by Elise Faber
“I think I’d make a good big brother,” Hunter said.
Jordan grinned. “I know you will. Window-breaker.”
“It was an accident!” Hunter hung his head. “I didn’t realize that it would . . .”
Jordan raised a brow. “Break? If you hit a ball really hard?” He nudged him. “I thought Abby would lose a gasket.”
Hunter nodded emphatically. “Me too.”
Instead, all she’d done was smile, shake her head, and tell Jordan to call someone to fix it.
Carter let out another squawk, this one more determined and louder.
“I think Mommy’s time is up,” Jordan said. “While Abby is feeding Carter, let’s get everything ready, okay?”
“Okay!” Hunter nodded and ran off in the direction of the living room. “I’ll get the pajamas!”
He stared down at Carter, his first biological son but the second son of his heart. “I love that kid.”
Carter cooed.
Jordan crossed the kitchen, opened the cabinet above the fridge—the one Abby deemed as unusable because she was so short—and pulled out the little box he’d stashed within.
Pajamas. Chocolate. Bad movies. Check. Check. Check.
He stashed the ring in her basket of yarn and set it on the coffee table as Hunter ran like a tornado gathering the pajamas and a cozy blanket and turning on the T.V.
“Good?” he asked.
Hunter gave him a thumbs-up and Jordan turned down the hall, cuddling Carter close as he walked. Carefully, he turned the knob and crept into the bedroom, wanting to wake Abby gently.
But she was already up, eyes heavy, hair crazy, and more beautiful than anyone else on the planet.
“Hey,” he said.
She smiled. “Hey, honey.”
“Someone is hungry,” he said. “I tried to delay him, but I wasn’t successful.”
“Tell that to my boobs.” She pointed to the part of her body that had grown to rival Seraphina’s set and grimaced. “They apparently know that Carter is hungry.”
He set Carter in her arms. “I’m going to take a quick shower while you feed him.”
In reality, he was taking a quick shower for two reasons: one, boobs—as in, hers were on display and giant and he wanted to touch them, but he couldn’t—and two, he was nervous about proposing.
Which was ridiculous. They’d discussed marriage. They were planning on adopting Hunter, had just had a kid together.
It was a sure thing.
And he didn’t want to screw it up.
“Okay,” she said, her focus on Carter.
Probably a good thing, otherwise she would have seen that he was a mess.
Ten minutes later, he was clean and ready. Hunter knocked on the bedroom door as Jordan emerged from the bathroom in fresh clothes . . . or fresh pajamas. He glanced at Abby, who nodded. Carter had finished eating. He reached for the knob—
“Happy Mother’s Day!” Hunter announced, launching himself on the bed.
Jordan shook his head. The boy never walked when sprinting would do.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Abby said, hugging him with her free arm. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yup. Here.” He dropped the package on the bed. “These are for you. Jordan and I planned a day with your favorite things.”
Her eyes rose to meet Jordan’s. He nodded. “Chocolate. Hallmark movies. The works.” One side of his mouth quirked. “We’ll even let you have a shower first.”
“My heroes,” she quipped and slid from the bed. “Or maybe you’re saying that I need a shower?”
“Definitely.”
She snorted, rose on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips. “Thanks for that.” A glint in mischievous hazel eyes. “Do I need to bust out the hammer jokes?”
“God, no.” He took Carter from her. “Enjoy your uninterrupted shower,” he told her. “I’ve got the boys.”
“I love you,” she whispered.
“Right back at you.”
Shaking her head, she went into the bathroom. Hunter helped him change Carter—or rather picked out fresh clothes while Jordan dealt with the nasty diaper business, as Hunter liked to call it.
By the time they’d gotten Carter settled and Hunter a bowl of cereal for breakfast, Abby was done with her shower.
Hunter dropped his bowl in the sink when she came into the kitchen. “Come this way!” He took her hand, dragging her into the family room.
Jordan’s heart skipped a beat and he wiped sweaty palms on his shirt. “This is it, bud,” he whispered to Carter. “I hope she says yes.”
Carter blinked up at him.
“I know.” Jordan laughed. “I’ll be lucky if she does.”
He walked into the next room, smiling when he saw Hunter fussing over Abby—arranging the pillows behind her back, positioning the remote at just the right distance. He met Jordan’s eyes and nodded at the basket, a nonverbal cue to get moving.
“Can I hold Carter?” he asked, moving to the armchair and sitting down, arms extended.
“Sure, bud,” Jordan said, helping him to settle back and support Carter’s head.
Abby’s eyes were soft. “They’re so sweet together,” she said, watching Hunter hold Carter.
“Yes, they are.” He reached for the basket, opened his mouth—
“And this is sweet,” she said. “You guys are going to spoil me. How did you get these chocolates? I’ve never seen them anywhere except in Switzerland.”
He shrugged. “I flew them in. Abby—”
“You flew them in?” She gasped. “That must have been ridiculously expensive.”
“I wanted to make today special.”
“It would have been special without chocolate.” Jordan lifted a brow and she grinned. “Okay maybe not.”
“Abby”—he went down on one knee next to the coffee table—“I wanted to ask if you would—”
“Oh, my God. Is that new yarn?” She clapped her hands together before reaching for the basket. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Abby.” He caught her hands before she could grab it. “Shush for a second, okay?”
She blinked.
“I’m trying to ask you something.”
Her eyes drifted from the basket in his hands to his position on one knee.
“A-are you—?”
“Yup.” He held up the basket. “I wanted to ask if you would crochet with me.”
There was one beat of silence before she smacked him in the chest. “Jordan O’Keith, so help me . . .”
He pulled out the box and set the basket down. “Abigail Roberts. We’ve done this all sorts of backward, but I can’t imagine spending my life without you. Will you marry me?”
The box made a little creak as he opened it, showing off what was an obscenely-sized princess cut diamond ring inside. But he’d never had any restraint when it came to Abby, and he’d definitely not had any when it came to the ring she was going to wear for the rest of her life.
“No.”
Or maybe not.
“What?” He set the box down, took her hand. “It’s okay if it’s too soon. I just—”
She laughed, yanking him close. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.” She kissed him. “I would be honored to be your wife.”
He kissed her long enough to warrant a “gross” from Hunter and pulled back to slip the ring on her finger. “I’m going to pay you back for that one,” he said.
Her hand came up to cup his cheek. “I hope so,” she murmured. “For the rest of our lives.”
And he kissed her again, ignoring the retching sound Hunter made.
He had his happily ever after, dammit, and he was going to enjoy it.
Epilogue
Cecilia sat on the plane, her first class seat luxurious and insanely comfortable. It might have been the first time in her limited travel experience that she didn’t feel like cattle shoved into the back of a truck, and instead like an actual person with wants and needs.
“Your champagne, Ms.
Thiele.”
“Thank you,” she said and took a sip, leaning back into the butter-soft leather with a sigh.
She’d just closed her eyes when someone sat down in the empty seat next to her.
Rustling accompanied the movement as the person got settled.
“Can I get you anything?” the flight attendant asked.
“A whiskey.”
The hairs stood up on Cecilia’s neck. Oh, God no. It couldn’t possibly be—
She clenched her lids tightly, refusing, absolutely refusing to open them. No. She was hearing things. It had been years since she’d heard that voice.
Too many years.
“Here you go, Mr. McGregor.”
Oh fuck.
Her eyes flew open, she peeked out, and dread twisted her stomach into knots.
No. It couldn’t be.
She’d booked this flight last minute, deciding to use the voucher from Abby after she and Jordan had returned from their honeymoon. Cecilia’s life had felt stagnant. She’d needed to get away, and she’d had the free flight and hotel.
It made sense to use it, however last minute.
Plus, everything had worked out. There had been one first class seat open. Only one cabin at her dream resort.
And now she was sitting next to Colin McGregor.
“Flight attendants, arm the doors,” the pilot’s voice chimed through the plane’s speakers.
A thud signaled her last avenue of retreat disappearing.
She was trapped on a nonstop flight for twelve hours. With the man who’d left her at the altar.
How was this possibly her life?
“Cecilia?” that masculine voice asked. “Is that really you?”
And just like all the times before, her eyes were drawn to him. She’d never been able to ignore him. Not Colin. Not even when he’d—
But this time was different.
She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t a vulnerable girl in a rough place.
She’d been through hell and back.
Colin had no power over her.
Not anymore.
Cecilia put in her earbuds and turned her back on the man who’d devastated her world five years before.
What happens when your ex just won’t stay that way?
Read Cecila’s story, Bad Breakup, coming soon!
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Read on for the first two chapters of Blocked, Gold Hockey #1, coming August 8th, 2018
Preorder your copy here.
Chapter One
Brit
The first question Brit always got when people found out she played ice hockey was “Do you have all of your teeth?”
The second was “Do you, you know, look at the guys in the locker room?”
The first she could deal with easily—flash a smile of her full set of chompers, no gaps in sight. The second was more problematic. Especially since it was typically accompanied by a smug smile or a coy wink.
Of course she looked. Everybody looked once. Everyone snuck a glance, made a judgment that was quickly filed away and shoved deep down into the recesses of their mind.
And she meant way down.
Because, dammit, she was there to play hockey, not assess her teammates’ six packs. If she wanted to get her man candy fix, she could just go on social media. There were shirtless guys for days filling her feed.
But that wasn’t the answer the media wanted.
Who cared about locker room dynamics? Who gave a damn whether or not she, as a typical heterosexual woman, found her fellow players attractive?
Yet for some inane reason, it did matter to people.
Brit wasn’t stupid. The press wanted a story. A scandal. They were desperate for her to fall for one of her teammates—or better yet the captain from their rival team—and have an affair that was worthy of a romantic comedy.
She’d just gotten very good at keeping her love life—as nonexistent as it was—to herself, gotten very good at not reacting in any perceptible way to the insinuations.
So when the reporter asked her the same set of questions for the thousandth time in her twenty-six years, she grinned—showing off those teeth—and commented with a sweetly innocent “Could’ve sworn you were going to ask me about the coed showers.” She waited for the room-at-large to laugh then said, “Next question, please.”
Chapter Two
This was it, the call up of her life.
And Brit was sitting in the parking lot of the arena, unable to force her fingers off the steering wheel.
“Get it together,” she muttered. “Or you will suck on the ice.”
Harsh, probably. But the truth.
Still, the words were enough. Enough to get her body in motion, to pop her door, and walk around to the trunk of her ten-year-old Corolla.
Her gear was shoved inside the small space like a sausage threatening to burst from its casing. Brit grabbed the strap and hauled out her bag before slinging it across her shoulder.
“You know they have guys for that.”
The voice made her jump, and her gaze shot up, then up some more until she stared directly into the eyes of the captain of the San Francisco Gold, Stefan Barie.
The slight tinge of a Minnesotan accent made her shiver.
Uh-oh.
And seriously, only a hockey fan would find a Minnesotan accent sexy.
He smiled. “It’s the coldest-winter-is-summer-in-San-Francisco thing.” When she frowned, he cocked his head. “The wind chill.”
What?
“You know? Mark Twain?”
Her brows pulled together. “I know who Mark Twain is, and I’m familiar with the quote. Though it’s a common misnomer, and Twain didn’t actually say it. Still, it is windy in the city . . . I just don’t know why you think I’m cold, and it’s not—” She shook herself. What was the point in her rambling? “Never mind.”
This was what her mind did.
Every single time.
It drifted, focused on mundane details she then couldn’t prevent from bursting free.
No surprise that once they were free, her conversations were punctuated with awkward pauses.
Like the one happening now.
Brit sighed. Give her an interview any time. Let her spout off sound bites to the camera and no problem. It was the real life human interactions that were terrible.
“No,” Stefan said. “Tell me. What is it?”
It was only because he seemed genuinely interested that she answered.
“It’s not summer.”
“What?”
Another sigh. Yep. Way to go, genius. “It’s technically fall. Summer has been over for six-and-a-half days.”
There was a moment of quiet, a long, uncomfortable pause during which neither of them spoke.
Then surprisingly—shockingly—Stefan laughed. Her heart gave a little squeeze, her brain said, Uh-oh, but then before she could really panic, he spoke, “You’re absolutely right. Now come on.” Snagging her sticks, he nodded toward the arena. “I’ll show you the ropes.”
—Grab your copy of Blocked (Gold Hockey #1) here.
Did you miss the first two books in the Roosevelt Ranch series? Check them out Disaster at Roosevelt Ranch here and Heartbreak at Roosevelt Ranch here or see the excerpts below!
DISASTER AT ROOSEVELT RANCH
Chapter One
I had never thought of a plus sign as a bad thing.
Of course, I’d never had one show up on a stick I’d peed on. Kudos to me, that changed today.
My knees wobbled, and the idiotic white piece of plastic rattled as I set it on the scarred Formica countertop.
Brown eyes—mine—stared back at me accusingly in the mirror. “You’ve done it now.”
A baby.
My hand found my stomach. Still flat, still the same.
Even though so much had changed.
The bathroom door rattled as a fist slammed against the thin plank of wood. “Move it, Kel! Food’s up and your tables are restless.
”
“Coming!” I called as I wrapped the test in a paper towel before shoving it deep into my purse.
I couldn’t leave it here. Not where anyone—where Henry—might see it. He would get his back up, storm out to the ranch where he-who-must-not-be-named lived, and drag the no-good, low down piece of crap into town for a proper whooping.
And I might just want to let him.
With a sigh, I washed my hands and left the bathroom.
It was my own fault. I knew the type of man Rex was.
I’d fallen into his bed anyway.
“Regret never fails to burn like a mother,” I muttered as I swept into the kitchen, grabbed the plates from the pass, and started hustling toward my table.
“What was that?” Henry asked as he flipped a burger.
“Nothing.” I hefted the tray filled with six plates and various food accessories—ketchup, extra dressing, and napkins—with practiced ease.
Oh, God. I was going to be huge and pregnant and . . . waiting tables.
Good luck to the customers, because I lacked the sincerity and cheerfulness that seemed to come naturally to most waitresses on a normal day. I could only imagine what was going to happen when my hormones raged.
Using my back, I pushed through the swinging door and promptly stumbled to a stop.
He was here. Rex was here.
Stupidly, my heart raced. He’d changed his mind. He’d—
The man’s eyes flicked to mine, completely unrecognizing and indifferent. My momentary burst of hope disintegrated.
He was going to pretend not to know me? To not recognize me?