Crashed

by Elise Faber

  The Gold went all out on Christmas, but she always timed her vacation for then, making sure to be out of sight and mind for the celebrations.

  Actually thinking about it now, the last time she’d received a present from anyone was when Grace had sent her a pair of cozy pajamas for Christmas before she’d passed away. The memory had her fingers faltering, the present resting on the counter as she blinked rapidly.

  Fingers on her chin. “What is it?” Brandon asked gently.

  She should have lied, pretended she was fine. But, for some reason, the words came anyway. “I miss your mom,” she whispered.

  He went quiet and still.

  And then his arms slipped around her, tugged her close. “I know,” he murmured. “I do, too.”

  He held her for a few moments and then stepped away, returning to the pan, putting in the chicken. As it sizzled, he went to the sink and washed up. She focused on the present as he turned to continue with whatever else he was making, and she finally made some progress on the paper, getting all the tape off and then slowly peeling it open.

  “Oh,” she breathed, touching the soft blue ombre scarf that reminded her of the bright cerulean, cloudless sky meeting the turquoise waves of the ocean.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said truthfully, running her finger over the delicate material. “I—” She broke off, unsure what she wanted to ask.

  Okay, that was a lie.

  She knew what she wanted to ask.

  She was just too much of a coward to say it out loud.

  Brandon wiped his hands on a towel, came over, and plucked another present from the basket. “Open this one next.”

  She didn’t hesitate this time, just carefully pulled open the paper, revealing an expensive box of sea salt caramels. “How—”

  He was there again, reaching into the basket, handing her an envelope.

  Fanny didn’t have the same compunction to save envelopes that she had to save pretty wrapping paper, so she tore into it and tugged out the card.

  I have ten years to make up for. This is just a start.

  “I’d planned on making sure you didn’t open that before I left,” he murmured, tugging out the paper that she hadn’t realized was taped inside the card and handing it to her. “But I decided I wanted to see your face when you do.”

  Frowning, she unfolded the printout and felt her mouth drop open.

  It was a reservation to a winery north of them. The same winery they’d planned on getting married at.

  She didn’t know how she felt about that.

  “It’s for two,” he said, moving to the pan and flipping the chicken. “But only if you want it to be. It can just as easily be for one.” He glanced up, but she couldn’t decipher his expression, not when she was so surprised, not when her mind was swirling. “I just thought that you might want to wipe the slate clean and start over. A fresh start. Something we can experience together and—”

  She put her hand up.

  He stopped talking.

  Her mind continued spinning.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I love you.”

  If she’d thought her mind was swirling before, then she had no notion of the idea. Because now her mind was swirling, spinning faster and faster until her head felt like it was going to ratchet right off her neck. Her emotions were all over the place—joy and fear, hope and terror, desire and longing. They were all twisted up, and yet, the one thing she couldn’t stop from coming to the forefront of her mind, the one emotion that overshadowed all the others, was love.

  She had never stopped loving this man.

  But she couldn’t say that. Just the thought of being that vulnerable to him had her throat constricting, her pulse pounding in her veins, sweat breaking out on her upper lips. Her fingers clenched on the paper, her gaze unseeing as she tried not to hyperventilate.

  She didn’t know how long she stood there, shock and panic roiling just beneath her skin, but the next thing she was aware of was warm fingers stroking down her arm, tugging the paper from her fingers, a gentle hand nudging her toward the counter where a plate of food now sat.

  “Eat, honey,” he said. “I’m sorry about the trip. That was too soon.”

  The vise on her lungs eased slightly. “Brandon,” she said. “I don’t think we can start over. I’m not sure a clean slate will ever be possible. There’s just too much between us.”

  “Then we don’t start over, we move forward.”

  She scoffed. “It’s not that easy. I—” She faltered, not knowing what she wanted, whether she wanted to keep moving forward with Brandon, or to cut things off once and for all. To give in to the longing, or to shore up the walls around her and stay safe.

  He cupped the side of her neck. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

  “But—”

  “All of this will hold.”

  Her eyes flew to his. “I—” She shook her head, knew that she wouldn’t come to any conclusions tonight. The answers weren’t simple. They never would be, and . . . she sighed because he was right. All of this would hold. She could take some time to think, to sort out what she wanted to do, or time to admit to herself . . .

  Not. Tonight.

  “Right,” she murmured.

  He smiled, and it filled her stomach with butterflies. Then he lightly pressed on her shoulder, coaxing her onto the stool. “Food.”

  She sat.

  He passed her a fork. She scooped up a bite.

  “That’s my girl,” he murmured, kissing her temple and sitting down next to her. On her left side, because he was a leftie, and sitting there meant that he could lace their hands together and they could both still eat.

  Fanny held her breath, wondering if he remembered.

  But a heartbeat later, she wondered why part of her thought he hadn’t.

  Because his warm, rough fingers intertwined with hers . . . and then he asked her about the show that was paused on her TV.

  They ate and held hands and talked about the show then talked about everything and nothing.

  There wasn’t any angst or stress or painful memories.

  It was just the two of them.

  And for the hour he stayed before kissing her on the forehead, before he wished her a soft, “Good night,” and headed out the front door, Fan felt like she was fourteen again.

  Fourteen and in love with Brandon Cunningham.

  The first game of the season was in less than a week, and the hockey boys sure cleaned up nice.

  She didn’t often get to see them in their big kid clothes.

  And it was a damned good view.

  “You look nice.”

  Fanny jumped as Charlie came up next to her. The man had serious ninja skills, but that wasn’t what had kept Fanny running around the entire afternoon, setting up tall tables for people to gather, talk, and eat (and drink because the more they drank, the more they would spend), hanging decorations, checking in with the caterers and the bartenders, fixing a strand of twinkly lights when they’d gone out. No, that was all Scar and her clipboard filled with never-ending tasks.

  Fan had hauled planters of live plants from the truck outside into the large auditorium, had positioned and re-positioned them until Scar had been satisfied there were enough intimate corners to encourage conversation but not enough to be a hookup zone.

  Hookups did not bring money to the charity.

  There was a long list of things that didn’t bring money to the charity, and Scar had told Fanny all of them.

  When Scar had finally released her from setup duty, Fan all but ran into the bathroom to wash her sweaty face, slap on some deodorant and makeup, pull on her dress, slip into heels.

  Now, with barely ten minutes before guests were supposed to show up, she’d tossed Scar a hundred dollars for her donation and finally felt like she had a moment to breathe and admire the space she’d had a hand in setting up before she had to man her station and serve up drinks.


  All she could say was that Scarlett was a genius.

  Charlie had been commandeered to hang sheer swathes of fabric along the walls—Fan had hung the twinkly lights behind, fussing with them until Scar had been happy. Combined with the tables and flowers and plants, not to mention, even more strands of lights, the entire space seemed otherworldly.

  A fairy garden brought to life.

  And if Scar had her way, there would be plenty of revelry, enough anyway to open those pocketbooks.

  “You look nice yourself,” she told Charlie, tearing her gaze away from the decor, from where the guys were strolling through the door and positioning themselves at the various tables, readying to schmooze and get that money.

  It was true—the whole looking nice thing.

  Charlie had done some changing of his own, swapping the jeans and tee for a sleek black suit, his crisp white shirt making his skin look tan and strokable. The fit was tight, showing off the lean strength of his shoulders and thighs.

  He smiled at her perusal.

  And she narrowed her eyes in return. He knew just how attractive he was.

  Too bad she couldn’t appreciate it fully. He was like a lovely piece of artwork, but he didn’t set her blood on fire.

  “What job does Scar have you doing?” she asked.

  “Manning the silent auction,” he said. “You?”

  “Bartend—” Fan started to answer him, but then her skin began prickling, her gaze drawn back to the door.

  To the man walking through the door.

  Sweet baby Jesus, now that was a suit.

  If she’d thought that Charlie’s fit him like a glove then Brandon’s . . . hell, he might as well be naked for how well it was tailored. She could see the outline of his thighs, his torso, his arms, his abs—

  He turned to say something to Kaydon, and she nearly groaned at the way the material hugged his ass.

  She loved his ass.

  She had loved it when they were together, loved looking at it, or even grinning as she gave it a slight smack when he went by. Because he was hers and she could touch him whenever she wanted, but she had especially loved holding on to it when he plunged deep inside her, gripping him tight so he could grind against her clit and—

  Fan blinked, forced her gaze away, definitely not feeling fourteen any longer.

  No, she was feeling like a woman—all woman—and that woman wanted the man who’d bought her favorite treat—the sea salt caramels—her favorite flowers—the sunflowers. The man who gifted the beautiful scarf to remind her of the ocean and the peace she felt there. The man who’d cooked for her and whose body she could taste every inch of while stripping that sexy as hell suit off—

  Charlie shifted next to her, breaking her sexual haze. “Ah.”

  “What?”

  His gaze flickered from her face and deliberately slid to where Brandon had spotted them and was approaching, his expression falling decidedly on the side of displeased. A coil of heat slid through her as she remembered the hall, him telling her to get rid of Charlie. She wouldn’t, of course. She liked Charlie and had spent enough time living her own life to ignore orders from a man, even if that man was Brandon. “That’s the complicated ex.”

  Mouth dropping open, she tore her gaze from Brandon and turned to Charlie. “That’s not—”

  Charlie leveled a glance at her. “I thought we were friends now.”

  “We are.”

  “Then save that bullshit for someone else.”

  Her lips pressed flat, shoulders falling slightly, and she sighed, admitted. “Fine. He’s the complication.”

  Before Brandon reached them, Scarlett came up, snagging his arm and dragging him to a halt as she jabbered his ear off. Brandon nodded, apparently listening. But his eyes were on Fanny . . . and Charlie, fury flaring across his face as he looked at the two of them standing close together.

  “Damn, he’s scary,” Charlie muttered, grinning at her. “So, why is he complicated?”

  Another sigh. “It’s too complicated to get into.”

  “Promise to tell me over tequila shots and nachos?” he asked.

  Shuddering, she said, “No tequila. Not ever.”

  “Rum?”

  “With nachos?”

  His smile didn’t fade. “Obviously.”

  “Well, then,” she said. “That I can do.”

  “Good.” He tugged a lock of her hair. “I’ll hold you to that.” He started to step back then glanced over his shoulder, moved close, and bent so that his next words puffed against the shell of her ear. “For the record, given the way he looks at you and his obvious wish to murder me for being this close to you, I say get over complicated and throw the man a bone.”

  “I—”

  “Because I think a man like that could give you a good one.”

  Her mouth fell open again, and hell, that was becoming a habit.

  One that continued when he straightened, winked, said, “I’m bi, but even if I wasn’t, I could appreciate the scenery.” He kissed her cheek, her damn jaw having dropped open again, and disappeared.

  It only took her a moment to realize why.

  Brandon.

  As in, Brandon was there, in front of her, his fury radiating off him, forcing the space to go taut, her skin to prickle, her pussy . . . to get wet.

  Maybe it was wrong, but she really, really liked it when Brandon got all possessive.

  It was a new side of him, and that newness had her thinking that a future might be possible, that they might be able to discover new things about each other, build something fresh and unmarred and . . . them.

  He crossed his arms.

  She found herself leaning close, not missing when his eyes dipped, dropping to the deep V of her dress, to the cleavage that was on full display—part because Scar had said it would help her with the whole selling booze and thus people getting drunker and spending more money thing, but also because Fanny liked herself, liked her body, and she didn’t mind showing off the curves she had.

  Even if Brandon thought she was too thin.

  Her breasts brushed against his chest as she rose on tiptoe, her mouth coming very close to his, bypassing it at the last moment before she stretched farther and whispered in his ear, “You still think I’m too skinny?”

  His breath shot out of him in a whoosh, his fingers came to her hips, but before he could get a good grip, she spun away and walked to her station, saying over her shoulder, “Oh, by the way, you look damned good in that suit.”

  And if there was a bit of sway in her hips as she did so, then . . . there was a bit of sway in her hips.

  The man had opened the door.

  He’d shown her the possibilities.

  He’d made her wonder and hope that he’d be there to catch her if she fell.

  Well, he’d better have his glove ready because she was thinking she might finally be ready to leap.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brandon

  Holy hell, what had he unleashed?

  It took every bit of self-control he possessed to not follow after her, to not chase her down, toss her over his shoulder, and find out if that little display of flirting meant what he hoped to fuck it did.

  Was she going to give him a chance to win her back?

  She slipped behind a bartending station, and he moved to it, not caring that Scarlett had ordered him to make the rounds.

  He didn’t give a fuck about the charity, not when Fanny was there. His gaze dipped when she bent to scoop up some ice, giving him a full view down her dress, one he enjoyed, but one that also made him want to tear off his jacket and wrap it around her so no one else could see her breasts encased in black silk.

  Then she straightened and plunked a glass in front of him.

  Brandon blinked. “A Manhattan?” he asked after lifting the drink to his lips and taking a sip.

  “Is it still your favorite?”

  His mouth curved. “Yeah, baby, it is.” He reached over the bar top
and snagged her hand. “Does you talking to me mean that . . .”

  “That I’m going to give us another chance?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “No.”

  His heart sank.

  “But it means I’m considering it.” She slipped her hand away, turned to smile at a woman who came up for a drink. “Especially, if you keep dressing like that.”

  Hope bloomed in his chest.

  She turned and helped the woman, whipping up drinks like she belonged behind the bar.

  “How’d you get so good at slinging drinks?” he asked.

  Fan measured off a shot of vodka and began mixing it with cranberry juice, pouring both into a martini glass and accepting the cash from the woman. She stuffed it into a jar and then turned back to him. “When the tour ended, I bartended before my skating business took off.” A shrug. “It was fun, and I like talking to people. Plus, I learned how to mix a lot of drinks.” She winked. “I’m really fun at parties.”

  “I know you are.”

  Just as he knew that this was the Fanny he remembered. Beautiful and bright and happy. But more settled, comfortable in her own skin, and able to strike a mean conversation.

  All that press, and he supposed, also the bartending made it so she didn’t skip a beat as more people made their way to the bar, and she started pulling glasses and pouring liquor nearly as fast and furious as her words came. She charmed and chatted and pretty soon, there was a line of customers at her station.

  She glanced at him—a sly look out of the corner of her eye—and said, “You going to stand there staring all night? Or you going to get back here and help?”

  More hope.

  He drained his glass, slipped behind the bar, and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, loving that she didn’t push him away, loving the scent of her, loving . . . her.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “You take care of wine and beer,” she said, nodding at the bottles behind them. “I’ll do the rest.”