This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Snow
Preview of Maybe This Christmas copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Snow
Preview of Maybe This Summer copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Snow
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner. Cover photography by Claudio Marinesco. Cover images © Mitchell Funk/GettyImages. Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: May 2017
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ISBNs: 978-1-4555-9487-0 (mass market), 978-1-4555-9489-4 (ebook)
E3-20170127-DA-NF
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
A Preview of Maybe This Christmas
A Preview of Maybe This Summer
About the Author
Also by Jennifer Snow
Praise for Jennifer Snow's Novels
Fall in Love with Forever Romance
Newsletters
To my son, Jacob—thank you for convincing me that trampoline parks are a better way to spend an afternoon. The four a.m. writing sessions will always be worth it.
Acknowledgments
Thank you as always to my agent, Stephany Evans, who continues to be a cheerleader through bad synopses and half-assed plot outlines. You always believe I’ll get there eventually. Thank you, Madeleine Colavita, for helping me get there. With each and every book, I learn from you, and I value your feedback and notes. The entire team at Grand Central is amazing—Michelle Cashman and the art department—thank you for all the work you do to promote my books and help them find good homes ;)
And a special thank you again to Brijet and Ray Whitney for your hockey research help. I learned so much from you both about the sport I love.
To my husband, my son, my family, my writing tribe, and my amazing readers—you all keep me sane and your support and love mean everything.
And Rachel Lacey—you rock! I appreciate all the ways you help me navigate the promotion world! XO
Chapter 1
I guess there are worse things than finding out you’re married.”
Ben Westmore nearly choked on his beer. “Do you not hear something wrong with that sentence?”
His brother Asher drained the contents of his own glass and set it on the table. “Look, man, I think you’re sweating this whole thing for nothing. There’s no way that marriage certificate is real.” He flagged their waitress and put his baseball cap on as the final boarding call for his flight was announced. Airways, the restaurant inside the Colorado airport, was quiet that afternoon, and the brothers had enjoyed a rare meal where they weren’t interrupted by hockey fans.
“You think it’s a joke?” Ben studied the blurry image on his iPhone. The spirally signature at the bottom looked a lot like his.
“Of course it’s a joke. This is you we’re talking about.” Asher reached for his jacket.
“Asher’s right. It would take a gun to your head to get you down the aisle,” Mia, their waitress, said, leaning over Ben’s shoulder to take a peek at the marriage certificate. She handed him their bill with a grin. “Besides, you wouldn’t break my heart like that.”
Ben ignored the teasing and waved the bill at Asher. “I’m paying?”
“It’s the least you can do after taking me out of the playoffs.”
He reached for his wallet, but Mia shook her head. “It’s been taken care of.” She rolled her eyes as she nodded toward several women sitting at the bar.
The ladies had been smiling at him since he’d walked in with Asher. Captain of the Colorado Avalanche and MVP in the league that season, he was one of the more recognizable hockey players, and his reputation as a playboy was one he didn’t even try to dispute. Getting a pretty woman’s attention was easier than winning a game of pick-up hockey against eight-year-olds.
He glanced back at the phone. Had he inadvertently, unknowingly gotten married? This copy of a marriage certificate, forwarded to his personal email from the team’s fan mail site, seemed to indicate as much. December 31 was listed as the nuptial date, and unfortunately New Year’s Eve wasn’t ringing so clearly in his memory. He’d been in a bad place at the time. And far too much alcohol had gone into easing his pain.
Enough to make him lose his mind and get married? Impossible.
He handed Mia several bills anyway. “Cover their tab, please.”
She shook her head. “This could cover the tab for everyone in here.” She tried to hand him back the money, but he refused it. He knew she worked three jobs to support herself and her two kids. One of whom had a birthday in a few days and was a huge hockey fan. “And I’ll have those game tickets at will call for you next week.”
The look of appreciation in her eyes made him uncomfortable. “Thanks, Ben. You know, if you were going to marry someone…”
He grinned, kissed her cheek, and followed Asher out of the restaurant, before the women at the bar delayed their exit.
“Sure you can’t stick around for a few days?” Ben asked.
Now that the New Jersey Devils were officially done with their season, his brother was free, unless he got an invitation to play in the World Championships scheduled to start the following week. Which Ben suspected he would. Out of the three hockey-obsessed Westmore brothers, Asher was arguably the best. Not that Ben would ever admit it.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days. I just need to wrap up some things in Jersey,” he said, slinging his hockey bag over his shoulder.
“Like getting rid of that crap on your face?” His brother looked more like a bushman than a hockey player the further his team had advanced and his playoff beard grew longer.
Asher ran a hand over it. “Don’t shit on me just because I can actually grow one.”
Ben laughed. It was true. A thin cove
ring of stubble was all he could hope for, even though he hadn’t shaved since the start of the playoffs four weeks ago. “Anyway, clean yourself up before Mom sees you.”
His brother shot him a look. “When she finds out the mess you’re in, I’ll be able to do no wrong. Later, man,” he said with a wave as he headed toward security. “Make sure to bring home the cup.”
That was the plan. After successfully taking his own brother out of the running for the Stanley Cup, no one else stood a chance of getting in the way.
At thirty-four years old, he’d been in the NHL playoffs twice before. This was his year to win. The Colorado Avalanche’s year to win. This year, nothing was going to keep him from reaching the goal.
His cell phone rang as he headed out of the airport. “Call from Kevin Sanders…” the tone revealed. The team’s lawyer. Finally. He’d forwarded the marriage certificate email to him earlier that week and had left several voicemails. He needed to know if this thing was joke…or something to worry about.
“Hey, Sanders.”
“How the hell did you get yourself into shit this deep, Ben?” Kevin said.
Obviously he needed to worry. “Fucked if I know, man. I would have had to be unconscious or drugged to get married.” Full stop. He didn’t mean just to get married to a stranger or to get married drunk in a chapel in Vegas. He meant to get married. Period. The cool, early spring mountain air made him shiver as he stepped through the revolving doors, and he raised the collar of his leather jacket higher around his neck.
“Well, you look conscious in the video.”
“What video?”
“The one I just received from Happy Ever After.”
Ben’s gut tightened. There was footage of him in a chapel in Vegas?
“And unfortunately, if you were drugged, the evidence would be out of your system, so we will be submitting a drunk and stupid plea and filing for divorce right away,” Kevin said.
He thought he was going to throw up.
“Unless, of course, you want to stay married,” the lawyer said in his silence.
“Like hell,” Ben grumbled. Crossing the airport parking lot, he unlocked his Hummer, climbed in, and slammed the door. “What do we do?”
He sat quietly as Kevin took him through the divorce filing procedure step by step, making sure he was aware of the predicament he found himself in. For four months, this Ms. Kristina Sullivan—the woman’s name didn’t even sound familiar—had remained quiet; now she’d resurfaced to ruin his life, claiming she wanted a relationship with her “husband.”
“This is bullshit. I don’t even know this woman.”
“Since when has that ever mattered to you?” Kevin asked.
Ben ran a hand through his hair. It was true; he liked the company of women, but marriage? No. Right? Damn, he wished he could remember that night clearly—or at all.
“Ben, this is not going to just go away,” Kevin said when he didn’t respond. “I’ll file the required paperwork to start the divorce process, and we’ll pray that this Kristina Sullivan chick doesn’t contest it. In the meantime, we should find out who her legal representation is and request a mediation session. Find out what her angle is. If we can keep it out of the courts, we have a better chance of keeping things quiet.”
Fantastic. He wouldn’t have been able to pick out his new “wife”—he cringed—from a police line-up if his life depended on it, and now he would have to sit across from her and ask that she be reasonable enough to let him out of this mess without too much headache? He had his doubts the meeting would go smoothly. “Fine. Let me know when and where.” He stabbed the button to start the vehicle. He didn’t have time for this. In four days, he planned to lead his team to a four-game, shut-out victory in the semifinal round of the playoffs; he couldn’t afford stupid distractions.
Ms. Sullivan better prepare herself for a battle, because he was pissed. He didn’t know what kind of game she was playing, but he wanted nothing to do with it.
“Hang in there. Keep breathing and we’ll figure this out,” his lawyer said through the speakerphone.
Where was that note of optimism two minutes ago when the man was explaining in fine detail the shit-storm Ben’s life was about to become. “Can we figure it out quickly? Like before the next playoff round?”
“I can’t work miracles, Ben. Talk to you soon.”
Disconnecting the call, he swore under his breath. This was the last complication he needed right now. But one thing was for certain: there was no way he would let a little thing like marrying a woman he didn’t know in a ceremony he couldn’t remember prevent him from hoisting the Stanley Cup that season.
No way in hell.
* * *
She had good eggs. Not perfect eggs. Not young, ideal eggs, but not bad eggs for her thirty-six years, according to the evaluation of her ovarian reserve at the Glenwood Falls Fertility Treatment Center, and for now Olivia Davis would count that as a win.
Of course, if she’d gotten the nerve to make the appointment earlier and hadn’t had to sit on a waiting list to see fertility god Dr. Mark Chelsey for over a year, the eggs might have been three to six percent better…
She shook her head and lowered the visor. She retrieved her sunglasses, sliding them on as the sun broke through the clouds. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t play the what-if game. It only led to more indecision and doubt. What mattered was that at thirty-six, she was starting the process of having a family.
The family she wanted.
The mid-April sun warmed her face and the mild, cool breeze whispered a promise of summer as she exited the highway. She hated to raise the top on her BMW convertible as she pulled into her office parking lot.
Life was good. She had good eggs.
She was going to have a family. She bit her lip.
Nope. No more second-guessing. This was what she wanted.
Or at least the next best thing. Her passion for her career as a top divorce attorney had left little time for her to have one the traditional way. But these days, a single career woman had choices.
She’d made hers.
She took several deep breaths, letting thoughts of that morning’s fertility clinic appointment take a backseat and switching gears. She had a one o’clock with Kevin Sanders and his hockey player client, and she needed to be on her game. She’d only gone up against him in a divorce case once before and he was tough. It didn’t help that she couldn’t fully wrap her mind around this particular case. A playboy getting married in Vegas to a woman he claims not to know? Really?
Her client swore they’d known one another for years. Someone was lying, and Olivia would bet her fertility treatment down payment that it was Ben Westmore.
Representing the soon-to-be ex-wives of professional athletes for ten years, she’d seen her share of bullshit. She suspected this guy was regretting his impulsive decision and was desperate to get out without losing his shirt—or hockey jersey, as the case may be.
Well, he couldn’t just skate away from his mistakes this time.
She sighed as she approached her reserved stall. Parked next to her was the biggest cobalt blue eyesore she’d ever seen. The tires on the right side of her tiny car scraped against the curb of the sidewalk as she carefully squeezed into the tight space made even smaller by the gas-guzzling, environment-destroying tank crossing the yellow line into her spot. Tinted black windows and silver rims completed the “I’m owned by a douchebag” look of the vehicle, and a Colorado Avalanche license plate that read MVP 1 confirmed the owner. Her opposition’s client—Ben Westmore—had arrived.
She cut the engine and peered through the window, eyeing the distance between her door and the lift kit of the monstrosity blocking her in.
Her size eight hips wouldn’t squeeze through there. She’d be lucky to open the door wide enough to push her overstuffed briefcase through.
Glancing toward the passenger side, she decided to take her chances with the cherry trees starting to bloom on the o
ffice building’s lawn. Their bud-covered branches might scratch her when she opened the door, but they would be more forgiving than the tank.
Unbuckling her seatbelt, she slid the fabric of her pencil skirt a little higher over her thighs and then swung one leg over to the passenger side. The gearshift pressed into her butt and her hair caught static along the soft top. Sometimes, she wished she had a bigger car. Holding the passenger seat headrest, she awkwardly swung her other leg over, and the sound of tearing fabric made her cringe.
She glanced down, grateful to see just a tiny rip in the back of the skirt where it was slit to allow movement. Sighing, she collapsed onto the seat, pulling the skirt back into place. Then lowering the visor, she used the mirror to smooth her flyaway strands back into place and reapply a pale nude gloss to her lips.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I am a successful, strong, confident woman,” she told her reflection. The daily affirmation was part of her routine before every face-to-face with an opposing lawyer. “I can achieve greatness. I can be the best version of myself.” She smiled, then added a new one. “I have good eggs.”
Chapter 2
Was the woman talking to herself?
Ben had been about to enter the law offices when he saw the tiny convertible wedge itself into the space next to his Hummer. Before he could get the attention of the woman inside the car, she was already climbing over the gearshift. He waved as he approached and hesitated when she noticed him outside the passenger window.
The daggers coming from the woman’s dark, coffee-colored eyes gave him a chill, despite the uncharacteristically mild weather. He’d seen pissed-off women before, but usually after he’d slept with them, not before. “Sorry about the parking. This thing is a little big,” he yelled. He’d signed an endorsement deal with GM years before, and he was under contract obligation to drive the beast. He’d asked for a truck, but they’d insisted the Hummer better suited his image. “Just give me a second and I’ll move it.”
The woman opened the door, pushing through tree branches. “Don’t bother. You’ll be leaving before me,” she said climbing out, ducking to avoid the pointed twigs and leaves.
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