Dear Jane

by Kendall Ryan

  “Magnifico,” I say in my best Italian accent. “I’m excited to actually get to taste it this time.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes and heads for the oven.

  Just because we’re officially a couple doesn’t mean I’ve stopped giving him shit about the night he stood me up. But now that we’re together, it’s something we can joke about, just another bump in our past. If there’s one thing being with him has taught me, it’s that the past can’t always predict the future.

  And I can really see a future with him. I can picture us settling down with babies of our own someday, and game days as a family.

  While Wes is busy figuring out how to operate his new oven, I get to work fixing him a gin and tonic. I like that they’ve become our thing. I like having a thing with him. I measure out the gin to the soundtrack of Wes pushing button after button on his oven, producing a symphony of beeps until he finally manages to set the timer.

  “We’ve got forty-five minutes,” he says matter-of-factly, untying his apron and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair.

  As I’m slicing the lime to garnish his glass, I feel his hands cup my hips from behind as he presses a slow, sultry kiss onto my cheek.

  “What are we going to do with forty-five minutes?” His lips against my ear send a pleasant shudder through me.

  Ten years, and this man still knows exactly how to make me weak.

  I giggle as I try to keep my focus on preparing this drink, but Wes’s lips are a welcome distraction from my bartending. He trails kisses down my neck to the dip of my collarbone, sliding the strap of my tank top off my shoulder.

  “It seems like you might have a few ideas on how to kill time.” I pivot to face him, handing him his gin and tonic, which I’ve somehow made beautifully despite his best efforts to keep me from doing so.

  As he takes a long sip, I tuck my thumbs into his belt loops and tug playfully to show that I’m game. He squints at me from behind his drink, silently assessing my intentions, as if they weren’t obvious.

  I’ll make it easy on him. With one thumb, I swiftly pop open the button of his jeans.

  “Oops,” I whisper, and Wes’s smirk matches mine as he sets his glass on the counter.

  “Oops?” He challenges me, wrapping a strand of my hair around his finger.

  “Yeah, oops.”

  Wes puts a hand on the small of my back and pulls me flush against him, tilting my chin up with one index finger so that my gaze meets his. “Am I really supposed to believe that was an accident, Jane?”

  “Wasn’t this all an accident?” I ask coyly, gesturing between the two of us. “I never meant to fall back in love with you.”

  Wes chuckles, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Me neither, baby. But it’s too late now.”

  He presses a tender kiss against my mouth, which turns into a more passionate one, and suddenly we’re a blur of tongues and skin as he carries me to his new bedroom. Soon, we’re tangled together on the bed, and I’m groaning beneath him.

  Good God. If this is an accident, it’s by far my favorite one.

  Epilogue

  Weston

  Eight years later

  I blow my whistle and form a T with my hands. “Halftime! Great work, kids, you’re all really improving. Let’s take a break and have a snack.”

  Most of the six-year-olds scurry to the bleachers, eager for treats and attention from their parents. A few get distracted on their way and have to be called over again.

  But our little Madison, the only girl on the local pee-wee flag football team, is still doggedly practicing her throw as if she didn’t hear a thing. Even the sudden lack of partners doesn’t dissuade her; she just heaves the ball a few feet, trots after it, bends to pick it up, and repeats.

  God, it’s adorable.

  I walk across the field to that lone blue-clad figure and squat next to her. My knees twinge in protest.

  Now that I’m well into my mid-thirties, all those old football injuries have started coming back to haunt me. Of course, that isn’t the only reason—or even the biggest reason—why retiring last year was the right decision. I glance at Jane sitting in the bleachers, her folded hands resting on her swollen belly.

  “Hey there, sweet pea. You wanna go see your mom? Get a drink of water?” I ask Maddie.

  “No!” Her brow furrowed in concentration, she scoops up the ball and clutches it to her chest, ready to throw it again.

  “You’re not tired?”

  She shakes her head emphatically, the tail of her brown braid flopping around under her helmet’s rim. “I wanna play.”

  “You’re not hungry for string cheese and grapes?”

  That gives her pause. She frowns down at the football in her hands as if it can answer me for her. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jane with one hand pressed to her mouth, trying not to laugh out loud.

  Finally, Maddie starts walking to the bleachers. She’s still cradling the football, but I’d rather clean smeared food off it than face the tantrum that happened last time I tried to take it away from her.

  I follow her and sit next to Jane. Maddie drops her helmet with a clatter, perches on the ball between Jane’s feet, and digs into her snack with gusto.

  While Maddie is absorbed, I ask Jane, “You doing okay? Want me to get you anything?”

  “Quit fussing,” she replies with fond exasperation.

  “I’m the husband. It’s my job.” I brush my lips over her cheek. She’s due to pop any day now, and the suspense has been killing me.

  She pats her stomach. “You have nothing to worry about. Maddie’s birth was a piece of cake, and I’m sure the twins will be the same, I can feel it.”

  Damn. I love how confident she is. But she’s right. We’ve got this. “That doesn’t mean I don’t get to take care of you until then.” I shift to a teasing tone. “May I offer you some water, then? The finest blankets from the trunk of our car? A foot massage?”

  “I’ll take that last one . . . after we put Maddie to bed tonight.” Jane winks at me, sending a lick of heat through my body. “But, seriously, I promise I’m fine.” The corners of her eyes crinkle in a smile. She’s collected a few faint crow’s-feet in recent years, and they’ve only matured her beauty. “Better than fine. I feel amazing.”

  We had a little trouble conceiving at first, as happy as we were to try. But after the first few months, I knew Jane was worried, and probably thinking about the miscarriage she had when she was eighteen. But then things came together, and I know without a doubt how blessed I am.

  Sighing, I press a soft, lingering kiss to her mouth. “I love you so much.”

  “Ew,” Maddie whines.

  Jane laughs. “You don’t like kisses?” She sweeps our daughter up into her lap—what little room she has left on it—and peppers her cheeks with rapid-fire pecks until Maddie is giggling and flailing with delight.

  I wrap my arms around them both and drop my own kiss on the crown of Maddie’s tousled head. I stay like that, enjoying holding my two favorite girls in the world, until my watch beeps to signal the end of halftime.

  Maddie tags close behind me as I walk back out to the “fifty-yard” line—which is really at twenty-five yards on this junior-sized field. I toot my whistle again to get everyone’s attention.

  “We ready to play?” I shout.

  Parents put away the snacks while kids trickle down from the bleachers in ones and twos. It’s a few minutes until all fourteen are scattered over the turf. I herd them into position—several of them have forgotten that teams switch at halftime—help them put on their flags and helmets, and retreat to the sidelines.

  “Remember, blue team is defense now, and red team is offense. Kickoff in three, two . . .” I hit the START button on the game clock and blow my whistle.

  One little boy in blue holds the ball while another kicks, misses, tries again, and successfully punts. Almost before the red team’s returner catches it, Maddie has already rocketed off and snatch
ed the flag off their center guard.

  “Way to go, Maddie! That’s my girl!” Jane whoops from the bleachers.

  Our daughter doesn’t glance at her or even slow down; she’s totally focused on carving a path to the ball carrier. But she grins proud and wide, showing her missing front tooth, and my heart could float away on her smile.

  Just as I’ve done every day for the past eight years, I think, Thank God for second chances.

  • • •

  Thank you so much for reading Dear Jane!

  Continue the story in Finding Alexei and read all about Alex “Alexei” Ivan, the sexy football player, and Ryleigh, a feisty woman he meets who is more than capable of handling this big, bossy alpha. If you liked Dear Jane, you will LOVE Finding Alexei!

  Get your copy HERE.

  Also in this Series

  Spotting a hooker on a city street corner isn’t an abnormal thing.

  Me bringing one home? Well, that’s a first.

  But this girl . . . she’s in trouble. And the guy she’s talking to isn’t someone she wants to go home with.

  So I do the exact thing I shouldn’t—I offer to bring her home with me instead.

  She says this is the first time she’s ever done this, which is adorably ironic. Then she proceeds to tell me a sob story about needing money to care for the baby who was left on her doorstep. That’s when my stomach starts to clench. I think she may be telling the truth.

  So I do what any respectable man would do. I take her home, stopping to pick up diapers and formula on the way, and discover that she was telling the truth all along.

  Christ on a cracker.

  I should have just kept walking.

  I should have done a thousand other things except for barge into her sad life, offer to fix everything, fall for her . . .

  Turn the page for an exclusive sneak preview.

  Chapter One

  Alexei

  She’s petite yet curvy with a nice ass and beautiful tits. But that’s not the first thing I notice about her.

  The first thing that strikes me is that her coat isn’t warm enough for a Chicago winter.

  It’s dark out, and barely above freezing. She’s standing on a street corner discussing something with a man in hushed tones, waving her hands dramatically as she speaks. It’s nearly midnight, and the street is almost deserted.

  She has long dark hair, a trim build, and a full pouty mouth. And she seems to be pissed off. Curious about her, I stalk closer and then slow my pace.

  “Fine. Tell me what it’ll take, sweetheart,” the guy says to her.

  She stiffens and puts one hand on her hip. “I’m not for sale, asshole. I did my job, but that’s it. When you step outside those doors, the fantasy ends.”

  They’re standing outside a dingy club, the kind of place that smells of rancid smoke, cheap beer, and meaningless sex. I should know. I’ve been here once or twice for bachelor parties and those kinds of things. My friends would call it a titty bar. But my friends are mostly pro football players, and their manners leave a lot to be desired.

  The place isn’t really a strip club, more like a topless bar where beautiful women serve drinks in their underwear. It all seemed innocent enough, until now . . . until a sinking feeling washes over me as I watch this woman get propositioned in the street as she’s trying to leave work.

  The guy laughs, the sound abrasive, like he doesn’t believe her. “Three hundred bucks. Come on, baby. It’ll be fast.”

  She chews on one of those pouty lips as she weighs his words, contemplating what looks to be a life-changing decision . . . and not life-changing in a positive way.

  Don’t do it, lady . . . just say no to what this asshole is offering you.

  Part of me knows I need to mind my own damn business, that this guy just wants a quick fuck. Who am I to judge how this woman chooses to support herself? The other part of me—the fierce protector of the female gender—says this is a situation that I can’t ignore. I won’t allow this asshole to force a woman to do something she’s not comfortable with.

  I walk over, my legs moving of their own volition.

  “Excuse me,” I say, interrupting them.

  Her gaze swings over to mine, and the guy she’s with does a double-take. I tower over him by at least half a foot. Now that I have a better look at him, I see the guy is middle-aged, round in the midsection, his hair graying at his temples. I also know I can take him if it comes to that.

  He shoots me a look that’s half pissed off that I interrupted his bargaining session, and half panicked that I may kick his ass. The latter is definitely what he should be more concerned about if he tries any shit. I may just decide to do it anyway, despite the fact I just promised my agent I’ll behave myself and not end up on any more tabloid news sites.

  “The lady said to leave her alone. I suggest you get the fuck out of here.” I glare down at the guy.

  His eyes narrow, but he takes a step back and holds up his palms. “Fine. Going.”

  He takes off down the street and disappears around the corner, leaving me standing across from the woman. She’s probably no more than five foot three, a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet. No way she could have defended herself against someone his size. More importantly, she shouldn’t have to defend herself from that prick.

  “Were you really going to go home with that guy?”

  She shakes her head. “No. He didn’t want to take me home. Just wanted me to show him my boobs and have me give him a hand job in the back seat of his car. He may or may not have mentioned something about finishing himself off on my breasts too.”

  I wait to see if she’s joking, but sadly, I can tell what she’s saying is the truth.

  Then she looks at me, with the prettiest shade of blue eyes I’ve ever seen, and my heart almost stops. “For the record—guys are gross.”

  I chuckle at her surprising honesty. “Not denying that.”

  Men can be real creeps. I’ve seen the evening news. Sadly, there’s just no arguing against her logic. Some of us are still good guys, but I don’t say this to her. I just let her believe what she wants.

  “I’m Alexei,” I say, offering her my hand.

  For a second, she just looks at my hand, and I don’t think she’s going to take it. But then finally, after deciding that she can trust me, at least for something as simple as a handshake, she places her small palm in mine and shakes my hand. She’s freezing.

  “I’m Ryleigh. Thanks for, um . . . saving me.”

  I haven’t done anything yet. I wanted to punch that guy in the fucking jaw when I heard him propositioning her. Instead, I let him walk away unscathed. Lucky prick.

  “Do you work here?” I lift my gaze to the neon sign blazing above our heads in the darkness. I scrub a hand over my face as I picture the petite woman standing before me scantily clad and serving drinks to a group of horny men with grabby hands and fat wallets.

  She nods.

  “You a stripper, then?” I ask.

  Ryleigh makes an annoyed sound in her throat. “It’s a topless bar. I’m not a stripper.”

  I knew as much, but part of me didn’t want to admit I’ve been a customer at the place. It’s not exactly a classy establishment. “But you serve drinks in your underwear.”

  “As I said, men are gross. Sadly, they also pay my bills.”

  I chuckle, again surprised by her. “I’m not denying it. And not that you asked for it, but in my point of view, men are visual creatures. And women are beautiful. We enjoy seeing them any chance we can get.”

  She merely rolls her eyes, clearly not buying my bullshit. “Listen, as nice as it is to freeze my lady balls off and stand out here talking to you, I need to find a way to get home.”

  “Where’s your ride? I can wait with you.” The words just stumbling out of my mouth before I can think about it.

  “My car’s in the shop, and my friend bailed on giving me a ride.”

  I nod, processing everything. Something also t
ells me she needs that three hundred bucks the guy was offering her. I take a deep breath, weighing my options. It’s either go home alone to my $6 million penthouse and lie awake wondering if she’s okay . . . or drive her home myself and convince her to just take the money I have in my wallet. It’s not like I need it.

  As tired as I was walking out of my dinner meeting with Slate, now I’m way too keyed up for sleep. It’s then that I realize going home alone would be pointless.

  “Is that what you needed the money for? Your car?”

  Her inquisitive blue gaze meets mine, and for a second, I think she’s going to deny that she needs the money. She’ll probably try to save face by telling me I read the situation wrong, and she was never actually entertaining that scumbag’s offer.

  Instead, she surprises me for the third time in five minutes.

  “No. Well, yes. But not tonight. My immediate concern is getting home and taking care of my roommate’s baby.”

  “Baby?” I ask, lifting one eyebrow.

  She nods, tucking a long strand of silky brown hair behind her ear. “My ex-roommate, actually. She, um, dropped off her baby a few days ago and left. I have no idea when she’s coming back. I need to pick up diapers, more clothes, and baby formula. All of that stuff costs money.” Ryleigh straightens, her posture stiffening, like she’s revealed too much. “You know what, don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

  “Where’s the baby now?” It’s after midnight, after all. But no matter how late it is, I’m not letting her walk away just yet.

  “My neighbor is babysitting her so I could work.”

  Something inside me believes Ryleigh’s telling the truth. Even though the last thing I want to do tonight is deal with a sad woman who has what sounds like more drama than an episode of Law & Order, with an even more unusual twist of playing nanny for someone’s baby, I find myself gesturing toward my car. My black Mercedes is parked right across the street.