as he moves my thong to the side and licks me from
my clit all the way along my slit. “I can’t wait to be inside you.” His tongue
returns to my clit, flicking back and forth over it in quick, sure strokes that
have me tingling all over.
In front of me is nothing but the inky blue sky dotted with a few stars,
and the ray of the lighthouse sweeping the horizon. Thirty stories below me,
cars and pedestrians move along the street, completely unaware that up on
this balcony, Colt’s got his face buried in me, his tongue working overtime
to bring me my first orgasm of the night.
My core tightens, my muscles pulling together rhythmically, wanting to
grip him but instead finding an empty chasm. “More,” I say between the
quick, shallow pants that seem to be all my lungs are capable of. “Please,
Colt, I need more.”
When I see movement on the floor near me, I glance down, realizing
that he’s groping around in the dark for his pants. He’s probably looking for
a condom.
“I love you on your knees like this for me, but I want you inside me
now,” I insist, as my legs quake and my muscles contract. “I want to come
all over you before you fuck me into oblivion.”
“Jesus, Jules,” he groans. But instead of the reprimand it usually feels
like when my family says it, with Colt, it sounds like he’s praying.
Worshiping me. “I need a second to find a condom.”
The waves are moving through my core, threatening to tip me over the
edge. “No, you don’t. We’re fine. I have an IUD. As long as you’re clean?”
“I am,” he says, pulling my thong down in one quick movement. Then
he leans over against my back, his huge, hot cock resting right along my
ass, as he asks softly, “Are you sure? Because this—having sex like this—is
huge. It’s a first for me, too.”
I glance over at him, where his chin rests on my shoulder. “I’m glad I
can be your first for something, too.”
“You’re my first for just about every single thing besides sex, Jules.” He
reaches down, dragging the tip of his cock along my wet seam, teasing me
as he presses it over my clit. I can’t hold in my moan as I rock my body
against him, needing the friction and pressure against that bundle of nerves.
What I really need is him filling me. “And you’re never doing this with
anyone else. This is forever.”
My thoughts are a jumbled mess as I try to absorb what he’s saying,
what he’s promising. But I can’t seem to find my words, all I can do is
groan out a “Yesss,” as he presses into me, entering me slowly. The
sensation of his skin on mine, inside me and all around me, has me pressing
back into him, taking all of him at once.
He lets out a whispered, “Holy shit,” as he starts to move. His fingers
make their way around my hip and down to my clit, giving me the friction I
needed there as he thrusts inside me, and I feel like I’m about to explode all
around him. I was already so close, and the tingling sensation spreads
through me quickly, until I’m grunting each time I sink back onto him.
“Look at you,” he says, and I look up over my shoulder at him. He’s
standing behind me, watching me take him as he pushes into me. “Look at
that beautiful pussy, taking me so well. You were fucking made for me.”
Increasing the pace, his jaw clamps together, the words barely escaping
through gritted teeth as he says, “You’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” I agree, as I use the railing at the top of the glass wall for
leverage to help me push back into him and set the pace I need. And when
my muscles contract within my core, it’s a completely new sensation—it’s
not the manual stimulation on my clit that’s bringing me to orgasm, it’s the
way that ridged head of his cock slides along the deepest recesses of me. I
swear I see stars that aren’t there as white-hot heat pours through me, every
drag of his dick threatening to tip me over the edge and into euphoria. And
when it happens, I cry out, followed by a promise. “I’ll always be yours.”
 Chapter Thirty-Nine
COLT

“Y ou are on fire tonight,” McCabe yells at me when I snag another

puck. For a second, I thought the slap shot might get by me. But at
this point in my career, knowing exactly where the puck is at is
almost second nature. I didn’t even have time to look for it as I snagged it
out of the air, but the whistle signals the stop of play.
“Don’t fucking say it,” I tell McCabe as I toss the puck at the ref for a
face-off.
“Not saying shit,” he says. He knows what I mean. I don’t want him to
even mutter the S-word, even though right now, as we’re up 3-0 with less
than a minute left in the third period, it’s on everyone’s mind. I haven’t had
a shutout in a while, and I’d love to have one on home ice with my whole
family and Jules in attendance, but I’m also superstitious as hell and don’t
want to jinx it.
As the players line up around the circle to my left, one of Carolina’s
forwards, Martin Levesque, shoots a look over his shoulder at me. He’s
been coming at me all game, with comments like, “You broke Lester’s
fucking face.”
That’s right, I did. Not only did I fracture his nose, but he has a hairline
fracture in his cheekbone. I saw the pictures that were posted online and
despite how bruised and swollen he was, I didn’t feel an ounce of fucking
regret. I sure as shit hope he felt some, though.
 The fine the league levied and the way my goalie coach ripped me a
new asshole . . . those were incredibly small prices to pay. Jules will never
get the apology she deserves from him, but hopefully his broken face at
least helps avenge her.
As soon as the puck drops, Lester’s asshole friend skates backward
toward me. He’s not lining up to receive a shot. The puck is down near
center ice, but the ref won’t call him offsides unless someone passes to him.
He keeps his back to me and plants himself right in front of me. And then
the top of his stick flies right at my face, catching in my mask as he pulls
me forward and throws me to the ground.
I hear the whistle, and when I get up, I don’t move to fight him. I just
laugh at him and say, “Tell Lester I said I hope his face looks like that
forever. And enjoy the rest of the game in the penalty box. We could use a
fourth goal on a power play, anyway.”
The refs get to him before my teammates do, which is lucky for him,
because if there’s anything that’ll get you an ass kicking in hockey, it’s
touching the other team’s goalie. And when Walsh sinks the puck into the
other net, I take a moment to skate over to the sin bin and personally thank
Levesque for his terrible judgment.

I feel like I’ve aged ten years in the time it takes me to get all my gear off,
shower, listen to the post-game pep talk Wilcott gives us, pack up my
gear for our trip down south, and talk to the media. Everyone wants to
discuss the shutout, and all I want is to spend as much time as possible with
Jules before I have to get on that plane tonight.
I’m finally heading over to say hello to my family and goodbye to Jules
when a text comes through from a number I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Hey Colt, it’s Jasmine. I need to talk to you after the game. Can you
tell me where to meet you?

I don’t know what it is about this woman that makes her incapable of
taking a hint. When she was hitting on me the other night at the Neon
Cactus, asking why I never call her back, I explained that I’m engaged and
very much not interested. Is she one of those women who only wants you
more when they think you’re playing hard to get?
Instead of responding, I block this number too. I told my fiancée that I’d
blocked all the women in my contacts, and I mean to keep that promise.
Jules is the first person I see when I walk through the doors, but she’s
deep in conversation with my nephew and doesn’t notice me. Her blond
hair is in a ponytail, and she’s talking with her hands, which she only does
when she gets really excited about something. As I come up behind her,
Simon says, “That’s so cool. I’d love to be able to learn from you. Maybe I
can visit over the summer and shadow you on a job site for a couple days? I
mean, if you don’t mind.”
Simon is currently a sophomore at a technical high school, training to be
a carpenter. He has always loved building things, and he’s particularly
talented when it comes to woodworking. The fact that he wants to learn
from Jules, and the way Cheri and Gabriel are looking at her like she’s
amazing and accomplished, has me kind of choked up.
It’s ironic that this whole thing started because I couldn’t get over what
they’d done to me, but as soon as Jules was in my life, their betrayal ceased
to have the impact it once had.
“Mathieu,” my mom’s voice rings out when she sees me standing there.
I notice Jules lean in and say something to Simon, but I can’t hear what it is
because Mom’s already thrown her arms around me and is chatting away
about the game.
“What a game for us to come see!” Dad says, as he claps me on the
shoulder. “You did well.”
“Yeah,” Simon says. “The shutout was great, but I can’t believe we
missed the coolest fight ever the other night.”
“Yeah, what the hell happened out there?” Gabriel asks. “It’s not like
you to fight.”
He’s right, and it only reinforces my suspicion that he’s followed my
career closely despite me refusing to talk to him. His voice carries the notes
of proud big brother any time he mentions hockey.
I glance at Jules before I say, “It was a long time coming.”
“Why?” my dad asks. “What did he do to you?”
I’ve seen the replays. It’s obvious that Lester was taunting me before I
gave him a beating. But I’m not going to repeat what he said—they don’t
need to know about Jules’s past, unless she decides she wants to tell them.
 “He was defending me.” She speaks up, and everyone—me included—
is so surprised that we all fall silent. “I had . . . a thing with him a long time
ago. And Colt was standing up for me.”
“Good,” my dad says, with a decisive nod, at the same time my mom
says, “No one messes with our family.”
There’s a tightness in my chest that’s almost painful. It’s pride and
longing and happiness, all mixed together, but instead of it making me feel
lighter, I feel heavy. This trip to North Carolina is weighing on me. I don’t
know why I’m so opposed to leaving her, why the thought of being away
from her for four days has me wanting to claw my way out of my own skin.
Is this how the other guys feel when they leave their wives and
girlfriends behind? I’ll have to ask Drew or Walshy.
We stand around chatting for a bit and the topic of the shutout comes up
more than once. At one point, while my family is discussing the game,
Cheri turns toward me and quietly says, “I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I mean, shutouts don’t happen often, so I’m pretty
happy too.”
“I meant about Jules,” she says, and there’s nothing she could have said
that would have shocked me more. “You found someone who makes you
happy in a way I never did. I’m so sorry how everything went down back
then.” How everything went down feels like a vast understatement, but it’s
not worth making a fuss over since she’s actually apologizing. “Mistakes
were made, and I didn’t own up to my part in them. I let Gabriel handle
everything, and I’ve always felt like I should have told you how sorry I
was. I know it probably doesn’t matter to you now, but I’m apologizing
anyway.”
“It matters,” I say, determined to take the high road here. It’s easier now
that I truly have moved past what they did. “Thank you for apologizing.”
“Hey.” Jules’s voice is smooth as she steps toward me, coming up to my
side and snaking her arm behind my back as she pulls me to her. “Nice job
out there tonight.”
Cheri steps away, giving us a little privacy in the otherwise crowded
room. I turn toward Jules, pulling her into a hug and pressing my face to the
top of her head. “I’m going to miss you so fucking much,” I tell her.
“You’re just going to miss being in my bed.”
My chest shakes with a silent laugh. “I’ll miss that part too.”
 “It’s only four and a half days,” she says, looking up at me, but it
sounds like she’s reassuring herself as much as me. “You’ll be home by the
time I wake up on Tuesday morning. We can do this.”
“You can do this. I’m not so sure about me.” I press my lips together
between my teeth because I’m afraid my damn lower lip is trembling with
how much the thought of being away from her has me about to tear up.
“You’re going to be fine. You spent the last fifteen years traveling for
hockey.”
“Yeah, well, I was never falling in love before.” I bend to give her a
gentle kiss, trying to savor this moment—the way she feels wrapped in my
arms, and the way her whole face softens when I admit my feelings.
“Time to go,” someone shouts from behind me, and it only makes me
cling to her more tightly. I’m not sure how I’ve fallen so fast, and so hard,
for someone I’ve known for so long, but I can no longer imagine my life
without her. Someday, I’m going to say the three words that have been
running through my mind nonstop the past few days. But I’m forcing
myself to wait until she’s ready to hear them.
And when I finally pull away and turn to walk out the door, Walsh
walks up beside me.
“Does it get easier?” I push the words out through the lump in my
throat, and even out of context, I’m pretty sure he knows what I mean.
“In some ways. And then it gets harder again with kids.”
I don’t tell him that Jules doesn’t want kids—a decision I’m completely
fine with. I’d have kids with her if that’s what she wanted, but at this point
in my life, I’m already an honorary uncle to her nieces and nephews, and
that works just fine for me. We can spoil them relentlessly but still have our
nights and weekends to ourselves, have actual adult conversations without
being constantly peppered with questions, and take vacations alone. The
best of both worlds, if you ask me.
 Chapter Forty
JULES

“I deeply regret my life choices right now,” I tell Morgan as I set the bolt
of tulle on my farmhouse table and look around at the mess of fabric,
vases, and candles scattered around my kitchen.
Morgan sighs, then takes a deep gulp from the bottle of hard cider she
just opened. “She’s going to love it, and that’s all that matters. Right?”
“Of course. But we are not crafty people. Why didn’t we just do this at a
restaurant?”
“Because we wanted it to be personal, and we wanted to be able to hang
out all day.”
“Well, we should have just hired someone to plan this all.”
“All we’re doing are the table arrangements and the photo booth,” she
reminds me. At least we decided to have it catered, because as much as I
enjoy cooking, I find I’m doing a lot less of it now. Partially because stress
was always a motivating factor with my cooking, and with Colt around all
the time, I’m either less stressed or just better able to handle it.
I glance over at the ten-by-ten whitewashed wooden backdrop that
stands against one wall of my entryway. Building it was the only part of this
party that I’ve felt equipped to help with. We have strands of leaves and
flowers that need to be intertwined and hung along the wooden frame, and a
custom-cut banner with adorable gold letters that will hang beneath the
floral swag. But the vases and candles and the fresh flowers that will be
delivered tomorrow, all of those decorations feel very much outside of my
wheelhouse, even though I know we’re creating something spectacular that
Lauren will love.
“I should have taken Graham home for bed and let Audrey stay and
help. She’d probably be a lot better at all this than me.”
Morgan laughs. “Jules, you work with your hands. You’re great at this
stuff.”
“Being good at something and enjoying it are two totally different
things.”
The only thing keeping me going is knowing how much Lauren will
love it, and I’d do just about anything to make her happy. Even her gift,
which I really hesitated to make, since it will mean divulging my secret
hobby to my friends, was custom designed because I knew she’d love it.
Morgan’s phone buzzes on the table, and she flips it over to look at the
notification. As I pull over another hurricane vase to wipe out before
placing the candle inside, I watch her eyebrows scrunch together. She taps
the screen, and her eyes narrow as she reads whatever it is.
“Everything okay?” I ask when she sets her phone down on the table,
but doesn’t look back up.
“Uhhhh . . .”
“Okay, now you’re kind of scaring me. What’s wrong?”
She raises her eyes to meet my gaze, and her face has gone full-on pale.
Her eyes are huge, like a deer caught in the headlights, and she reaches up,
smoothing her hand over her strawberry blonde hair where it’s pulled back
into a bun. Her lips part, but no words come out.
“What the hell, Morgan? What’s going on?”
“I . . .” Picking up her phone, she taps the screen and hands it to me.
And as my eyes scan the direct message that was sent to the Our House
account, which Morgan manages for us, my stomach drops so fast I’m
afraid I’m going to throw up.
JASMINE WATERS
Hi, this message is for Jules. I’ve been seeing your “fiancé” since
October. I’m sure you didn’t know about me, just like I didn’t know
about you until I met you last week. Just thought you’d want to know
that he’s a liar and a cheater. Message me back if you want more
details. I’ve got receipts, and I’m happy to go to the media with them if
you don’t respond.
 Taking a screenshot, I send it to myself from her phone, then hand it
back to her and pick mine up off the table. I quickly send a message off to
Colt before I can think twice about it.
JULES
What the fuck is this all about?

“I know who that woman is,” I tell Morgan, my voice barely more than
a whisper.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, she was at the Neon Cactus . . . I don’t know . . . like a week
ago? Colt and I were about to walk home,” I say, remembering how
pleasantly buzzed I was feeling at the time, “but I went to the bathroom
first, and when I came out, she was next to him, leaning into him and
running her hand along his arm.”
Bile rises into my esophagus, burning as it comes up, and I swallow
hard to prevent myself from throwing up. Deep breaths. In, two-three-four,
out, two-three-four. I repeat the breathing technique that sometimes can
prevent me from spiraling into a full-on panic attack.
“But she wasn’t there with him, right?”
“No, we went together to meet up with some of his teammates right
after we got back from Montreal.” I shake my head, because my brain feels
cloudy—like it’s having trouble completing its most essential functions:
thinking, as well as reminding my heart to beat and my lungs to breathe.
In, two-three-four. Out, two-three-four.
“He was very clearly pushing her away when I came out, but I don’t
know . . . she seemed surprised. At first, I thought she was surprised he was
turning her down, but maybe she was actually surprised he was engaged?”
My stomach turns over again, and that takeout sushi that we got earlier
tonight feels like it’s gone rancid and is trying to make an escape.
“What did he say about you two meeting at the time?”
“Nothing. He introduced me as his fiancée, and we left together.”
“Did you ask him about her?”
“I’m sure I meant to, but I was a little drunk⁠—”
“Wait, what?” Morgan cuts me off. Everyone knows I never have more
than two drinks. Ever.
“Yeah, story for another time,” I say, unsure how to explain that I’d
trusted Colt enough to lose my inhibitions. I’d trusted him enough to do a
lot more than that—like hand my heart right over to him after, how long? A
few weeks? A month? “Anyway, we walked home, and I forgot to ask.”
“Jules, I know that message looks damning, but I’ve seen you two
together. He does not look at you like he’s holding anything back. He lives
with you. You two have been inseparable. How could he possibly have been
dating someone else?”
I close my eyes, trying to remember every last detail about Colt—all the
ways he’s been here for me and made me feel safe. And the idea that he
could have been with someone else the whole time not only feels
logistically impossible, it doesn’t check out at all with what I know of his
character.
Morgan’s right, and I knew it without her having to say it: he’s held
nothing back with me. He’s shared his feelings all along. He’s done
everything he could to let me know that I’m safe with him. He isn’t the kind
of person to cheat.
But then why is she sending this message?
My phone rings in my hand, and I glance down to see a picture of Colt
lighting up my screen. “It’s a video call,” I tell Morgan.
“I’ll give you some privacy. I’m going to head downstairs to your office
and call Audrey. Is it okay if I let her know what’s going on?”
I nod, and as soon as she opens the door to the basement, I answer my
phone. I don’t say anything, just prop it up on the bottle of cider Morgan
left behind and raise my eyebrows in question.
“You know that’s not true, right?” he asks, his gaze littered with
concern. He’s walking down a street, the midnight blue sky peppered with
streetlamps behind him as he walks quickly.
“It doesn’t feel true,” I say, but the hesitation is there in my voice. “But
if there’s no truth at all in it, why would she send it?”
“I slept with her one time,” Colt insists. “Last fall. I’d only seen her in
passing until she showed up at the Neon Cactus the other night and I
introduced you two.”
“So why is she claiming it’s more than that?” I ask.
The thoughts spiraling through my head are taking up so much of my
focus that I forget to breathe. I know this feeling. I haven’t had a single
panic attack since Colt and I have been together, but I can feel it coming on.
More gradually than normal, but it’s there just the same.
 “Did you catch her last name?” he asks as he steps through a doorway. I
think he’s in the lobby of his hotel now.
“I was more focused on the message.”
“Waters.”
“Shit.” The world carries on a long exhale. Is Jasmine related to
Jerome?
“Yeah. And so, I think this is my fault. Well, mine and your brother’s.”
“What’s Jameson have to do with this?”
“He and I may have paid a visit to Jerome’s office earlier this week.”
“You what?” I practically spit out the words. “You knew that I didn’t
want you getting involved like that. It was over, and I wanted it to stay that
way. What the hell did you two do?”
He steps into an elevator, and while the video breaks up a bit, the sound
carries through just fine. “His company was a sponsor of the Rebels. When
AJ saw the video from the restaurant⁠—”
“There’s video footage from the restaurant?” My voice is shrill, and my
heart picks up pace.
“Jameson had it.”
“What the fuck?” I whisper.
“I guess he got a copy of it just in case it was necessary to . . . I don’t
know. Anyway, AJ talked to Frank Hartmann, you know, the owner of the
team, and they agreed to rescind Jerome’s sponsorship of the team.”
“What does that have to do with Jasmine?”
“I’m guessing that Daddy losing access to the team—his luxury box, the
special events for sponsors, that type of thing—really pissed her off. And
given that I’ve turned her down repeatedly, I’m guessing that when she
found out, this is the little revenge plan she hatched.”
Colt’s walking down a long hallway with beige wallpaper and fancy
lights, then he’s heading through the door to his dark hotel room. And still,
I’m silent, because I’m busy processing all of this.
And the question I asked myself that night at the Neon Cactus rattles
around in my brain, trying to cast as much doubt as possible: Am I going to
have to worry about this with every woman he knows? Has he slept with
them all? Are others going to come out of the woodwork, for whatever
reason, trying to cause drama?
I’m not cut out for this. I like peace. I like stability. And in the wake of
this situation, I worry about whether Colt can give me either of those things.
 His eyes flick to the top of his screen, then back at me. I rest my elbows
on the table and lean forward, holding my head in my hands, forcing myself
to breathe in slowly through my nose, and exhale through my mouth, like
I’m training myself to do when these feelings come on.
“Your brother will be there in about five minutes.”
That has me looking back up at him, as a new wave of anxiety spikes,
crashing over me until I feel like it’s holding me under water. “What?
Why?” I can barely speak.
“Because I was worried about how you’d react to this, and I didn’t want
you to be alone.”
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” I barely get the words out because
my lungs feel like they can’t expand, and I fold forward, resting my head on
the table.
“Jules!” Colt’s voice is a bark, and in my surprise, I sit up and look at
him. “Eyes on me. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. Just
breathe.”
I want to breathe, I really do, but I’m finding it hard to make my lungs
function.
And then I take a moment to take stock of my body, realizing that
perhaps I can’t breathe because every single part of me is tense. I need to
release some of this. I start by focusing on my shoulders, letting them fall
so they no longer feel like they’re by my ears.
“Good girl,” Colt encourages me from the phone. I close my eyes and
focus on letting my abdomen relax. And then I take a breath. It’s shallow,
but knowing I can get oxygen helps calm me just a little more, and I’m able
to repeat the action. “You’re doing so well.”
Once I’m breathing normally, I look up at him, my eyes full of tears.
“Thank you.”
“You did that,” he says, right as Morgan walks through the basement
door. “You’re the one doing the work to get things under control. I’m not
even there.”
“Yeah, and yet you are still here for me, even from several states away.”
I’m about to tell him how much that means to me when Jameson bursts
through the side door. He takes one look at my tear-stained face, and then
he’s yelling at Colt through my phone.
“You don’t get to burst in here and start yelling at people,” I say,
interrupting his mini-tirade. “You caused this. You and Colt, deciding you
were going to handle something that I already asked you guys not to get
involved in—that’s why we’re in this situation. I’m not the scared nineteen
year old who got drunk-married in Vegas and needs you to discreetly handle
my divorce so no one finds out. I’m a grown-ass woman and I can take care
of myself, especially where my business is concerned. You two getting
involved in this only fucked things up. And right now, I’m done talking to
both of you about this. I’m going to bed.”
And then I head for the stairs, leaving my phone sitting on the table so
they can finish their conversation.
 Chapter Forty-One
COLT

AJ
Please explain to me why Wilcott just told me you won’t be at practice
tomorrow?
COLT
Jules needs me.
AJ
Your team needs you. What the hell is wrong with your priorities?
COLT
For the first time in my life, my priorities are just right. I’d retire early
before I’d risk losing her.
COLT
Your choice.
AJ
Just make sure you’re back in time for tomorrow night’s game.
COLT
I’ll do my best.

J ameson’s asleep on the couch when I come in the front door, but the
sound of me shutting and locking it wakes him. His voice is groggy when
he says, “I have half a mind to kill you.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”
“I warned you not to hurt her.”
 “This isn’t something I did to Jules. This is a self-absorbed, pick-me girl
stirring up drama because you went to AJ and Frank and got her dad’s
sponsorship of the team revoked.”
“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t slept with her in the
past.”
“Yeah.” There’s truth in that statement, but this didn’t happen because
I’d slept with her. This is a pissy woman with a half-baked revenge plan,
fucking with the wrong people. Just like her dad did. “It also wouldn’t have
happened if you hadn’t gotten involved.”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other across the dimly lit space. I assume he’s
considering his role in these events, just like I am. It felt damn good to
deliver that refund check to Jerome and tell him his sponsorship had been
revoked, but if I had realized what would happen as a result, I wouldn’t
have gone through with it.
“When I went up and tried to talk to her last night,” he says, “she told
me she was going to sleep and I should go home.”
“Dude, you can’t come in hot like that with Jules or she’s just going to
shut down.”
He looks at me like he’s assessing the fact that I know this about her and
he somehow doesn’t. There’s a whole lot I know about her that he doesn’t,
but I’m not going to rub that in. He’s basically been the father figure in her
life for over a decade, and I don’t want him to feel like I’m stepping
between them in any way. Unless he tries to stop us from being
together . . . then the gloves will come off.
When he glances at his watch, his face tells me he’s just realizing it’s
three in the morning. “How the hell did you get a flight here this late?”
“I chartered a jet.”
“What the hell? How much did that cost?”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing I wouldn’t spend to be here for her.
I’m going upstairs now. Can you lock the door on the way out?”
“Hey,” he says as I head toward the stairs. I stop and turn back to face
him. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For becoming the person she deserves.”
There’s so much to unpack in that statement. He’s right that I haven’t
always been worthy of her, but at least he sees that I’m working to be that
person now.
I give him a nod. “Let’s talk once we’ve all had some sleep. There’s a
lot we’ll need to figure out before I fly back to North Carolina this
afternoon.”
“Alright,” he says. “How about I come back around ten?”
“Sure.”
Jules’s door is shut, and when I crack it open and peek in, I realize that
she’s curled up on her side, still fully clothed and on top of the sheets. The
curtains are wide open, and the moonlight casts a cool glow in the room. I
take my clothes off, and the minute I climb onto the bed, she rolls over.
Then she sits straight up like she’s just awoken from a nightmare.
“Oh my god! What are you doing here?” She reaches for me like she’s
not sure if I’m real or not, and I meet her hand, lacing our fingers together
and squeezing lightly. Just being in her presence again heals something in
me—it’s like there was this gaping wound, and her touch has stopped the
bleeding. I fucking hate being apart from her, and I’m not sure what to do
about it.
“There was no way I wasn’t going to be here for you after the shitshow
that happened tonight.” I pull her close to me, wrapping her in my arms.
“Especially because it seemed like you had a moment when you weren’t
sure if you could trust me, and that gutted me.”
Her face falls. “There was a moment when I wondered if there was any
truth to her accusations. But when I thought about it, it was obvious that her
claims were impossible. Since you’ve lived here, you’ve done nothing but
show me that I can trust you. You’ve been here for me, and with me, non-
stop. I know you’d never cheat—that’s just not in your character.”
“I’m so sorry this happened. I’m sorry that Jameson and I got involved.
I know we wouldn’t be in this situation if we hadn’t stepped in.”
The relief I feel as she rests her head on my shoulder is indescribable.
She slides her hand along my abdomen like she’s going to wrap her arm
around me in a hug, but her fingers hit gauze and tape and she pulls back.
“What’s this?”
I lift my arm. “Take it off and see.”
As she reaches out to peel back the tape holding the six-inch square
piece of gauze, her nose scrunches up like it always does when she’s
intensely focusing on something. It’s cute as hell and I just want to lean in
and kiss her, but I don’t want to interrupt her from seeing what’s under that
bandage.
When she gently pulls the gauze away from my skin, she sucks in a
sharp breath. Right there, directly under my heart, is an intricately inked
pair of Tinker Bell wings. Her eyes fill with tears.
“When did you get this?”
“Tonight. I’d just left the tattoo studio and was headed back to the hotel
when you messaged me.”
“Why this, though?”
“C’mon, Tink,” I say, my words and tone clearly indicating that she
already knows the answer to the question. But she obviously needs to hear
me say it. “You’ve worked yourself so deep into my soul, there’s no reason
you shouldn’t be inked on my skin as well.”
She burrows her face into my chest, and I feel her tears as they slide
down her cheeks and meet my skin. And as I wrap her in my arms and hold
her tight, she whispers, “I love you so much.”
I press my lips to her head, grateful that she’s finally trusting her own
feelings.
“I love you too, Jules. I always will.”
She squeezes me tight. “I know. And that’s the only reason I’m not
afraid of falling . . . because I know you’ll always catch me.”

I ’m in the kitchen making a pot of coffee when Jameson arrives the next
morning. He’s got Lauren and the kids with him, which I wasn’t
expecting, but right behind him, I see Audrey and Graham, followed by
Morgan, and it all makes sense. Their family is coming to stand shoulder to
shoulder, to be with Jules and to figure out how to fix this mess Jameson
and I created.
“Where’s Jules?” Lauren asks as she looks around the kitchen. There
are fake flowers and strands of leaves, along with candles and glass vases,
everywhere. I know they’re hosting a bridal brunch for Lauren here
tomorrow, and I’m guessing she wasn’t supposed to see all of this now.
“Upstairs getting dressed. She just got out of the shower a few minutes
ago.”
 It was a long night, full of tears and admissions of our feelings, and
promises about our future. We were both too tired for anything physical, but
I’d more than made it up to her this morning—which means we are now
running quite late.
“I’m going to get a movie started for the kids,” Audrey says, heading
toward the family room as Graham, Iris, and Ivy all follow her.
“I’ll get this mess cleaned up,” Morgan says as she starts scooping up
supplies and heading toward empty cardboard boxes that sit in the
entryway.
Lauren moves toward the stairs, and in the now-empty kitchen, my eyes
meet Jameson’s. There’s a lot that passes through that look—two former
teammates who remained best friends and business associates, recognizing
that we are now going to be linked together as family.
We help Morgan put away some of the decorations, and then Lauren and
Jules are heading down the stairs. Even in leggings and a tank top, with her
face free of any makeup and her wet hair pulled back into a low bun, she
takes my breath away.
I guess this is what love feels like—not the desperate need to cling to
someone, but the deep peace they bring you just by being there.
With the kids in the living room watching a movie, we all gather in the
kitchen. Surrounding the coffee and the box of pastries that Lauren and
Jameson brought, we spend some time figuring out the next steps.
“AJ thinks you should have a statement prepared in case Jasmine tries
to go public with this story,” Jameson says.
“You told AJ what happened?” I ask. Out of respect for Jules’s privacy,
I’d been careful not to give her any details when we texted last night.
“Like there was another option,” he says, releasing a sigh. “You’re my
client, and this woman is trying to fuck with your career.”
“No, she’s trying to fuck with my personal life.”
“And you think that, had she been successful, it wouldn’t have impacted
your performance?” He looks at me like I’m an idiot, but he’s right—if
Jules was hurt, it would have fucked with my game.
“Point taken.”
“Do we think there’s a chance that she actually might go public with
this?” Jules asks as she tears off a piece of a croissant, seeming more calm
than I’d have expected.
 “I think we need to be prepared for anything,” Lauren says. “The Rebels
can write up a statement corroborating your story, so that’s ready to go too.”
“You’re doing PR now too, not just marketing?” I ask.
“No, communications handles public relations. But part of my new role
as the director of marketing is to facilitate a more coordinated approach
between marketing and communications, and I can easily reach out about
this.”
I had forgotten she got promoted when the former director of marketing
was given the vice president position recently.
“I really hope Jasmine doesn’t go that route,” Audrey says. “But it does
seem smart to be prepared, in case.”
“Her making this claim publicly would be bad for everyone involved,
her included,” Morgan adds. “And her father will come out looking the
worst in all this.”
“I think that’s the key to stopping this,” Jameson says. “If we write up a
statement from Colt and Jules, and the team writes one up too, I can share
both statements with him. We’ll offer not to publish them if he calls his
daughter off.”
Jules laughs, and we all look at her. “So we’re basically going to go
tattle on her to her dad. Got it.”
“Do you have another suggestion?” Jameson asks her.
“Nope. She’s acting like a fucking child. Tattling on her feels like the
appropriate response, actually.”
Two hours later, everything is finalized. We have the approval we need
from the Rebels’ management, and Jameson heads out to meet with Jerome.
Everyone else trickles out, and Jules and I are left in the kitchen alone.
“When do you have to head back?” she asks.
“A car is picking me up in about fifteen minutes. My flight leaves in an
hour and a half.”
She steps forward, resting her forehead against my chest and wrapping
her arms around my waist. I wish I didn’t have to leave her, especially since
I’m not even playing tonight—unless something goes wrong with
Hartmann. Or I wish I could bring her with me, but I know she can’t miss
Lauren’s shower tomorrow, or work on Monday.
“Thank you for everything last night. For helping stop that panic attack,
and then flying back last night. I didn’t expect that at all, but I’m so glad
you were here today.”
 “I’m always going to be here for you, Tink. My job makes me travel a
lot, but it won’t be forever.”
She looks up at me. “You’re not thinking about retiring, are you?”
“I only have one more year left on my contract.”
“But you’re still playing amazingly well. They’ll want to re-sign, don’t
you think?”
“We’ll see how I feel about things next season. Right now, I’m just
excited for this season to end—after we win the Cup, of course—so I can be
around all summer.”
“Maybe we can go away for a bit,” she suggests, and there’s a lightness
in her blue eyes I want to keep there. “Like this summer, after Jameson and
Lauren’s wedding? I never take time off, but I’m sure I can manage to
sneak away for a week or two.”
“I’d like that. Why don’t you think about where you’d like to go, and
I’ll take care of making the plans?”
“That sounds perfect.”
I’m just about to leave, when there’s a knock on the back door. Jules
glances over and whispers, “Fuck.” And when I follow her gaze, her father
stands with his back to the door. His hair is greasy and thinning, his
shoulders slumped, and his shirt is dirty.
“Do you want to talk to him right now?” I ask. Because as much as I
want to head out there, guns blazing, to take care of this for her, it should be
her choice.
“No, not really.”
“Can I take care of this?”
She sighs, but it sounds like it’s full of relief. “By all means.”
He doesn’t turn around until I open the door, and by then it’s too late for
him to leave because I’ve stepped out, cornering him against the metal
railing of the brick stairs.
“I thought I made it clear that you weren’t welcome around here
anymore,” I say.
“I want to talk to my daughter.”
“You don’t deserve to talk to her. You don’t deserve whatever help you
plan to ask for. You don’t deserve her time, or her attention, or her money.
So until you can clean yourself up, you need to disappear into whatever
sewer you came from.”
“Who do you think you are?”
 I’m pretty sure he asked me that last time he was here. So this time, I
will make myself crystal clear.
“I’m the man who’s going to marry your daughter. And I’m going to
take care of her, and protect her heart, and show her what it’s like to be
loved—since she clearly didn’t see that from the way you treated her mom
and then left her and Audrey.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” he spits out.
“Oh, but I do. Sadly, though, you don’t know anything about your kids.
All three of them are successful. All three of them are engaged. All three of
them are happy. And you don’t know the first thing about any of it, because
all you care about is scrounging money off your youngest whenever you
can catch her feeling sorry for you. But that ends now. Don’t come around
again unless you’ve cleaned up your life, or genuinely want help doing so.”
I step back so there’s room for him to pass me and walk down the stairs.
He stands there for a moment, unmoving. Then quietly, still looking
down at the steps, he asks, “And if I do want help?”
“Then you know where to find me. But you don’t try to contact Jules
again, unless you want me to get Jameson and the police involved in this.”
He purses his thin lips and gives me a curt nod as he heads down the
stairs. As I watch him go, I hope that he will take me up on the offer, but I
know his history well enough to know how unlikely that is. In the
meantime, I’ll have a security system installed so I feel better about her
being here when I’m gone.
 Chapter Forty-Two
JULES

“T oday has been perfect, and you are all amazing, beautiful, strong
women,” Lauren gushes as she toasts us with her glass of
champagne.
She’s standing at the head of the table, which now has plates of food
scattered all along it, amid the decorations that everyone helped pull
together yesterday afternoon. There’s no way Morgan and I could have
done all of this without everyone pitching in, especially with how exhausted
I am after what happened Friday night.
As Lauren sways to one side, she puts her free hand down on the
kitchen table to steady herself. I haven’t been counting her drinks, but I’m
pretty sure she’s past just being tipsy.
I reach for the champagne and top off everyone else’s glasses to finish
the bottle, because I don’t want Lauren to have any more and get sick or be
hungover. Then Petra stands and comes to the head of the table, wrapping
her arm around Lauren’s waist and anchoring her to her hip.
“You are an amazing, beautiful, strong woman,” Petra tells Lauren as
she takes the champagne flute from her hand and hands it to Morgan. “Look
at everything you’ve accomplished in the last year and a half—moving
across the country with your two little girls, creating your dream life here,
getting back into sports marketing and kicking so much ass at your new job
that you already got a huge promotion, and giving Jameson a chance to
prove how much he loved you, even after you’d been hurt and were scared
to trust again. And you’ve surrounded yourself with women who bring that
same energy—who are bold, smart, compassionate, and willing to take big
risks.”
She glances around the table where Lauren’s two other best friends,
Jackson and Sierra, sit along with Morgan and Paige, Audrey and me, and
AJ, who literally flew in this morning for this shower and is headed right
back to North Carolina when we’re done.
Lauren rests her head on Petra’s shoulder. “I couldn’t have done any of
that without every single one of you.”
“That’s literally what friends and family are for,” Morgan says.
And as we sit around chatting about Lauren and Jameson’s upcoming
wedding, now less than two months away, Lauren looks at me and says, “I
think Audrey’s next, but are we planning a bridal shower for you after
that?”
All eyes turn toward me. Half the people sitting at this table know that
Colt’s and my engagement was fake, but the other half don’t. The natural
answer to keep up the charade should be, “Of course!” But I know what
she’s really asking me—are Colt and I going to stay engaged?
“I think so?” I say.
“Why is that a question?” Petra asks.
“How much time do you have?” I joke as a laugh escapes me. “Because
it’s a really long story.”
“We’re here until tomorrow,” Jackson says, her bright green eyes
gleaming conspiratorially as she leans in, and Sierra and Petra nod along.
So I swear them all to secrecy, then I start at the beginning—six years
ago in Las Vegas—and tell them everything, even things that no one but
Audrey knew until now. I stop the story when Colt left to head back for his
game yesterday. And I don’t mention how he called me as soon as he got
back to his hotel post-win last night, and talked dirty to me as he watched
me make myself come over and over again.
“It was obvious from the minute you entered my office that this wasn’t
fake for him,” AJ says. “You took a little more time to warm up to the idea.
But after everything that went down this weekend, I’ve never been more
sure that it’s real for both of you.”
“The whole fake engagement thing aside,” Petra says, her face lighting
up in a way that makes it seem like she’s just had a great idea, “can we just
talk about this mentoring program for a minute? Because that is one of the
most badass things I’ve ever heard.”
“It was Morgan’s idea, actually,” I say, and Petra looks at her assistant
with something akin to pride. “I just ended up being the face of it because
I’m the one who’s got the contracting experience.”
“I want you to let me donate to your nonprofit,” AJ says, looking
between Audrey and me. “I know I’m not in the field, and I can’t contribute
as a mentor, but I’m an enormous fan of women going into spaces that were
traditionally dominated by men, and showing that we can kick ass there
too.”
Lauren laughs, then says, “Yes, you sure are.”
“And I want to interview you about it,” Petra says, but I shake my head
adamantly.
“No. It’s just in its infancy. Your show focuses on women who have
done groundbreaking things in their field, like AJ has. All I’ve done is help
a few women feel comfortable working in a male-dominated industry.”
Audrey’s scoff is sudden and loud. “All you’ve done? Jules, do you not
understand how life changing that’s been for people?”
“I want to see that video you said you guys filmed about Rosie’s
experience,” Petra says. “Even if you’re not ready for me to interview you,
I can share that video broadly, get more people interested in donating.”
I shake my head. “You all are moving so fast. How about if Audrey,
Morgan, and I spend some time finding a director for this nonprofit, and
then once things are more in place, we can circle back? I’m afraid that the
only thing worse than not growing our program would be growing it too
quickly. There are so many things we still need to work through to make
sure we can grow this program successfully, and I don’t want to get ahead
of ourselves. But then, yes. We can talk about sharing that video out more
widely, if Rosie is okay with it,” I say to Petra, “and we can talk about
potential donations,” I tell AJ.
I carefully steer the conversation back to Lauren, because I feel guilty
that Colt’s and my story has dominated the last half hour of her bridal
shower. By mid-afternoon, everyone is tired from all the food, drinks, and
conversation, so when AJ says she needs to head to the airport, everyone
else starts saying goodbye too.
“Walk me out?” AJ says to me as she stands.
“Sure.” After she hugs Lauren goodbye, I follow her to the front door.
 “You know, I could get you a ticket if you wanted to come to the game
tomorrow night.”
My lips part but the words don’t come, because my brain is busy trying
to figure out whether that’s possible. Finally, I say, “I would love to be
there. But I’m not sure if I can miss the next two days of work.”
“Think about it and let me know. The offer is open.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know either way.”
“I hope you can come. Because not only am I convinced that he plays
better when you’re there, but I think that what you and Colt have is really
solid. I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never seen him care about anyone
like this before. He’s a different person around you . . . a better version of
himself, for sure.”
“Thanks, AJ. That means a lot.” I don’t need outside validation to know
that what Colt and I have is real, and worth holding on to. But the fact that
it’s so obvious to others, too, makes it even more special.

have to go get Graham from Jameson’s,” Audrey says. “I’m sorry. I

“I feel bad leaving you when there’s still some cleanup to be done.”
I glance around the first floor. The food is put away, the dishes are
done, and we’ve gotten almost all the decorations taken down. The only
thing that remains is taking apart the big wooden backdrop, still laden with
flowers, leaves, and the banner—and there’s no rush on that.
“It’s fine. Thank you so much for staying so long. I know it’s exhausting
when Drew is traveling and you’re doing the single parent thing.”
Even though Audrey was a single parent for five years before Drew
came back in her life, raising Graham was always a team effort, with
Jameson and me helping out a lot.
“It’s getting easier as Graham gets older, actually. He’s becoming so
independent. I kind of miss him being little,” she says wistfully.
“You thinking about having another?” I know Drew regrets missing out
on so much of Graham’s childhood, and he’s told Audrey multiple times
that he wants more kids with her.
“I mean . . . I’m not not thinking about it.” She gives me a little wink.
“Are you . . .?”
 “No,” she says with a laugh as she grabs her keys off the counter and
steps toward me, “I’m not pregnant. But I’m starting to think I don’t want to
wait too much longer before we grow our family. I don’t want Graham to be
much older than his siblings. He’s already about to turn six.”
“Just think how much older than us Jameson is, and we’re still all
close.”
“That was different.”
We’ve talked a lot over the years about how we were still little kids
when Jameson left for college, and even though he came back to Boston
four years later to play for the Rebels, he was busy living his life. When
Mom died, and Dad left, the three of us were all each other had. Our
relationships with each other would undoubtedly be different if it weren’t
for our shared tragedy.
“I know. And I’m sure you and Drew will know when it’s the right
time,” I assure her. “But please, aside from Drew, promise me I’ll be the
first person you tell.”
She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “You’re my person, Jules. Of course
you’ll be the first one to know.”
It hits me then that, until Colt was in my life, I’d kind of felt like I’d lost
Audrey to Drew. I couldn’t be happier that my sister had found the love of
her life, but I missed having my person around all the time. But now that I
have Colt, I get it. I get how she feels about Drew. I get why there’s
someone she goes to now before she comes to me. Because that’s exactly
how I feel about Colt.
There are things Colt knows about me—like my panic attacks, and the
fact that Dad still comes around sometimes—that even Audrey doesn’t
know.
So after Audrey leaves, I pull out my laptop and look at the project
management software I use to keep track of all the work Our House is
doing. Right now, we only have one project going on, and everything is set
up for the next one already. I could put someone else in charge and take two
days to be there for Game 4. With Boston up 3-0 in the series, it’s entirely
possible that tomorrow night’s game could be the one that clinches the
series for them . . . and I don’t want to miss that if I don’t have to.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a message to AJ.
JULES
Can I take you up on the ticket offer?
 AJ
Of course.
JULES
Let’s not tell Colt. I’d like it to be a surprise.
AJ
I love surprises!
JULES
That’s shocking, actually. You don’t seem like the type that would
want to be caught off guard.
AJ
I love surprises for OTHER people. Most importantly, Colt’s going to
love this surprise.

She sends me the details for where to meet her tomorrow night, and I set
about booking a flight down there, making sure I get in early enough that if
there are any delays, it won’t cause me to miss the game.
 Chapter Forty-Three
COLT

“L ooking good, Lester!” I call out to him where he’s stretching just on
the other side of center ice. “The cage is a nice addition. Helps block
out the sight of your ugly face.”
Unlike Games 2 and 3, he’s suited up tonight, but he has two black eyes
and his nose is taped under the metal face cage he’s sporting. Hopefully, the
cameras have zoomed in on him at some point, and Jules is watching at
home so she can see firsthand the condition he’s in now.
I’m hoping he gets some ice time tonight, because we don’t plan on
there being a Game 5 and half my team now wants their shot at him. When
they asked why I’d pulled him down and beat the shit out of him, I only
gave them a three-word answer: “He hurt Jules.”
Doesn’t matter how or when, because if there’s one thing I’m more
certain of now than ever, it’s that karma does come back to you in the end—
and he deserved this. I’m not a violent guy by nature, but if you hurt
someone I love, there’s no way I’m not getting involved.
I skate over to the visitor’s goal to rough up the crease, then sink to the
ice to get some stretches in before my teammates start taking shots at me. I
can hear the fans behind me, banging on the glass to get my attention. It’s
not like when we play at home, but there are definitely fans that have
traveled here for the game. I focus on my stretches, tuning them out as I
lean from one side to the other to make sure my abductor and adductor
muscles are well stretched.
 A few minutes later, my teammates are waiting to practice some shots,
so I grab my stick and get into position in front of the net. But despite the
pucks all around and the fact that I’m ready, no one skates forward to take a
shot. They’re too focused on something behind me.
That’s when McCabe rolls his eyes and circles his finger in the air, just
like I did to Jules when I wanted her to turn around so I could see her
wearing my name on her back. I move out of the crease, turning to skate
behind the net, and that’s when I come face to face with her.
My heart pounds powerfully at the sight of her—it can’t be. How is she
here? Then I notice what I think has everyone staring—her WAG jacket is
wide open, and instead of a plain white shirt like she wore at our last home
game, this one has a big red fabric heart sewn into the front. And in thick
block letters that match the Rebels font, my name is spelled out over the
heart.
She made that. For me.
She finally let me see her closet Saturday morning, showing me where
she sews all the sexy lingerie she designs. And sometime between then and
now, she made the decision to surprise me at this game, and crafted this
shirt, so I’d know she’s mine.
I’ve been hers since the moment I kissed her in that alley. I tried to fight
it at first, but it was no use. Sometimes it felt like I’d be waiting forever for
her to admit that she was mine too. But somehow, Jasmine trying to pull us
apart actually brought us closer together—made us realize what we stood to
lose, and made us both want to fight to keep what we have.
When I told her I loved her the other night, her first response was, “I
know.” Which means I did what I set out to do. I showed her how I felt,
proved she could trust me, and made her feel safe and secure in her feelings
for me.
My jaw must be hanging open from the shock of seeing her, because her
laugh is airy as she smiles down at me. She seems more certain about us,
and more carefree, than I’ve ever seen her.
I skate right up to the glass, pull my glove off, and put my hand up. She
meets it with hers.
“I love you,” I tell her. “I love you so fucking much.”
She laughs again. “I love you too.”
As I skate back to the net, ready to warm up, I’m more driven to win
than I’ve ever been. Because if we win the series in Game 4, we’ll have a
whole week off before the next series starts. And that’s a lot more time to
spend with her.

J ules is standing next to AJ, waiting for me right outside the locker room
post-game, as I walk out in my suit, dreading the flight home. The second
she sees me, she comes barreling toward me. I drop my bag so I can catch
her as she jumps into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist like
she’s a koala.
She nuzzles her face into my neck, breathing in deeply as she squeezes
her arms around me. “You did it.”
“We all did it.”
“Yeah, but that save you made on the penalty shot right at the end
secured the win.”
“I was just determined to be able to spend next week with you.”
We’ll still have practice, but not having two more games in Boston, or
the possibility of traveling for a Game 7, means I’ll be home every night
with her.
“I can’t wait,” she says. And then she lowers her voice, her lips ghosting
across my ear. “I also made lingerie that matches the shirt, and I’m really
looking forward to modeling it for you the minute we get home.”
“Jesus, Tink.” I squeeze her tighter to me, wishing we were alone and
naked.
“Speaking of going home,” she says, sitting up in my arms, “AJ said I
could come on the team plane with you guys.”
“Good.” I press a kiss to her lips. “You’re sitting with me, then.”
Drew must have come out of the locker room right behind me. “Hey,
where am I going to sit?”
“I don’t fucking care,” I say as Jules puts her feet back on the ground
and I turn toward him. “You can sit with AJ.”
His eyes flick over to where she stands, chatting with Coach Wilcott,
and he drops his voice low. “No way.”
Next to him, McCabe says, “You can have my seat.”
Drew and I turn to look at him in surprise, because not only is he giving
up one of the best seats on the plane, but he and AJ barely tolerate each
other. It’s not a hostile relationship, exactly. They’ve always maintain a
level of professionalism, but it’s easy to tell that he doesn’t like her, and she
seems like she puts up with him because she has to. I’m pretty sure that
years ago, she was the Assistant GM in St. Louis when he played there,
right before he was traded to Boston. He’s never mentioned it, though, so
I’ve never asked.
“It’s no big deal,” McCabe shrugs. “I’m going to be sleeping. Why do I
care where I sit?”
Given that I haven’t been able to sleep on a flight home this entire
season, I’m fully expecting that I’ll be wide awake all night, gazing at Jules
as she rests in my arms. But that’s not what happens. She cuddles into my
side before the plane takes off, and about half an hour into the trip, she falls
asleep. And somehow, with her curled up next to me and our seats reclined,
I sleep on a flight home for the first time all season.
When we get back to Boston, I bring her back to our house—the one
she grew up in, the one she started her business in, the one I moved into as
her temporary roommate, the one I am planning on living in for as long as
she wants to stay here.
It’s almost four in the morning when we arrive home, but I’m more well
rested than normal. So when we get upstairs, I follow her into her closet, no
longer a secret room I’m not allowed into now that I know about her sewing
projects and exactly which drawer she stashes her vibrator collection in.
And as I slide her jacket off her shoulders, and undo her belt, pulling her
jeans down those long, muscular legs, she’s left standing in front of me in
nothing but an almost transparent thong with a big red heart sewn across the
front. It exactly matches the one on her shirt, but without my name.
She turns slowly so I can see the back, and along the thin strap that runs
above her ass cheeks, she’s sewn gold letters that read: COLT. If it was
anyone but her—anyone else at all—I don’t think I’d like seeing my name
written across someone’s ass. But because it’s Jules, because it’s yet another
way she’s marking herself as mine, the caveman deep inside me puffs up his
chest.
With my hands on her hips, I lean in and kiss the side of her neck. “This
is a whole new way of seeing my name across your back. I kind of love it.”
“I thought you might,” she says, her voice husky as she moves her
hands to the hem of her T-shirt and pulls it over her head. Looking down
over her shoulder, I can tell that the bra is made up of the sheer fabric from
the front of her thong, no hearts or my name anywhere, just nearly
transparent fabric shimmering across her breasts and doing nothing to hide
the stiff peaks of her nipples.
My thumbs trace the letters across the back of her thong as I kiss my
way down the side of her neck and across the ridge of muscles above her
collarbone. Then I take the strap of the bra between my teeth and slide it
over her shoulder. I’m about to do the same with the other side, but she’s
impatient, as she so often is when it comes to sex, and doesn’t want to take
it slow.
Reaching up, she pulls both straps down, then says, “You’re wearing
entirely too many clothes,” as she hooks her thumbs into the stretchy fabric
around her rib cage and slides the bra down over her hips, letting it fall to
the floor.
Standing there in nothing but her thong, I wonder if there will ever
come a day that all the blood in my body doesn’t rush to my dick when I
see her naked. Hopefully not.
She steps forward, pushing my suit coat off my shoulders and tossing it
onto the bench beneath the window. Then she’s undressing me with her
eyes closed because I can’t stop kissing her, can’t take my hands off her,
can’t stop touching every part of her until she’s sighing into the kiss,
pressing her body forward until we’re skin to skin.
“That’s better,” she says.
“No. Better will be when I can taste you,” I tell her as I lift her hips and
set her on the countertop of the island in the middle of her closet. “It’s been
too long.”
I kneel before her, lifting her knees until they’re over my shoulders, and
then I reach out, tracing the red heart to where the pointy end sits right over
her clit. My fingers continue down to find her underwear soaked.
“Clearly, I missed you too,” she says. I know she’s perfectly capable of
taking care of herself, but the thought of her, here without me for the last
two nights, has me determined to provide her with multiple orgasms that
will put her vibrator to shame.
Sweeping her thong to the side, I reach out with my tongue, savoring
her taste as I lick up every last drop of her arousal. And then I feast,
bringing her to orgasm in what has to be record time before I’m flipping her
over so she’s bent forward over that island and sliding into her from behind,
watching her take me inch by inch.
 The pace is fast and hard, how she likes it best, and I enjoy every one of
her cries as she chants my name while she comes. And when I carry her
back to the bedroom, the sun is already rising. I smile to myself as I settle
us in our bed, thinking how lucky I am to hold this woman in my arms
every night.
When I envision my future, all I see is Jules. We can live here if that’s
what she wants, or in my condo, or somewhere entirely new. I don’t care, as
long as it’s with her.
And one day, when she’s ready, she’s going to be my wife. I’ll spend
every day reminding her that she’s worthy of a forever kind of
love . . . because that’s exactly what I intend to give her.
 Epilogue
COLT & JULES

COLT

Two months later

“A rewillyouleadnervous?” I ask Jameson as we walk toward the side door that

us from this small room out to the altar of the church. I
can’t stop my hand from twitching so I shove it in my pocket.
He looks me up and down. “Not as nervous as you, apparently.” His
voice is dry but amused. “What has you so fidgety?”
I haven’t told Jameson about my plan yet. Everyone knows we’re
headed to Bora Bora for two weeks after the wedding. No one, except
Drew, knows we’re headed somewhere else first. And because I want to
make sure Jules is surprised, I’m going to keep it that way until we get back
from our vacation.
“Dude, if I’m feeling like this about seeing Jules walk down that aisle,
why aren’t you more nervous to see Lauren?”
“I already saw her.”
“Isn’t it bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?” I ask. I don’t
know a ton about weddings, but that seems like one of those superstitions
that’s stood the test of time.
“Like I’d go a whole day without seeing her.”
 “I knew you were whipped from the minute you asked about that
marketing job with the Rebels two seasons ago.” I roll my eyes,
remembering when Jameson first started talking about his former colleague
who was relocating back to Boston—the way he was always going out of
his way to help her, whether it was to set her up with an interview for a new
job, or to go watch her kids when she couldn’t get home in time during a
snowstorm. He’d claimed that she was just a friend, but even before I met
her, I could tell something was different in the way he talked about her.
“You’re one to talk. When’s the last time you were away from Jules for
more than eight hours?”
“Not since the semi-finals.” I’m not too proud to admit that I’ve been
following her around like a puppy since we were knocked out of the
playoffs in a very tough loss in Game 6 of the semi-finals. Professionally,
there was nothing I wanted more than to advance to the finals. But getting
an extra week or two of the off-season to spend with Jules this summer—
that seriously took away any disappointment I was feeling.
She keeps joking that she’s going to get tired of me if I’m always
around, but there’s no truth in her words, which she proves over and over as
she rushes back to me any time she has to be away, too.
“Exactly. So don’t give me shit for seeing Lauren on our wedding day.
Besides, we wanted to take some first look pictures before the chaos
begins.”
“So that’s where you went.” An hour ago, Jameson told me he had to
take care of something, and he’d meet me in this room before the ceremony.
I watch the way his eyes get misty as he stares off into space. “Shit, you
cried, didn’t you?”
In typical Jameson fashion, his jaw ticks as he holds his emotions in.
“Don’t worry, man,” I say and clasp him on the shoulder. “There’s, like,
a ninety percent chance I’m going to cry when I see Jules, and we’re not
even the ones getting married.”
“Yet.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. She’s not ready for that yet.”
“You guys just going to stay engaged forever?” Jameson asks.
“Not sure. First, I have to really propose, and she has to really say yes.”
“Bora Bora?”
“It’s been three months,” I say dryly. I’d have married her yesterday, but
even I know that three months is quick. She’s still wearing my ring, over a
month after we were knocked out of the playoffs, which was our end date.
We’ve had endless talks about the future, but she’s never said the word
“marriage.” I did think about proposing to her on our vacation this week,
but I’m waiting for her to let me know, without a doubt, that she’s ready for
a lifetime commitment.
“Dude, you wouldn’t be okay without her. You know that, right? It’s
like being with her has altered some part of your brain chemistry, and
you’re no longer Colt, you’re Jules and Colt.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“Me too,” he says with a nod. “You’re a better version of yourself this
way.”
“So I was a dick before?”
He sighs. “You were just you. And right now, you’re acting awfully
cagey. It reminds me of all the times you did something I was going to have
to fix, but you didn’t want to tell me.”
I chuckle. I used to do such stupid shit and try to hide it before
expecting him to fix it, instead of owning up to my mistakes.
“Don’t worry,” I say as I reach for the door and pull it open. “I’m not
planning anything sketchy.” If we don’t get out of this small room, just him
and me, I’m probably going to break down and tell him my plan.
We enter near the altar of the church right as Drew is ushering Graham,
in his little six-year-old-sized tux, out of the church through the doors into
the entryway. Which must mean the bridal party has arrived.
The other groomsmen—Lauren’s friends’ husbands, Nate, Beau, and
Alex—meet us at the front of the church, joined shortly after by Drew,
whose amused expression makes me wonder what kind of pandemonium is
going on out there. With Lauren’s three-year-old twins as flower girls and
Graham as the ring bearer, not to mention Lauren’s seven bridesmaids, I
imagine it’s quite the scene.
When the music plays, and the bridesmaids start walking in, I can’t take
my eyes off Jules. As always, she’s the most stunning woman in the room—
she’s wearing minimal makeup, but her blue eyes sparkle under those long
dark lashes, and her lips are glossy and so fucking delicious looking that I
want to meet her halfway down the aisle and kiss the shit out of her. But I
refrain, because it’s my best friend’s wedding.
When she gets to the end of the aisle, she gives me a wink and then
takes her place on the steps leading to the altar. Morgan is the last
bridesmaid down the aisle and she’s flanked by Lauren’s twins, who are
doing a great job throwing petals onto the runner, and only occasionally
stopping to say hi to people. Graham comes down the aisle with the rings,
followed by Lauren’s Maid of Honor, her sister, Paige, and then everyone is
standing.
When the doors open and Lauren steps through—her white lace dress
clinging to her small frame all the way down to her knees before fanning
out toward the ground, and her face covered in a short veil—my best friend
clears his throat several times.
And I don’t even want to give him shit about it because I’m choked up
too, thinking about what it will be like to one day see Jules walking toward
me like Lauren is walking toward Jameson.
We’ve already started our life together, much like they have, but there’s
something about the idea of a ceremony where we commit to each other in
front of our friends and family that has me suddenly feeling very impatient.

JULES

“H ey, Tink.” Colt’s voice wakes me up. Or maybe it’s the way his hand
is stroking my face gently, and the familiar feeling of his thumb
tugging at my lower lip like it so often does before he kisses me.
“We’re here.”
I open my eyes and see nothing but darkness out the tinted windows of
the big, black SUV. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, and I hate the way I feel—
confused and incoherent—when I’m woken up with anything less than a
full night’s rest.
“Where are we?” I ask. I guess when we left the reception and he said
we were staying somewhere else before tomorrow’s flight to Bora Bora, I
anticipated a short drive to a hotel. Instead, we’re somewhere pitch black. It
feels like we’re in the middle of nowhere. If I weren’t with Colt, I’d be
terrified to wake up not knowing where I am or how I got here.
“You’ll see.” He opens the car door, and there’s nothing but the sound
of crickets and the gentle rustling of leaves. The air is markedly cooler than
when we left the wedding, and I don’t know if that means we’re far away or
if it’s the middle of the night, or both?
Two months ago, this not knowing would have been enough to send me
spiraling into a panic attack. Today, I just inhale a deep breath of the crisp
evening air—taking note of the earthy, damp smell as a hint that we’re not
near the city—and give Colt’s hand a squeeze.
Stepping out of the car, he holds his hand back toward me, and I take it
again, sliding across the back seat. “Where are you taking me, exactly?”
“You’ll see.”
He uses the flashlight on his phone to light the way, and I hold on to his
arm tightly as we follow a paved path down the gentle slope of a hill. We’re
surrounded by trees so thick I can’t see how wide the path is, or even see
the sky through their branches above us. But after only a minute of walking,
there’s light ahead. We reach the end of the path and the full moon above
glows brightly, a marked contrast to how dark it was under the thick trees.
In front of us is a large, level clearing and beyond that, the gently lapping
waves of a lake.
But the part that takes my breath away isn’t the spectacular view in
front of me, where the earth and water meet with trees and mountains all
around us and the bright smattering of stars in the dark sky. No, the thing
that takes my breath away are the hundred or so glass hurricane vases with
candles set up in the middle of the clearing. They’re in the shape of a large
rectangle, with lines of candles inside forming smaller rectangles.
I glance up at Colt, and his look as he gazes down at me is full of love,
but also . . . nerves?
“Oh my god, is this what I think it is?”
His low rumble of a laugh fills the space. “I highly doubt it.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering if that means he isn’t proposing to me tonight?
“So, what is this, then?”
“Let me walk you through it,” he says, walking toward a straight line of
candles that run parallel to the shore, and closest to the road we just walked
down.
I follow beside him, his arm wrapped around my lower back
protectively, like he’s trying to make sure I don’t trip. Which is good, since
the first thing that happens as we step into the clearing is that the toe of one
of the flip-flops I put on at the reception catches on a tree root sticking out
of the uneven ground, and I start to fall forward. Colt’s arm keeps me
upright.
He stops between two candles, dead center on the line. “I want you to
imagine a big front porch here, with a doorway.” Moving forward, he brings
me along. “This is the entryway. To the left”—he points—“is a den. To the
right is the dining room.” He walks a few steps farther between two rows of
candles.
“Beyond that is the kitchen”—he points right—“and on the other side of
this wide hallway is the bathroom.” He leads us a few more steps closer to
the lake. “And this is the great room. Imagine a wall with several sets of
French doors surrounded by windows overlooking the water, and outside, a
large screened-in porch where we can set up rocking chairs to watch the
sunset.”
It’s the rocking chair reference that does it for me, and I gasp. “Colt . . .
is this . . .”
“The floor plan of your great aunt’s house on Lake Sunapee? Yes.”
“Is that where we are? In Sunapee?”
“No. And I think you’ll like this better, actually. Follow me through our
glass doors to our porch and down to the lake,” he says, and walks forward,
through a row of candles. We’re only about thirty feet from the water now,
and I can see a brand-new dock jutting out into the lake. The dock is at least
twenty-five feet long with a huge platform at the end that would be a
perfect place to set up chairs and read a book, or dive into the lake on a hot
summer day.
He steps up onto the dock first, then holds out a hand to me as I step up
onto it.
“You going to tell me where we are now?” I ask, wishing my phone
wasn’t sitting back in the car so I could just take a look and see exactly
where I am.
When we get to the end of the dock, he wraps his arms around me,
pulling me to him so my back is resting up against his chest. He kisses the
top of my head, then extends his arm, pointing out at the lake. “I thought
you would like it here, because this little cove is quiet and private, but we
still have views of the mountains across this part of the lake. And the big
lake is right down there.” Lifting his arm to the left, he points to an opening
beyond which all I see is water sparkling in the moonlight.
“Where are we?”
 “Lake Winnipesaukee.”
My heart skips a beat. Audrey and Drew have been looking for a place
up here over the last few months, because he grew up coming to his
family’s cabin on this lake every summer and wants to continue the
tradition with Audrey and Graham.
“So that I can be close to Audrey?” I ask.
He turns us toward the shoreline and that’s when my eyes land on a
house, its windows lit up in the moonlight, sitting just to the side of our
future house. There is a fairly narrow line of trees between our properties,
and I’m actually surprised it’s so close to where our house will be. Coming
out from that house is another dock, running parallel to this one. There are
no other properties in this small cove that I can see.
“I hope we like our neighbors,” I say, hugging his arms where they wrap
around my abdomen.
His chest shakes against my back as his low laugh rumbles against my
hair. “We do.”
“Are you . . .” I can’t even fathom what he’s telling me. There’s no way
my sister bought a lake house and didn’t tell me. Is there? “Did Drew and
Audrey buy that house?”
“Drew bought it, and we subdivided the property. I had this area cleared
so that I could build you your dream house right next to your sister. I have
the original plans to your great aunt’s house, so we can rebuild it exactly if
you want,” he says, and now it makes sense why he was able to describe a
house he’d never been to. But how did he even get those drawings? And
how long has he been planning this? “Or you can have Audrey design you
something completely different. But I knew that, either way, you’d want to
be involved.”
I look up at him, almost unable to breathe because the realization of
what he’s done for me has my heart expanding in my chest so that there’s
no room for anything but my love for him. “You know me so well.”
“And yet not as well as I want to,” he says. “I feel like I’ll never stop
wanting to learn new things about you.”
“What happens when you run out of new things to learn? Or get bored
of me?” I ask. It’s not a real fear, but every once in a while, the doubt creeps
in.
“Impossible.” He squeezes me tighter. “Do you remember when we
were sitting on the dock at my parents’ house, and I said I didn’t have a
favorite place?”
“Yeah, of course I remember.” I just didn’t realize he was taking such
careful notes about the place I loved so much.
“I finally figured it out. My favorite place is wherever you are.”
My god, this man! It’s like knowing how to love me is just second
nature to him. I have no idea what I did to deserve him, only that I will do
whatever it takes to always show him I feel the same way.
My heart races when I tell him, “My favorite place is with you too. I
want to spend forever with you, making all kinds of new memories in new
favorite places.”
In the quiet night air, with no one but the crickets keeping us company, I
can hear the way his breath hitches at my admission.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and steps back as he turns me
toward him, and then he says, “I’d have married you already if I thought
you were ready. I want to spend every day of the rest of my life making you
happy.”
“That’s perfect, then.” I smile. “Because I also want to spend every day
of the rest of my life making you happy.”
His hands slide down my arms, and he takes my fingers in his big
palms, sliding his thumbs over the two rings I wear—the engagement ring
that never really felt fake, and the silicone band on my opposite hand—as
he sinks to one knee.
My eyes fill with tears so quickly that I almost can’t see him when he
says, “Jules, I know we’ve been engaged for months already. Nothing about
us together has ever felt anything except perfect. From the first moment I
kissed you in the alley, I was yours, completely. I’ve never had to pretend
with you, except when it comes to letting you know how much I want to
spend the rest of my life with you. I’ve been waiting until you were ready to
talk about forever, so that I could finally ask you for real: will you marry
me?”
I sink to my knees on that dock, my hands flying up to cup his face as
my lips crash onto his. And between kisses, I tell him, “Yes. Absolutely and
without a doubt, yes.” And then I kiss him again, before I say, “I’ve wanted
you since the moment I first laid eyes on you, Mathieu Coltier, and even
though my feelings for you have changed and grown in a hundred different
ways in that time, I never could have imagined us here, now. I never could
have imagined how unimaginably wonderful you are. How perfect you are
for me. How much I want to be perfect for you, too⁠—”
“You already are, Jules. Just as you are,” he says as he kisses my nose.
“There is absolutely nothing about you, about us together, that isn’t already
enough. And I can’t wait to spend every single day, forever, with you.”

W e’re lying tangled up together, sweaty and naked, on the enormous bed
that takes up a good quarter of the adorable tiny house trailer on our
new property. I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed it when we first came
down what I now know is the driveway, but it sits off to the side under the
trees. The big window above the headboard faces the lake, so I’m already
looking forward to that view first thing in the morning.
I still can’t believe everything Colt has done over the last month—how
he bought this property with Drew and cleared land for us to build my
dream vacation house; how he had this cute little trailer set up so we’d have
a place to stay up here this summer as we make all the plans to start the
build in the fall; how he and Drew planned this surprise so he’d show me
our future house tonight, and Drew will bring Audrey and Graham up here
to see their new house tomorrow.
Or today, actually, as it’s now somewhere in the early hours of the
morning as Colt kisses his way up the inside of my thigh. I groan and tell
him, “I can’t come again. Twice is enough.”
“I bet you can give me a third,” he says with a cocky grin, and when his
hot breath meets the opening of my pussy, my entire core clenches and I’m
pretty sure he’s right. “Besides, you haven’t let me taste you yet.”
“Since this morning, you mean?” I ask with a laugh. This man loves to
eat, and I know I’m incredibly blessed. If I’m only ever going to have sex
with one person in my entire life, I appreciate that he’s committed to
pleasing me in every way possible.
His tongue slides over my clit, warm and rough, with enough pressure
that I moan out his name. And as he slides two fingers inside me, I wish it
had been more than two minutes since we’d had sex so I could have him
inside me again. His fingers are great, but there’s nothing better than the
way he fills me perfectly with his cock.
 “I will never get enough of you, Tink,” he says, and the wet, sloppy
sound of his fingers sliding into me while I’m still filled with his cum is its
own kind of filthy pleasure. He strokes his tongue over my clit again and
again, until I’m practically panting, and then says, “I need you to promise
me something.”
“Anything,” I gasp, eager for him to stop talking and get his mouth back
on me as soon as possible.
“Whatever you decide on for this house, please don’t make it one of
those crazy huge mansions like you see on this lake.”
He knows me well enough to know that’s not at all the kind of house I’d
build. “Why not?”
“I never want us to live in a place that big,” he says decisively. “I never
want to be that far away from you. In fact”—he wraps one arm under my
leg and anchors my hip to the bed—“I think maybe this is the perfect house
for us.”
“You can practically reach both sides of this trailer when you stick your
arms out. How could this be the perfect place for us?” I laugh, until his
tongue strokes over my clit again, making my hips buck while he holds me
firmly to the bed.
“Because,” he says, lifting his head to look up at me between my thighs,
“I love the idea of always having you within reach.”
“Oh yeah,” I tease as I reach down to stroke his face. “Why do you
always want me within reach?”
“So I can do this, any time I want.” Returning his face to my center, he
swirls his tongue over my clit as his fingers stroke me from the inside.
“Yes,” I hiss, my fingers gripping his hair, “I can see the appeal.” The
vibrations of his laughter send ripples of longing throughout my body as he
works me closer to the edge, until I’m almost ready to tip over into the
abyss. “But I promise to let you do this any time you want, anywhere you
want, in our new house.”
“In that case,” he says, just as he meets my eyes with a demand, “come
for me.”
“Make me,” I taunt.
The way he holds my clit between his lips, sucking on it rhythmically as
his tongue slides over it, sends lightning through my veins. And then I’m
screaming his name as the waves of pleasure crash over me, again and
again and again, until I think I might not be able to breathe.
 My body feels like a pool of liquid as he climbs over me and lays
himself beside me, pulling me to him. “God, I love to hear you come,” he
says, kissing my shoulder, “but I think we need to invest in the best sound-
proof insulation and sound-proof windows on the planet. Because I don’t
want to share those sounds with anyone, and you know how sound carries
across water.”
“Fuck,” I sigh, “now the whole lake knows you’re here and what you’re
doing.”
His laugh shakes the whole bed. “Luckily, there are no other houses in
this cove. I doubt the sound carries that far. But unless we want to
traumatize your sister’s family when they arrive tomorrow, we’ll have to
practice being quiet.”
I never want to be quiet where Colt is concerned. I want to love this
man out loud, and I want the whole world to know how much I love him.
But he’s probably right that the whole world doesn’t need to know about
our sex life.
“Yeah,” I tell him, running my hands over his skin, “we’ll need lots and
lots of practice.”
His teeth sink into my shoulder with a playful nip. “Don’t tempt me. We
do need to get some sleep.”
“Are we actually headed to Bora Bora tomorrow, or was that just an
elaborate ruse to get me up here? I’m okay either way,” I tell him.
“Our flight is tomorrow night. Let’s get some sleep so we can spend
some time with your sister tomorrow, then we’ll head to the airport. That
overwater bungalow I got us will actually be the perfect place for us to
practice being quiet,” he says. “We’ll be pros by the time we get back here.”
“Are we spending a lot of time up here this summer?”
“As much as you can manage with work.”
I’m more thankful than ever that I’ve been able to build such a
competent, wonderful team of women at Our House. Because despite
already taking the next two weeks off to go to Bora Bora, I’m now thinking
that I should take Fridays off this summer so we can spend long weekends
up here, dreaming about and planning out our future vacation house.
“I already can’t wait,” I tell him, kissing his neck as I snuggle into him
and close my eyes. “We’re going to build something amazing here—not just
the house, but the whole life we’re creating together.”
 “Our life is already pretty damn amazing, and it’s only going to get
better,” he promises, and it’s with visions of our future together—with the
person who makes me feel loved, and safe, and cherished, in a way that I
didn’t even know was possible—that I settle into a deep, happy sleep.

THE END

Want more Colt and Jules? Get their steamy bonus epilogue here.

Curious about Zach and Ashleigh? They have a novella, THE TRADE UP,
which you can download here.
CROSS-CHECKED
 Boston Rebels, Book 3

McCabe & AJ
Coming Soon
This steamy enemies to lovers, single dad story is coming soon!

Get Cross-Checked
Books by Julia Connors
FROZEN HEARTS SERIES

On the Edge
Out of Bounds
One Last Shot
One Little Favor
On the Line

BOSTON REBELS SERIES

Center Ice
Fake Shot
Cross-Checked
 Acknowledgments

I think I say this for each book, but it continues to be true…each time I start
a new book, I assume the writing process will get easier. Somehow, it’s
always more difficult. Jules and Colt, in particular, were a challenge. These
two were speaking to me big time while I wrote Center Ice—nagging at me
to tell their story—but the minute I turned my full attention to them, and
saw all their wounds, I knew they were going to be difficult. Good thing I
like a challenge!
The way there were so many people out there asking for this story was
what carried me through some of the tougher days of writing this book. I
could not have finished this book if that enthusiasm wasn’t already there,
encouraging me to keep going—so, thank you to all the readers who
reached out, who posted about my books, and whose reviews of Center Ice
specifically mentioned needing Jules and Colt’s story.
This book was finished during the most difficult time I’ve ever had in
my personal life. I could not have done it without these amazing people in
my corner:
Melissa – Thank you for working with me on draft after draft, until this
story felt like the best version of what I had envisioned. Your honest
feedback always pushes me to be better.
Rachel, Sarah, Kait, and Autumn – Your insights and feedback during
the beta-reading process helped me immensely. I’m forever grateful for
your time and your efforts to help me write the best book possible.
Emily – Without our almost-daily writing sprints, this book would not
have gotten done even close to on-time.
Daphne – Our in-person meet-ups and writing time have been such a
joy in a really dark time in my life…thank you!
Victoria, Harlow, and Danielle – For cheering me on from afar, to blurb
help, to constant texts, voice messages, phone calls, and video chats…your
friendships have sustained me!
 Kait and Autumn – Thank you for keeping me on track. I’m not sure
what I’d do without you both!
Amy and Elizabeth – Thank you squeezing in my project, and for your
attention to detail and your responses to my many questions when I had a
last minute crisis of confidence about this book.
Mandy – Thanks for suggesting the Neon Cactus as the bar the Rebels
go to after games.
HEA Babes and Steamy KU Harlots – I don’t know where I’d be
without our group chats. Thanks for being amazing author friends!
And thanks to everyone else who has helped and supported me along
the way, especially other author friends, my promo and ARC teams, and my
family. And the hugest thank you to my readers, because without you I
would not be able to do any of this!
 Afterword

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the book, please consider
leaving an honest review. Reader reviews mean so much to authors, and
your time and feedback are appreciated.

Sign up for Julia’s newsletter to stay up to date on the latest news and be
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www.juliaconnors.com/newsletter
 About the Author

Julia Connors grew up on the warm and sunny West Coast, but her first decision as an adult was to
trade her flip-flops for snow boots and move to Boston. She’s been enjoying everything that New
England has to offer for over two decades, and now that she’s acclimated to the snowy winters and
finally found all the places to get good sushi and tacos, she has zero regrets. You can usually find her
in front of her computer, but when she stops writing she’s most likely to be found outdoors,
preferably with a pair of skis or snowshoes strapped to her feet in winter, or on a paddleboard in the
summer.
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