by Elise Faber
He’d just gone over one evening and it was there.
Along with his brand of coffee in the cupboards, extra apples and oatmeal, since that was his preferred breakfast of choice.
He’d done the same here—and was why he now had a box of Lucky Charms in his pantry when he hadn’t eaten them since he was fifteen, why she had makeup at his place, clothes in his closet, a blow dryer beneath his sink, and a towel thing she wrapped around her head to properly dry her curls.
That was just part of being in a relationship.
Taking care of each other.
So why she had to apologize for getting a headache made him wonder, made him make a mental note to discuss it with her. Because if her ex was an asshole who made her feel bad for getting sick, Oliver was going to make damned sure she knew that he would never be inconvenienced by her in that way.
She saw him as more than a man who’d lost his leg.
So, she needed to understand that she was more than a fucking headache.
But she had just slept twelve hours after that headache had knocked her on her ass, her eyes were tired, her skin pale. She needed rest and food, not an emotionally heavy conversation.
“You’re not an inconvenience,” he told her, patting her leg and standing, knowing from the short conversation he’d had with her mother, the ones he’d overheard in the weeks since, that it wasn’t her parents making her feel like an inconvenience.
Which meant he had a solid idea of precisely who’d done that.
And his name was Trevor.
The fucking ex.
The one who hadn’t given her romance or candles or music, who’d left her after a bachelor party because he wanted variety.
Oliver repeated, the fucking ex.
“Baby?” Concern in those pretty brown eyes.
He bent and kissed her forehead. “Not an inconvenience when you love someone, babe.”
And then he walked from the room to get her some cereal.
Because she wanted it, and it was within his power to give it.
Simple as that.
Chapter Thirty
Oliver
“Oliver?”
“Yeah?”
His eyes were closed, Hazel was driving them home, and he was about two minutes from passing out. They’d spent the day at the practice facility. Him slogging through paperwork and Hazel in back-to-back sessions with the guys.
“I…um…have another surprise for you.”
“Does it involve me having to do anything physical?” he groaned. He wasn’t joking about being ready to pass out.
“That I’m not sure about.”
He peeled open his eyes. “Not inspiring confidence, babe.”
“You said you needed to keep working on your abs,” she teased.
He groaned.
Her lips twitched. “It’s not going to make you as tired as sled hockey did the other day.”
He reached over, squeezed her thigh. “That was exhausting but awesome, honey. Although, I’m definitely out of hockey shape,” he added when she smiled at him, “but it was also one of the most amazing things anyone has ever done for me.”
“I’m glad you’re not mad. I was…” A breath. “Worried I’d pushed when I shouldn’t have.”
“I told you I loved it.”
“I know.” She worried that bottom lip with her teeth. “But we haven’t talked about it much, especially with work being so busy for both of us, and I guess part of me was still…”
“Not mad,” he told her. “I was scared out of my mind, but luckily I had a seven-year-old who held my hand the whole time.”
Hazel giggled. “Just so you know, I’ve officially adopted Aimie and Hannah.” A grin. “And Chuck isn’t so bad, though I think I only heard him say one thing the entire time.”
“A man of few words is the only way to survive with those two.”
Another giggle.
“And I’m glad you adopted them, because it seems that I’ve volunteered to help coach Hannah’s team next season.”
“Oliver.”
Her voice sounded strangled, and he sat up, glanced over at her. “What?”
She looked to be very close to tears. “That’s”—a shake of her head—“you’re a really good man, you know that?”
His eyes stung.
He hadn’t felt good.
For a long, long time, he hadn’t felt worthy of that.
Now he knew he deserved it.
“You make it easy to be a better one,” he said and squeezed her thigh. “You’re my heart.”
She sniffed, dashed a finger beneath both eyes then covered his hand with her own. “Now that you’re trying to make me cry, I’m going to distract you because…” She turned into a nondescript parking lot, a nondescript brown building sitting squatly in the corner. “…we’re here. Surprise!”
“What?” He squinted, trying to see where they were. “Have you decided this is the place you’ll murder me?”
A snort.
A deep breath.
“No, baby.” Another breath. “This is Dr. Francisca’s practice.”
His eyes widened. He sat back in the seat.
Amanda Francisca was famous for her work with amputees. In particular, she worked with athletes who participated in the Paralympics, Iron Man competitions, Spartan Races, and CrossFit. If there was an elite athlete who needed a prothesis, they went to her.
And she’d reached out to him, months ago.
But…he hadn’t been ready.
“She says she can get you back on the ice. Not with sled hockey. Not in the NHL. But something that felt like it was.” Hazel spun in her seat and faced him. “It’ll take time, months to a year, she said. And in the meantime, you can still play sled hockey, and maybe when you’re done with her, you can coach or play in a league or just know that there isn’t anything stopping you from getting on the rink.”
His chest was so tight that he couldn’t squeeze out words.
He was absolutely going to lose it.
Because…Hazel.
“Hey,” she breathed, cupping his jaw, one thumb wiping the tears that had escaped his eyes. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to do this today. I know it’s been a long week and—”
He kissed her.
Hard and deep and long.
And when he broke away, both of their chests heaving, their breaths in rapid succession, he said, “I’m going to marry you.”
Her jaw fell open.
Her eyes filled with tears, tears that spilled over.
He wiped them away, kissed her again, and then he got out of the car.
For the record, Dr. Francisa was the shit.
Chapter Thirty-One
Hazel
“My little Bran Biscuit!” her mom cried as she flew down the front steps and ran across the driveway, hugging Hazel tight almost before she got fully out of the car.
Warm arms. A tight squeeze. The soft baby powder scent she’d always associated with her.
Home.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, squeezing her back.
“I’ve missed you.”
“It’s been a month.”
“And that’s thirty-one days too long, my Little Apple Turnover,” her mom said, slowly releasing her. “Your hair looks good, but you’re pale. When did you have the headache?”
She was good.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“When, Sugar Cakes?”
A sigh. “Thursday. Though it came on Wednesday late. I tried to sleep through it, but I woke up in a bad way Thursday. Luckily, Oliver was there and took care of me.”
Her mom’s eyes finally drifted over her shoulder, locking onto Oliver, a wide smile spreading over her face. “He’s pretty,” she whispered.
Hazel started laughing, whispered back, “He’s got great abs.”
Somehow her mom’s smile went wider. “Oh, baby. You did good.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Reid,” she heard Oliver say behind her and turned to see him
shaking her dad’s hand. “And you, Mrs. Reid,” he said, stepping forward and producing a bouquet of flowers he’d picked up…somewhere?
The man was a freaking flower magician.
“Hazel said I wasn’t allowed to bring anything,” he said, “but my mom always told me to never go to a house empty-handed.”
Her mom melted as he handed the spring bouquet—a mix of tulips, daffodils, sunflowers, and daisies—over. She glanced at Hazel again, mouthed, “You did good,” again, and then wrapped Oliver in a hug she knew would win her man over. Because it was the best kind of hug. A mom hug—tight and long and filled with the scent of baby powder. And she never let go until the person she was hugging did.
Which was seriously the key to a good hug.
“Come in, come in,” she told him when he’d dropped his arms and she’d released him. She slipped her arm through his, led him to the house, one hand gripping the bouquet. “I hope you’re hungry. I made…” And then she began naming a truly obscene amount of food as she all but dragged him up the front porch and inside.
“Hey, peanut,” her dad said.
“Hi, Daddy.” She hugged him—and for the record, he gave good hugs, too. Not Mom Hugs, but they were top quality Dad Hugs, and they made her feel like a little girl again. “How’s work?”
A sigh. “They convinced me to stay on another six months.”
She stifled a giggle. This was a running joke in their family. Her dad constantly complained about wanting to retire from his job as CEO of a local tech firm, saying he wanted to do nothing but sleep, eat, and go fishing, but every time the retirement date approached, he suddenly had another contract for another year or six more months, and she was half-convinced he’d work until he died.
God knew he had enough days off so he and her mom could take vacations.
“When are you going to retire, Dad?”
He tugged a lock of her hair and slid an arm around her shoulders. “Not until you give me grandbabies.”
Her brows lifted as she glanced up at him. “You already have grandbabies.”
A shrug. “Not from you.” He squeezed her lightly. “Plus, you’d make beautiful babies with that man.”
Her heart stuttered. “Not you, too.”
“He looks at you right, peanut.”
“Dad, it’s a little early to start thinking about babies.”
“Maybe.” A nudge. “But I’ve got six months at work, so there’s a grace period.”
She started laughing. “Six months is a grace period?”
“He looks at you right, baby girl.” Emphasis on the right. Hell, emphasis on the whole statement, and Hazel felt her belly fill with butterflies, or maybe with a whole herd of kittens playing with tiny balls of yarn.
“He said he’s going to marry me,” she admitted.
“Smart man.” Her dad kissed her forehead.
“Dad,” she breathed.
“You get a good thing, you don’t let it go,” he murmured. “We taught you that, and I like this man already because he looks at you right, because you look at him right. I like him because he brings your mother flowers, so he doesn’t show up empty-handed and because he took care of you when you were sick.” He cupped her cheek. “But, peanut, most of all, I like the man already because there’s happy written all over the lines of your face. You deserve that.”
Her throat went tight. “Dad,” she said again, though it was more like a rasp. “I love him.”
“Good, baby,” he said.
Then he walked her into the house and into the kitchen where her mom was fussing over arranging the flowers in a vase, and Oliver was washing some dirty dishes that were in the sink from her mom’s massive food-prepping.
Another squeeze before her dad released her, his voice quiet enough for her ears only. “Because I can see he deserves that, too.”
Tears threatened.
But then her mom started pulling food out and demanding Hazel set the table and calling her Queen Croissantia (which was a personal favorite), and then it was just happy and teasing and her tears (even though they were tears of happy) dried up.
Because she had food to put on the table.
Because she knew it was going to be the best night ever.
“Have another slice, honey,” her mom told Oliver, trying to put the last piece of apple pie onto his plate.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Reid, I couldn’t. I’m about to burst. But I’d love to take it home and have it tomorrow, if you don’t mind,” he added quickly when her mom looked ready to protest.
Hazel hid a smile.
Because that was the perfect answer for her mom.
“Toni, please, Oliver,” she said for about the millionth time, even though he kept calling her Mrs. Reid, saying that it felt strange to call her parents by their first names. Her mom would win him over eventually, but in the meantime, she knew her parents liked that he’d been so polite. Flowers. Dishes. Mr. and Mrs. The man was a charmer. “And I’d be happy to wrap something up for you.”
Code for not just pie.
Because the only thing her mom loved more than feeding her family for Sunday dinner, was to feed them during the week as well.
They would be taking home enough food for an army.
Fine with Hazel.
That meant she wouldn’t need to cook all week—just slop some stuff on plates and nuke it for dinner or slop some stuff into a Tupperware and nuke it for lunch. And, yeah, yeah, she knew she wasn’t supposed to do that with plastic, but sometimes a girl got lazy.
So, nuke that.
The night had been perfect. Literally perfect, and she was so happy she could burst. Oliver fit right in, had been his usual awesome self, her parents were their usual awesome selves, and it had been so effortless that it felt like he’d been coming over for years.
Even when her mom had asked him about his parents and he’d shared about Alex and Teresa and given the briefest explanation about his bio ones and his time in the system, he hadn’t closed down.
He’d just accepted the hug her mom forced onto him, the soft words she whispered into his ear for only him to hear, and because her mom didn’t release until released, the hug had gone on for a while. Oliver’s eyes were damp when they broke apart, but he didn’t shy away. No walls came up, and then they’d all gone on to play a rousing game of Munchkin—complete with sabotaging and the special brand of Reid competitiveness to break the bit of lingering sadness.
Then they’d played UNO, because that, apparently, was a game the James’ got down and dirty about—and seriously, Oliver had Skipped or Draw Two’d her at least five times on the way to winning that game.
After that was dessert.
Apple pie. Cheesecake. Chocolate mousse.
For four people.
But Hazel wasn’t complaining. She loved it.
“I’ll wrap it up now,” her mom said, taking the slice into the kitchen, and sure enough, Hazel heard the Tupperware cabinet open and her mom begin digging around in it.
“My abs are going to suffer for this,” Oliver said lightly.
Hazel giggled.
Her dad groaned and stood up, started gathering plates. “I learned long ago to give up on any abs in lieu of getting to enjoy that woman’s cooking,” he said, patting his belly—more beer than flat.
“I think that was the smartest call,” Oliver told him, already on his feet, gathering up the remaining plates and leaving Hazel with nothing to gather.
Rude.
“Damn right it was,” her dad said, leading the way into the kitchen.
Hazel grabbed a towel and the furniture polish and made her way back into the dining room, doing a post-dinner chore she’d done hundreds of times before.
Wipe the crumbs.
Polish the table.
Make sure the wood gleamed like it was brand new.
She was mid-wood gleaming when the doorbell rang. “Weird,” she muttered, glancing at her watch. It was nearly ten at night, and she and Oliver would be headin
g out soon, since they had work tomorrow. So, it was late. Too late for kids selling candy bars or solicitors peddling vacuums. But it was also late enough that concern rippled through her.
What if it was an emergency?
Quickly, she set down the bottle of furniture polish and the towel, hurried to the door.
A flick to open the lock.
A twist of the handle.
Pulling open the wooden panel, and…gasping.
Her mouth fell open, and if she’d been a cartoon, her jaw would have been on the ground. Because, seriously, what the fuck?
“Trevor?” she asked, and then continued gaping. Her fingers clenched on the wood of the door, her knees went weak and then locked tight. He looked good.
He also looked like the most painful experience of her life.
A painful reminder of that time in her life.
She took a breath, regained her composure. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hi, Haze. I knew you’d be here tonight.”
“I—”
And then he kissed her.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Oliver
He heard the doorbell ring and frowned.
Too late for visitors.
But then again, it wasn’t his house. Maybe Toni had an open-door policy, or perhaps the neighbors were coming over for leftovers.
God knew there was enough wrapped-up food in Toni and Chad’s fridge to feed an army.
He was setting the plates down when he heard Hazel’s footsteps heading for the door, Chad right beside him, wearing a frown.
So maybe Oliver had been right about it being too late for visitors and something was off rather than the leftover train beginning. Toni seemed unaffected, humming to herself as she packed an obscene amount of food into a bag for him and Hazel.
Not that he was complaining.
Lunch and dinner this week were going to be amazing.
Voices filled the air, just a short burst of noise, but it was enough to send Oliver’s nape prickling. Because it had been Hazel’s voice.