“That was a long conversation,” I say with a grin. “Were you explaining what you were doing in the kitchen and how you love playoff beards now?”
“Oh, yeah, totally. Your mom is impressed with your skills.” She rolls her eyes and I make a grossed-out face. “Leah is at your parents’ with Cole. I ended up talking to her about the wedding.”
I swallow and nod. She doesn’t seem to notice the nervous glint I know I must have in my eye.
“The wedding is almost two months away, but Leah is totally stressed out,” she tells me as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the shower.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I reply as calmly as possible. “Leah is just a perfectionist.”
“Yeah. I think you’re right.” she says.
I finish shaving and get in with her.
Jessie says, “She should be having fun with the preparations, though.”
“Well, you’re here now,” I say, kissing her shoulder. “You can help her out.”
“Right.” She takes her soapy washcloth and starts to run it over my chest.
We spend the next fifteen minutes bathing each other and kissing under the warm spray. I could easily take her here again—even so soon after the last time—but I have a plan. I can’t veer off track or I’ll lose my nerve and ruin everything.
We get out and I wrap her in a towel; she ties one around my waist. Back in her old bedroom, I quickly throw on a pair of workout shorts. As she busies herself pulling her pajamas from her suitcase, I slide something into my shorts pocket.
“I’m going to see if there is anything to eat,” I lie, and head downstairs.
By the time I get to the kitchen, there are at least a thousand butterflies soaring inside me. I pull the small bright blue velvet box from Tiffany’s out of my pocket and set it in the middle of the counter. I glance at the clock: 12:02 am.
I open the new fridge, which Rosie has stocked nicely. There’s fruit and vegetables, bottled water, milk and what looks like leftover homemade lasagna. I think I may actually be hungry, but the butterflies make it impossible to tell. And then I hear her padding down the stairs.
Turning to lean against the fridge doors, I stand there clutching the water bottle in my hand so tightly I’m surprised I’m not crushing it.
“Hey!” she says as she enters the kitchen, her damp hair twisted up on top her of her head with an elastic. She’s in a pair of sleep shorts and a heather gray tank top. “Is there anything to eat in there? I’m…”
Her eyes land on the slab of original Formica with the pretty blue box now sitting in the middle of it. She looks up at me. Her eyes are wide.
Finally, I can tell her. I fight to keep my voice even and under control. “I had them leave that piece of countertop on purpose. I just couldn’t get rid of it.”
She says nothing. Her gaze moves from me to the box and back to me.
“It’s where it all started,” I say, even though I know she knows.
Now her eyes move from me to the clock. “It’s June first.”
“It is.” I smile at her.
She smiles back, but it’s timid.
“Seven years ago today, you sat on that counter and I told you I loved you. And then you totally jumped my bones.”
She bursts into laughter at that, and it makes me feel slightly less terrified.
“Remember a month or so ago when we decided this was our true anniversary?” I anxiously twist and untwist the bottle top in my hands. “You said, as far as you were concerned, today—June first—would go down in history as the day your life changed for the better forever. Well, I figured if it’s going to change again—get even better—that it should change again today.”
“Jordan,” she says quietly her eyes back on the box. “What’s that?”
I lift the water bottle to my lips and take a swig, my mouth suddenly very dry.
In a gravelly voice, I say, “Open it.”
“An anniversary gift?” she says as she nervously tucks a wayward lock of damp hair behind her ear.
“Yeah, kind of. Not really,” I reply, and grin awkwardly. “Open it.”
As she reaches for the box, I notice her hand trembles ever so slightly. I realize suddenly she knows exactly what is in that box. Deep in her heart, she knows. The trembling hand is either excitement or trepidation. Maybe both. I guess I’m about to find out.
Epilogue 2
Jessie
It’s too small to be a necklace.
That’s all that keeps running through my brain. It’s a ring box. It’s a ring box from Tiffany’s. It’s a freaking ring box from Tiffany’s. I will myself to calm down as I pick it up and bring it close to my chest.
“Open it,” he repeats, and then he suddenly adds, “Wait!”
I wasn’t about to open it, anyway, I’m too stunned. I watch as he pushes himself off the fridge that’s been holding up his massive frame and walks over to me. He puts the water bottle he’s been gripping down on the kitchen table, then stands in front of me. Nervously he runs a hand through his damp golden hair and then he shoves his hands in his pockets. And then he takes them out.
And then he reaches up and cups my face.
“I love you,” he says, and his voice is thick.
I gaze at him. “I love you too.”
“I’ve only ever loved you. This whole time. Since that night.”
“I’ve only ever loved you too.”
He leans down, kisses me soft and long, and then he pulls his lips from mine.
“Open it before I freak out,” he urges, his cheeks turning red.
I hold my breath and open the box.
I’m a little scared it’s what I think it is, and I’m a little scared it’s not what I think it is. I’m generally, overwhelmingly terrified.
“OhmyGodJordan.” It comes out in one fast, breathless word.
I know nothing about engagement rings. Nothing. I’ve never even thought about them. I mean, recently—since March—I had become fairly confident that one day I would get one—and from Jordan—but I had no idea when. I just knew we’d do it. But I didn’t care what it looked like. All I cared about was what it meant—that he wanted me forever. Which is exactly how I wanted him—forever.
“I picked it because Maxine—you know, Dix’s wife—told me the three diamonds meant past, present and future. And I thought that was cool and important to us, you know—our past, present and future. And I like the tiny diamonds on the band. But, if you don’t like it, they said we could go back and pick another one,” he assures me nervously. “I mean, that is, if you want a ring at all.”
I glance up at him finally. The poor thing looks completely petrified. His face is pale and his light blue eyes are wide. He rakes his teeth over his bottom lip again and again, just like he used to do in math class when he was doing badly on a test. Well, he’s not failing this time. But, before I can assure him, he starts talking again.
“I just know you’re it, Jessie. I’ve known that forever,” he stammers, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I know we’ve only been back together for three months, but those months have been the best of my life. You’re the one. The only one I want to be with. The only one I’ve ever wanted to be with. This just feels…”
“Completely and utterly right?” I playfully finish his sentence, and he nods emphatically.
I can’t see him anymore. I blink and suddenly my face is wet. I’m crying. That makes him panic more.
“It’s okay if it’s too soon. I’ll wait. I won’t be upset or anything. I can wait. As long as you…As long as you think you will say yes someday.”
“Say yes to what?” I say softly, giving him a shaky smile. “You haven’t asked me anything.”
He cups my face in his giant hands again and tilts it so I’m looking right at him. He takes a deep breath. And then he stops.
“Do you want me on a knee? Like old-fashioned? ’Cuz I can totally do that if you want.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Just ask the damn question, Jordan.”
“Are you going to say yes?” he says with that adorable, lopsided grin taking over his face now.
I laugh. “Put yourself out there, Garrison. Take a risk!”
He kisses me. It’s slow and sweet. And then he pulls back, closing his eyes and then opening them again.
“Jessie, I love you. Will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” He seems honestly stunned. It’s adorable.
“Of course.”
We stare at each other. His hands are on my face, my hands are on the open ring box. And then he grins. So big and bright and beautiful. And I know I am grinning too—and crying—but, mostly grinning.
He kisses me again, pulling me into his arms and swinging me around. I laugh. And then his hands take the box from me and he slips the beautiful platinum ring with three beautiful, sparkling princess-cut diamonds and the matching little ones around the band onto my finger.
“Holy crap, I am going to marry you,” he breathes, and laughs.
“Yeah. You totally are.” I giggle and I look up at him.
There he is. Everything I have ever wanted. And all he wants is me.
About the Author
Victoria Denault loves long walks on the beach, cinnamon dolce lattes and writing angst-filled romance. She lives in LA but grew up in Montreal, which is why she is fluent in English, French and hockey.
Learn more at:
VictoriaDenault.com
Facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaDenault
Twitter: @BooksbyVictoria
Please turn the page for a preview of the next book in Victoria Denault’s Hometown Players series,
Making a Play.
Available September 2015!
Prologue
Luc
Six years earlier
She’s drunk. She thinks she’s just tipsy but she’s full-on, will-probably-puke, massive-hangover-guaranteed, drunk. I should be panicked, worried and—more than anything—unsupportive of her behavior but… she’s just so damn cute.
I watch her as she concentrates really hard on the lines she’s drawing in the sand. Her eyebrows are drawn together, her lips slightly parted and the tip of her tongue is sticking out ever so slightly as she uses her index finger to create a masterpiece. Well, a bunch of random crooked lines and uneven divots in the sand she’s declared is my portrait.
I’ve been avoiding Rose lately, but when she called and left a message with slurred words, going on about my best friend Jordan breaking her sister’s heart and ruining everything, I knew I had to come. She’s fifteen, three years younger than me, and although my life has been far from perfect, hers was much rougher. And she was there for me when I needed someone, so I’ll always be there for her. I’ve been avoiding her because I think she’s developing a crush. I’m a born flirt. I can’t help it, it’s like breathing air, so of course I’ve been doing it with Rose—but with Rose’s ideals, it was playing with fire. Rose Caplan is sweet, smart and definitely beautiful, but she has all these fantastical ideas about love. She’s a romantic and she dreams of an epic love story with a prince charming and a happily ever after. She deserves nothing less, but I’m not at all interested in that.
“Hrmpf,” she makes this weird sound, like a sigh, a huff and a grunt all at once, and uses her palm to smooth away the sand drawing. “I can’t do you justice.”
I smirk and tilt my head so I’m in her sight line. She’s sitting in the sand at my feet. Her back between my legs, against the log I’m sitting on. In front of us the bonfire, built by friends and high school classmates, is in the final stage before becoming nothing more than smoldering ash. The minimal light dances over her skin, making it sparkle. Her cheeks are flushed from what she says was only three beers and “maybe a wine cooler thingy.”
“Justice?” I repeat and her near-black eyes catch mine.
“You’re too pretty for a sand drawing,” she says with a frown and a glare, like she’s honestly mad at me. Rose has never called me pretty before and her confession makes me warm. If this were any other girl, I’d take advantage of the confession. I’ve never been one to turn down an opportunity for a bonfire make-out session. But… it’s sweet, young and innocent Rose, and I just can’t do that to her. Luckily she continues in a tirade without waiting for my response.
“Jordan’s too stupid. Callie’s too angry. Jessie’s too stubborn. You’re too pretty and I’m too lame. Everything is too. I hate too. Too is ruining my life.”
She looks completely despondent, and totally sincere, so I feel bad when I can’t keep the giant grin from overtaking my face. Her wide eyes get wider and that pouty, pink mouth—the one that is quickly maturing into something any man would have sex dreams about—drops into a perfect O. She whispers, “Crap. I said that out loud.”
She tries to move away from me, but I reach out and gently cup the side of her face in the palm of my left hand. Now she’s stuck twisted around between my legs, staring at me. “Rosie, your life is not ruined. Everything will be okay.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that because I will make it okay,” I vow, my voice dropping an octave. “I will always have your back.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve always had mine.”
She stares at me for another second as that sinks in. I know, even drunk, she knows why she’s as close a confident as my best friend Jordan, and one of the few people I let completely in. She suddenly shifts her eyes back to the sand and slides away, so I can no longer touch her pretty face.
“But I want you to have more than my back,” she mumbles in such a low, slurred voice I almost miss it. “No one wants more than my back. Because I’m too lame.”
She starts to try to stand up but tips right back over and lands with a thud on her ass in the sand. I slip off the log and drop to my knees, reaching out the take her hands and keep her from falling all the way back and into the fire. I pull her close, sneaking the opportunity to sniff that amazing smell that is Rose Caplan. Some kind of soft, powdery-smelling perfume that screams innocence but makes my dick hard at the exact same time. I’m sure it’s some generic kind of perfume, because Rosie doesn’t have money for anything more than that, but on her, it’s priceless.
I prop her up against the log again and lean in closely, taking another deep inhale of that perfect, dick-twitching scent. “Oh, Fleur, you’re a drama queen when you drink.”
Our eyes meet again. I force myself to move back to the log and sit behind her. If I look at that face a second longer I’m going to kiss her. Because she’s pretty, and adorable, and I can. But I shouldn’t, and with Rosie that matters. I have to remember, that matters. Once safely behind her, I put my hands on her shoulders and lean down, with my lips just behind her ear.
“You are not too lame. And all the other ‘too’ problems with Jessie, Jordan and whoever else will work out,” I pause and tell her what I have been thinking for months… only I do it in French. “Votre vie sera belle parce que vous, Fleur, êtes belle. Et vous trouverez quelqu'un qui vous aimera pour ça.”
She twists her head and blinks up at me. “Not fair. I don’t understand.”
I smirk and give her a small wink. “One day I’ll translate it for you.”
She turns back to the fire in front of her, staring at the flickering flames, and murmurs “I’m too scared to go for what I really want.”
She tips her head back and looks up at me. This time, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stop myself from kissing her. I don’t even think I want to stop. Maybe she’ll be too drunk to remember. Maybe…
“Luc!” My best friend Jordan’s deep voice fills the night air and causes Rose to snap her head away from me. “Have you seen Jessie?”
Rosie jumps to her feet and starts congratulating Jordan on being drafted into the NHL. Our moment disintegrat
es and I’m grateful. As much as I wanted her in that moment, it’s for all the wrong reasons. I would break her heart and I refuse to do that to Rose.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue: Jordan
Chapter 1: Jordan
Chapter 2: Jessie
Chapter 3: Jessie
Chapter 4: Jessie
Chapter 5: Jordan
Chapter 6: Jordan
Chapter 7: Jessie
Chapter 8: Jordan
Chapter 9: Jessie
Chapter 10: Jordan
Chapter 11: Jessie
Chapter 12: Jordan
Chapter 13: Jessie
Chapter 14: Jessie
Chapter 15: Jordan
Chapter 16: Jessie
Chapter 17: Jordan
Chapter 18: Jessie
Chapter 19: Jordan
Chapter 20: Jessie
Chapter 21: Jordan
Chapter 22: Jordan
Chapter 23: Jessie
Chapter 24: Jessie
Chapter 25: Jordan
Chapter 26: Jessie
Chapter 27: Jessie
Chapter 28: Jessie
Chapter 29: Jordan
Chapter 30: Jessie
Chapter 31: Jordan
Chapter 32: Jessie
Chapter 33: Jessie
Chapter 34: Jordan
Chapter 35: Jessie
One More Shot (Hometown Players #1) Page 27