Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
That sound my heart makes? I pretend it’s not happening, but he probably feels it, the way we’re tangled together.
We just lie here, face to face, trading breath and heat, the world outside gone. I stroke his scalp, little lazy circles behind his ear. His hand splays along my ribs, palm flattening against my shirt. I think he’s counting the beats.
There’s no pressure to say more. The words hang between us, heavy and good.
He speaks first. “I swear, it gets worse every trip.” His forehead brushes mine, the touch grounding me. “First night away, I’m fine. Second night, I’m texting you at three in the morning, fixating on when you’ll answer. By the time we hit the third night, I’m losing my goddamn mind missing you.”
I run my thumb along his jaw, lightly scraping the hard edge of bone under my fingernail.
My thighs tangle with his. He fits against me so well it’s almost offensive. I melt, just a little, into that familiar shape.
“I missed you, too,” I whisper against his lips. His mouth is inches from mine, but he doesn’t rush. He traces my side one more time, palm catching on the curve of my breast just briefly before coming to rest against the line of my ribs.
We stay like this. Just breathing. Just holding on.
Then, he goes still. His palm is heavy, right over my heartbeat.
He waits a beat, maybe two, and then says it. “I love you.”
My heart pounds away in my chest as I stare into his dark eyes.
“I’ve been in love with you since the first time you asked for a kiss.” The words slip out quietly, but it’s no less real. “You have no idea how hard it was for me not to give you that hat trick kiss.”
His face cracks wide, like something inside him just came undone. The look in his eyes is wild, open, and desperate just for me.
He rolls away from me, only for a second, reaching into the nightstand. The drawer sticks, then slides open. He pulls out a little box and palms it, then faces me again.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something. “Daisy Castille.” His voice is low and steady. “You wanna spend the rest of your life keeping me on the straight and narrow?”
I blink at the ring. It’s nothing like what I would’ve pictured a professional hockey player would pick out. It isn’t big or flashy. It’s just perfect. His hand trembles as he slides it onto my finger.
I study the way it fits, then look at him, all rough edges and beautiful hope.
“That’s a pretty big job.” I pause, then let the real answer bleed through. “But I’m up for it. You’re a handful, Stafford, but you’re my handful.”
He grins, goofy, all-in. We lie there, grinning at each other like idiots, the city blazing at our backs, and for the first time ever, I know what it feels like to be all the way home.
I don’t even remember falling asleep. Only the steady, solid press of his chest at my back, and the promise, silent as night, shining on my hand.
EPILOGUE: HARRISON
The Sin Bin is packed wall to wall. The noise slams through you the second you walk through the door. Regulars are three-deep at the bar, voices blending into a loud roar. The sign up on the wall bleeds red and blue, casting weird shadows across every surface. All the TVs are stuck on a loop, cycling highlights of tonight’s Astros’ game like it’s the only thing worth seeing in the world.
It’s hockey off-season, and I’m behind the bar in a black staff tee that sticks to my shoulders and biceps. The sleeves are rolled as far as they’ll go. Sweat beads at my hairline, but I keep moving. Taps, bottles, ice, repeat. My rhythm is dead on tonight. I move up and down the length of the wood, eyes flicking between the order tickets and the mess of bodies reaching and shouting at me like they’re dying of thirst.
It’s a goddamn workout. Just the way I like it.
Someone slaps the counter and yells for two more Bud Lites, and I don’t even have to think. I’m already reaching for fresh pint glasses, lining them up, knocking the tap open, foam pouring smooth and steady. There’s a trick to it. Angle the glass, wrist loose, let the beer slide down instead of hitting the bottom. It takes practice, and I’ve had a lot of over the last five years.
At the far end, a couple of old-timers from the neighborhood are arguing about the eighth-inning error. They recognize me, of course. Everybody does. They rib me for it, make cracks about “being pussy-whipped for Daisy,” but I just toss them their shots and grin like I give a shit.
None of it lands. I’m not here for them.