Kiss Me Tonight: Put A Ring On It

by Luis, Maria

  “Dominic, I do. I lov—”

  He cuts me off with an abrupt shake of his head, holding one hand up. “Let me finish. Please.”

  I nod, no matter the fact that these bars are in my way and I’m desperate to go to him.

  Clearing his throat, he goes on. “When I saw Clarke striding across that field, I wanted to nail him to a wall. Knock him down. Put him through misery because he’d done that to you for fourteen fucking years.” His mouth curves in an amused smirk. “Except that you knocked him down yourself—because that’s the sort of woman you are. Everything about you is vivid. Your smile, the pitch of your laugh, to the way you constantly surprise me.” A soft, husky chuckle that goes straight to my core. “I enjoy every single minute of being shocked by you. You put me in my place, and I . . . Well, I never expected the words I love you to pop into my head just as you bashed a bottle on your ex-husband’s head like a total badass, but there you have it. Figures I wouldn’t fall for a normal woman who only wants flowers and a date.”

  He stands, rising to his full height. My chin tips back, so I can keep my gaze zeroed in on his face. “I got you, instead,” he tells me, ambling closer, until his hands are on either side of mine on the bars and he’s leaning down so that my whole world is nothing but his black eyes. “A badass football player. The best damn coach this town has ever seen. A mother who will go through hell and back for her son. And a woman . . .” His throat constricts. “A woman who saw a broken man, and instead of walking away, you pushed me back into the light—a place I never even knew existed. I love you, Aspen Levi. I love you so fucking much and, honestly, I’m only a little sorry that I waited until you were in prison to tell you, but no time like the present, right?”

  I hear nothing but the sound of blood roaring in my head.

  And his confession on repeat: I love you, Aspen Levi. I love you, Aspen Levi.

  “Fifteen years ago, I thought I fell for a man who spun fairytales and promises he’d never keep.” When Dominic opens his mouth, I touch my finger to his lips, silently asking for him to give me this. “Topher kept me sane. Topher kept me moving. I wanted out. I wanted to live—but shackles don’t always come in the form of physical handcuffs. Sometimes they’re more subtle, like a ring on your finger.”

  I catch Dominic’s hand, holding his fingers through the bars and flip his hand over, palm down, so I can find his ring finger. It’s bare, just like mine, and I kiss it. Once. Twice. “Coming back to London terrified me. I’d left this place behind, thinking I was about to embark on this crazy adventure. And I came back fifteen years later, with darkness in my heart. Except that you’re wrong about me.” I glance up, and our eyes lock. “Topher kept me breathing, but you . . . you brought me back to life. I love you, Dominic. I love you so, so much.”

  “Jesus fuck, Aspen.”

  My smile is all kinds of wobbly at hearing the familiar curse. “Let me out of here so I can kiss you.”

  And then that devilish grin I’ve come to know all too well tugs at his lips. He pulls back, just far enough to wiggle the keys. “Let you out?” he teases roughly. “And here I was gonna suggest that I make use of your conjugal-rights visitation.”

  I can’t stop my jaw from dropping open. “Conjugal rights?”

  His dark eyes flash with humor. “You ever done it in a prison, baby?”

  I laugh, even as I fight back the tears because how . . . how did I deserve a man who’ll find the hilarity in every situation—even when I’m locked up in jail? Pushing my fingers as far as they can go through the cage, I point at his hand. “If you love me like you say you do, you’ll use those keys and take me home.”

  “I do love you.” He catches the tips of my fingers and dips his head to kiss them one by one. “Thing is, I won’t make it home. So I’m thinking—even though I’m new at this relationship thing—that we should practice our compromising skills. I suggest the truck as middle ground. What do you say?”

  “I say you’re crazy.”

  “Is that a yes, Coach?”

  “It’s a yes, you jerk. Now get me out of here!”

  40

  Dominic

  Two Weeks Later

  The Athlete’s Reckoning

  I’m No Hero by Dominic DaSilva

  Yeah, you read that right.

  I’m. No. Hero.

  Here’s what I am:

  A two-time Super Bowl champion.

  MVP winner—seven seasons.

  Heisman Trophy winner.

  An alleged football god. (I don’t regularly call myself this, but we’ll go with the approximately 10,241 searches that popped up with my name when I typed “football god” into Google).

  A former host of a sports show.

  Those are the facts—minus the football-god one—but they don’t make me infallible. I’m human, just like you. I make mistakes, just like you. I break hearts and do stupid shit and have regrets—Just. Like. You.

  If you’ve been in the limelight for any amount of time, you start to learn certain things. When a magazine or a gossip rag drags your name through the mud, you’re told to take it at face value. They don’t know the real you. When rumors catch fire and you’re standing in line at the grocery store, only to see your face staring back from a tabloid magazine, you’re told to feel grateful that you’re getting any attention at all.

  Attention means money and money is always good.

  I used to think so.

  Hell, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a paycheck.

  Go on a dating TV show for a six-figure bonus from my job? Done.

  Accept even more cash slipped under the table from said dating show, just so they could get a “celebrity” on the books and ramp up audience numbers? Check that shit off, I’m there.

  I repeat: I’m no hero.

  I’ve crossed so many lines that, ultimately, I got my ass kicked to the curb by a woman with a sweet heart who only wanted to find love. I deserved that rejection. Maybe I even deserve to have my name dragged through the mud all over again by sites like Celebrity Tea Presents and others.

  Maybe I deserve that.

  But innocent people don’t.

  My girlfriend doesn’t.

  Her teenage son doesn’t.

  Savannah Rose—the sweetheart mentioned above—did not sign up to have her name thrown into the trash, right alongside mine, just because she went about an unorthodox way to find her other half.

  When I contacted The Athlete’s Reckoning about my plans for this article, they advised me that I’m committing career suicide.

  I told them I don’t care.

  Maybe I’m in the minority for signing up to a dating show, but I am not alone in having my privacy and the privacy of those around me ripped to shreds. I’m done keeping quiet. I’m done pretending I don’t give a shit.

  And I’m certainly done with finding out that my best friend, my other half, was accosted in a parking lot by a pap looking to make a quick buck off what my name can buy him. Do this again and there’ll be hell to pay.

  So, call this article career suicide. Call it whatever you want.

  I’m a retired NFL player who coaches high school football.

  I’m a guy in love with a girl, who wants to make sure nothing happens to her or her son.

  But I’m no hero—and I don’t play a gentleman’s game when my loved ones are threatened.

  These are the facts.

  Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I stare at the article on my laptop as I wait for the click of the call to signal it being picked up. I expected to be a hell of a lot more nervous than I am. It’s not every day that I call an ex—is she really an ex? Tough call—to say thank you after she gave me permission to blast her name in a public forum like The Athlete’s Reckoning.

  “Hello?”

  Eight months. That’s how long it’s been since I left Put A Ring On It and heard Savannah Rose’s voice for the last time. She doesn’t sound a damn bit different.

  “Savanna
h, hey.” I tap my fingers on the top of my laptop. “It’s me, Dom.”

  “Oh! Dom.” She sounds short of breath in my ear, like I’ve caught her mid-workout. “I didn’t expect you to call.”

  There’s an audible bang on the other end of the line, then what sounds like a door slamming closed. What the hell is going on over there? I shake my head to clear it, even though she can’t see me. “I know. Sorry, this is”—awkward, slightly uncomfortable, all of the above?—“probably bad timing. You might be busy.”

  “No! No, of course not. Not busy at all.”

  “Are you sure? You sound like . . .”

  “I’m on the treadmill,” she quips, perkier than I’ve ever heard her before. “Yep, totally on the treadmill. What’s going on? Did the article go live?”

  I cast a quick glance back to my laptop. “It’s live and rolling. I just wanted to say thank you again, for giving me the go-ahead with this. I don’t want to make things harder for you, but I—”

  “You’re looking out for Aspen.” Her voice gentles. “And Topher. How are they—okay?”

  Savannah Rose may not have been the woman for me, but she’s a damn good person. I screwed her over. Lied to her for most of the show about why I was there, and here she is . . . doing me a solid. There aren’t many people like her out there in the world, and the familiar razor edge of guilt slices through me.

  She put her life on hold to go on Put A Ring On It and she walked away from it with nothing but scandal and heartbreak.

  “They’re good, yeah. Thank you for asking. And I’m sorry, again, for being that asshole no one wants on the show. I know you said before that it’s okay—I just really want you to know how sorry I am. It was a shit thing for me to do. I regret it, taking the money . . . and going on the show in the first place.”

  “It’s all water under the bridge, I promise! Listen, Dom, I have to—”

  Did she just giggle?

  “Savannah, you good over there?”

  “Yes, totally good!” Then a hushed, “Owen, stop!”

  Owen? My brows draw together. “Wait, wasn’t there an Owen on the show?” I ask, cutting over the sounds of what has got to be whispering. “The one you kicked off on the first night?”

  “Dom, I’m so sorry. This isn’t a good time. The treadmill, it’s”—an unmistakable whimper cuts through the line—“it’s really giving me a hard time today. Gotta go! It was great talking to you!”

  The line goes dead.

  Staring at the blinking numbers at the top of my screen—forty-five seconds, that’s how long we talked—I mutter, “What the ever-loving fuck just happened?”

  Owen . . . Owen, I don’t remember his last name but there was no forgetting Savannah’s epic throw down on the show—the one and only time she ever lost her cool, including when I came clean.

  Clicking out of my article on The Athlete’s Reckoning, I type “Put A Ring On It Owen Savannah” into the search-engine bar.

  Thank you, Google.

  The first thing to pop up is a YouTube video. Immediately, I tap on it, my phone tossed on the coffee table, and watch a clip from the first episode of the season. For the sake of my own sanity, I’ve stayed away from all the aired episodes. But this . . . I swear I’m not making shit up.

  How many Owens can Savannah Rose possibly know?

  “Dominic?”

  I glance over my shoulder to watch Levi sail in through my back door. Holding out my arm for her, she doesn’t miss a beat. She parks her sweet ass on my lap, her arm looped around the back of my neck, and kisses my forehead.

  Is it manly if I admit that my heart fucking melts whenever she does that?

  Not that I care.

  “What are we watching?” she asks.

  I shake my head, still feeling like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. “Hell if I know. I think . . . I think Savannah Rose might be seeing this guy.”

  Levi leans forward, tugging me with her, as she practically puts her nose to the screen. “Owen? You think she—I mean, before you ask . . . I did watch this episode. I was bored and lonely and we hadn’t met yet, so clearly I was not watching and salivating over you.”

  I kiss her mouth, cupping her jaw as I do. My tongue dances with hers, and I lick her bottom lip because I know it makes her ticklish. She shivers in my arms. Jackpot. I pull back. “We both know you watched because you think I’m hot.”

  “Correction, I do now but I didn’t then.”

  “Liar.”

  “I don’t lie,” she says sweetly, “except for whenever you try to cook dinner. Then I lie—with gusto.”

  In mock-affront, I gasp loudly. “You tell me my food tastes great!”

  “You can’t cook, Dominic. It’s not one of your many talents.”

  “Topher likes it when I grill.”

  “I think Topher likes it when there’s open fire.” She slips down to the floor, situating herself between my knees. “Speaking of Topher, the two of us were talking and . . . we both think you need a place to stay while you rehab this house.”

  I drop my chin, keeping my gaze trained on hers as she slants her palms over my upper thighs. “Baby,” I husk out, “are you asking me to move in?”

  Blue eyes drop to my crotch. “It’s acceptable if you take the guestroom.”

  I hook a finger under her chin. Keep my voice low and steady when I murmur, “You’re relegating me to the guestroom?”

  Her smile twitches even as her fingers move to the waistband of my jeans. “Not a chance,” she teases me, “but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the look on your face when you thought I was telling you the truth.”

  I tackle her onto the floor, leveraging my body over hers. Whichever Owen Savannah Rose is talking to is not my problem.

  My problem is the sexy, beautiful blonde squirming beneath me and begging me to take pity.

  I lower my face, dropping a kiss to her lips. “I don’t do pity, Coach,” I murmur in her ear, “but with risk comes great reward . . . and for you, I’m thinking orgasms.”

  41

  Celebrity Tea Presents:

  The Day We Banned Dominic DaSilva

  Dear Reader, it has come to my attention that I’ve been threatened by one Dominic DaSilva. THREATENED. I started this blog ten years ago. Never in that amount of time has someone dared to come after me.

  I report what I see as the truth.

  I entertain you, Dear Reader, because it brings me joy.

  I’m funny.

  Well-informed.

  Meticulous in my reporting.

  And I’m pissed.

  Dear Reader, it’s not often that I’m left speechless. In fact, since a fan forwarded me that article THAT SHALL NOT BE DISCUSSED HERE, I have sat down to write this post at least a dozen times.

  I am emotionally drained.

  Entirely distraught.

  I’ve never, not once in ten years of operating Celebrity Tea Presents, felt so out of sorts. (So out of sorts that I binge-watched The Notebook fifteen times in the last seventy-two hours, simply so I could feel better about the number of tissues I’ve used).

  It must be said: I have never banned a celebrity from being discussed on my site. All tea is good tea. But this . . . DaSilva took it too far. The hate comments piling up from goddamn football fans is absolutely horrid, and I apologize to you, Dear Reader, for needing to disable all comments for the time being.

  I hope you understand my pain.

  Before I crawl back over to the TV to watch The Notebook for a sixteenth time, I have only a few choice words to say:

  Fuck you, Dominic DaSilva.

  We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming next week.

  Epilogue

  Aspen

  One Month Later

  “And then, the terrifying beast rose up from the lake and looked at the woods and thought . . . I smell them. The rotting stench of football, and I shall eat one of you!” Matthew Wilde throws up a pair of “claws” and growls like he’s the sava
ge beast from his story.

  Feeling the heat from the bonfire on my face, I hide a laugh as the boys all start to grumble their disappointment.

  “Dude, that’s all you’ve got?” Kevin shouts from the other side of the fire.

  “I think I just peed myself,” Timmy says, jumping up from the log he’s been perched on for the last forty minutes. He cups his crotch crassly. “Just kidding! No pee. For real, Wilde, that was pitiful.”

  Matthew, being the good soul that he is, points one of his Party City claws at Tim. “My scary story was pitiful? Bro, you burped out the chorus to the Twilight theme song.”

  I raise my s’mores cooking stick in the air. “I thought it was scary.”

  Heat that has nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with Dominic warms me from the inside out as he uses the evening light to his advantage and slips a hand between my tightly clamped thighs. “You think everything’s scary,” he rumbles out, his chin coming very close to perching on my shoulder. “Ferris wheels, sharks, bears—speaking of bears . . .” He shifts away to call out, “Gloria, will you wrangle the teens into the bunks with Meredith? I need to ask Coach Levi to look over something for me.”

  Aunt Gloria, who has become somewhat of a beloved secretarial assistant since Harry moved in with her, bobs her head. “You got it, boss.”

  Dominic nudges me in the side. “See?” he taunts, and though the night sky hides his upper face, I know he’s laughing at me. “She calls me boss. Aunt Gloria knows what’s up.”

  “Aunt Gloria,” I say, rolling my eyes, “also likes the cash you slip her every week to help care for Harry.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you don’t.”

  Except that he totally does.

  The police found Heather Blackwater in a halfway home down in Portland two weeks ago, and though Dominic tries to brush it all off as a concern that isn’t ours, it’s impossible to miss the way he’s firmly planted himself in Harry’s life. He pays Gloria for all of Harry’s football gear and never misses the opportunity to bring Harry to practice when his great-aunt can’t do so herself. He stopped all work on his house to bring in Nick Stamos and his crew and direct them to Gloria’s place for some remodeling.