by Elise Faber
Nirvana in her blood.
The man whom she loved surrounding her, extending a hand to escort her back into reality, even as he found his own climax.
Her name was on his tongue, his body was heavy on top of hers.
But only for a moment.
Then he rolled them to their sides, their chests heaving, their limbs heavy and slick with sweat, and he ran his fingers lightly through her hair.
She summoned some sort of inhuman strength to open her mouth. “I—”
Her stomach growled.
Not just growled, but erupted, shattering the peace. Brandon propped himself up on his elbow, his hair a mess, his eyes warm and layered with humor. “Hungry?”
She didn’t get a chance to reply before he tugged his T-shirt over her head, reached for the basket, and began plying her with food.
Her favorites, of course.
Because it was Brandon.
Because she knew he’d take care of her.
They sat on that blanket, next to the pond, watching the sun crawl across the sky, eating the food he’d stashed out here, talking about the past, the present, the future, and just . . . being together
It was perfect.
The absolute most perfect day of her life.
Later that week, after she’d been fed and pampered all weekend (and one might say, thoroughly fucked), they’d returned to their new reality.
But that reality was pretty damned great.
Because Brandon was in it.
Because she was finally allowing herself to live it.
“Want some?”
She blinked, knowing she had a sappy smile on her face, but it was impossible to stifle. Not when she was so damned happy. He’d come to the arena tonight, and though she was working, doing some in-game evaluations of the players, he’d seemed to make it his job to make sure she’d eaten enough calories to fuel both teams down there on the ice.
Taking care of her.
She scooped up a hand of buttery popcorn and mock glared at him. “Still think I’m too thin?” she asked before shoving it into her mouth.
He nuzzled her throat as he dropped into the seat next to her. “I’m an asshole.”
“Yes,” she teased. “An asshole who brings me food and scarves, and takes me on weekends away. Who gives me orgasms, and hooks me up with a seat in a fancy box so I can work, all while practically waiting on me hand and foot.” She scooped up another handful. “Yup. You’re a real asshole.”
His lips twitched. “Glad we’re in agreement.” He leaned close and glanced down at her tablet. She had a notebook whose pages were scrawled with her shorthand, all color-coded. “What are you looking for?”
“Hmm?” She’d gotten lost in his eyes, in the stubble on the strong lines of his jaw.
He pointed to a column on the page. “I’ve been watching you take notes all game”—it was now final intermission between the second and third periods—“so, what are you tracking?”
She glanced from him to the page then back to him. “You really want to know?”
He lifted a brow but didn’t deem to answer.
Probably, because it was a stupid question. Okay, it was definitely a stupid question. When had he ever given her any indication that he didn’t want to know about her? (And no, she wasn’t including during the lost memory years.)
“I use this for the video that Dani sends me,” she said, nodding toward the tablet, “but most of that is done after the game because she and her assistants are too busy pulling stuff for the other coaches, and occasionally she’s reviewing goals—making sure they’re good, or deciding if the on-ice coaches should challenge one that was scored on the team.”
“And the notebook?”
“I work with most of the guys in the offseason, tuning up where necessary, making sure their conditioning is solid and prepped for game play.” Pride shimmied through her. She liked what she’d built, was happy with what she was doing. “That offseason time isn’t just with the Gold. Other players from the league come and see me for private lessons. This”—she nodded at the notebook—“is my little black book. I keep track of the things we’re working on, add any new bad habits that they might pick up, all in my patented shorthand.”
He grinned. “Chicken scratch is more like it.”
“Also that,” she allowed. “So anyway, it just helps me stay on track, and though I have a program the team had created for me to track progress, I’ve found that my color-coded notebook works better for my brain.”
“Tell me about the columns.”
She kept glancing at him as she explained her system and the color coding, trying to gauge if he’d lost interest in what she was telling him. Typically, this was where people lost their fight in staying interested and their eyes glazed over.
But he was engaged and asked questions that told her he was paying attention.
Which made her feel . . .
Well, it had her leaning up and kissing him soundly on the lips. “I love you.”
It made her love him even more.
He ran his thumb along her jaw. “So, tonight is just a check-in?”
“Sort of,” she said. “You know I usually work with the whole team during the preseason”—he’d seen her at the practice facility—“but I keep track of guys like Kay, for instance. I want to make sure he’s not skating in a way that might exacerbate his injury. And more than that, that he’s not picking up bad habits throughout the season.” She sighed and shook her head. “Though they do always seem to come back to the ice with them after every break. They’re like that Whack-a-Mole game. The moment I fix one, there’s another, and then when someone is traded or a rookie joins the roster, I have to evaluate them and then—”
She cut herself off.
“Anyway, that’s most of it.”
“Fan.” He lifted a brow. “We doing this again?”
“I—” She sighed. “You’re not bored.” He shook his head, causing her heart to flutter. “Brandon?”
His fingers found hers, squeezed. “Yeah, baby?”
“Be patient with me,” she said. “I’ve spent a decade locking down the part of me that wanted a romantic relationship with someone.”
Another squeeze, but no hesitation when he said, “Always.” He leaned close, brushed a kiss over her cheek. “I’ll just have to keep reminding you.”
“Will that reminding involve your tongue?”
A wicked smile. “Yes.”
“Will it involve your cock?”
His chuckle ruffled her hair. “Yes, love.”
“I’m okay with that.”
They’d both started laughing when a cry rang out behind them. Used to the children of the Gold running around—screaming, tears, and joy all mixed together and sometimes impossible to tease apart—she set down her tablet and notebook and stood.
Becca—the wife of Brandon’s boss, Devon—was holding their son, rocking back and forth, while the little boy cried.
“Sorry,” she called. “It’s this guy’s bedtime.”
Fanny was moving before she processed it, closing the distance between them and offering, “Want me to take him for a minute?”
Devon had been pulled out for a quick phone call, even though this was only supposed to be a working night for Fanny—or at least, that was how Brandon had sold the time in the box. She’d protested bringing her work to a situation that was supposed to be for fun, but . . . Brandon was convincing.
So, instead of being in the Gold box or bugging Dani in the video suite, she was here.
With Becca, who was looking exhausted and very pregnant and . . . well, she had two arms, didn’t she? And she’d held more than her fair share of kiddos since her tenure with the team. The halls and family suite were practically crawling with them.
“Do you mind?” Becca asked. “I was just trying to pack up our stuff, but he hit the wall.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I minded,” she said, taking a page from Brandon’s book—who she
felt approach her shoulder, his fingers lightly grazing her nape, his chuckle in her hair.
“Well, then”—Becca passed Jasper over—“thank you.”
The little boy was strongly in toddler mode, which meant that trying to hold him when he was tired and wanting to run around was like trying to wrestle a crocodile.
But Fan was older and stronger, and she’d wrestled more than a few kids off the ice in her day.
She took a little walk around the box with Jasper, pointing out all the exciting things, using her teacher voice that distracted kids who were scared or those who wanted anything but what she was asking them to do. By the time they were on their second circuit of the space, Jasper was less crocodile and more . . . angry panda?
Okay, she didn’t know.
He wasn’t actively crying or trying to launch out of her arms, at least.
“Do you want kids?” Becca asked quietly.
Fan blinked and rotated away from the painting that had the toddler’s attention. Jasper caught sight of his mama and immediately wanted her, so Fanny passed him over. “Yes,” she said, her throat going a little tight when Jasper cuddled close and held tight to his mommy’s neck. “I’ve always wanted kids. Hopefully, I’ll—”
The buzzer rang, signaling the teams coming out, the same time Dev came back into the suite after finishing his call.
Fanny hurried to extend her thanks and say her goodbyes before heading back to her chair and her notebook.
She slipped past Brandon, and his face was drawn, worry written into the lines around his eyes.
“Are you—?” She started to turn back, but that worry was gone, his normal smile in place, as he shook Devon’s hand and said his own goodbyes.
She hesitated for a moment, wanting to make sure he was okay, but the whistle blew.
She needed to do her job.
One more look to make sure that he was all right, another to make sure his expression was back to normal.
Then she moved to her chair, telling herself that she’d imagined the look.
And that decision was catastrophic.
“Hey, would you mind sharing the picture they took of us at the winery?” she asked as Brandon unbuttoned the rest of his shirt.
He was hopping into the shower after having spent the day at a photo shoot with Kaydon.
That photo shoot had unexpectedly been moved to the beach after a pipe had burst at the first location, and his suit was not conducive to ocean air and sand. So, she’d met him here at his house instead of the restaurant so he could clean up.
She thought he looked good enough to eat, no cleaning necessary.
His hair was windblown, the tops of his cheeks slightly pink, and his lips were a little chapped.
Surfer Brandon . . . in a suit.
Ha.
But that was why he was showering. They had reservations at the fancy restaurant he had originally booked the night after the raffle, and Surfer Brandon wasn’t the Brandon he wanted to be for dinner.
Shame for her.
Especially since he’d banned her from getting in the shower with him.
“Do you know what kind of favor I had to pull the first time to get this reservation?” he’d said, nudging her back when she drifted close and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Let alone the second?”
“No,” she said, coming close again and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I don’t care.”
He smelled like the ocean and sunlight, and she wanted to eat him up.
Another nudge back. “I’m taking you to dinner.”
Fanny pursed her lips as she stared at him. “Or you could just take me?”
He’d groaned and dropped his head. “You’re killing me, baby.” His lips were a hair’s breadth away, and he kissed her until she’d become a lump of need and desire, and then had scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed.
She’d thought she won.
But he’d merely dropped her on his mattress and backed away, pausing only to toe off his shoes and socks and tug off his tie.
God, why was that so sexy?
Though not as sexy as him parting the fabric of his shirt, revealing smooth tan skin below as she watched, still on the bed. It was like her private strip show, and she had to say that she was kind of into it. Especially when he unbuttoned his slacks and stepped out of them and there was so much tempting skin on display that she almost forgot she’d asked him a question.
“Sure,” he said, nodding to the dresser that took up most of the wall by the bathroom. “It’s right here. The code is 1-9-2-2.”
Aw.
Those were the dates of their birthdays.
He noticed her face, and his own expression softened. “Told you, I remembered.”
“Want to come over and show me what you remembered?”
Laughter in his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And horny.”
More laughter, though this time it was bubbling up his throat and filling the air, and God, she loved that sound, loved that she could make him make that sound. Then he turned for the bathroom and she heard the lock clicking in place.
“You’re not going to bring it to me?” she called.
“Nope.” A beat. “Because if I do, we won’t make it to dinner.”
She pouted . . . for just a moment.
Then the shower came on, and she stopped her pouting, getting up and fussing with her dress—not the sexy black one from before, but a longer midnight blue one that hit just above the knee—in front of the mirror in Brandon’s bedroom. She’d paired it with a pair of sexy heels that she could actually walk in and wouldn’t be cursing if she had to stand in them for a fair amount of time.
And underneath . . . well, if Brandon knew what was beneath the silk, he wouldn’t have been in that shower.
It was expensive.
It was skimpy.
It was sexy as hell.
Satisfied the bed toss hadn’t messed up her hair or outfit, she headed to the dresser, snagged Brandon’s phone, and then typed in 1-9-2-2. She’d text the pic to herself and then she would get it printed. She already had a plan to put it in the empty space by the entryway so that she could see it every time she came home.
It was a great picture, reminiscent of that one from nearly two decades before.
Their arms around each other, smiles on their mouths, laughter and love in their eyes, and the employee from the winery had taken it at the absolute perfect moment.
Probably because they’d spent the afternoon making love outside at the secluded pond, and she’d been half-delirious from orgasms. Either that or filled with shock that they’d somehow managed so much outside naked time without getting caught.
She started to pull up the photo as she moved to grab her purse but tripped over the edge of the rug. Stumbling, his cell nearly flying from her hands, her fingers slipped on the screen, and she ended up jabbing the voicemail icon instead.
“Shit,” she muttered, straightening herself—and the skirt of her dress—and tapping the screen to exit back to the photos section, but then her eyes caught on the text of the voicemail transcript she’d accidentally started playing.
This is Dr. Lyon. I have the results . . . Please give me a call right away. It’s imperative we make some decisions . . .
Her fingers were frozen.
No, every part of her was frozen.
Results. Call. Imperative. Decisions.
Fuck. Was she losing him already?
She’d only just gotten him back and—her hands shook as she set the cell back on the dresser—and now—
Her eyes slid closed. She should . . .
Talk to him. Knock on the door, demand he let her in and ask that he explain how he’d gone from cured to results and imperative decisions.
But . . . she couldn’t breathe.
Black was intruding on the edges of her vision, and she stumbled again, this time into the dresser. Her hand came in contact with cool wood, and then she wasn’t think
ing about talking. She was darting out of the bedroom, sprinting down the hall.
She was out the front door.
She was in her car.
She was driving. Far, far away.
Chapter Eighteen
Brandon
He showered in record time, not trusting Fan to stay in the bedroom.
He half expected her to pick the lock and join him.
But she hadn’t.
And even though he really wanted to take her to the restaurant—she deserved so much, not the least of which was a nice meal at a fancy place, no matter how many favors he had to call in—he could admit that he felt a little disappointed.
Wet, slick Fanny would never be resistible.
Hell, it had nearly killed him to not climb into bed with her and to shower instead.
Sighing, he thrust a hand through his hair—which was as much styling as he did nowadays—and then wrapped his towel around his waist.
Then he unlocked the bathroom door and moved into the bedroom.
His cell was on his dresser, hers was next to it.
But Fan wasn’t anywhere in sight.
“Baby?” he called, yanking open a drawer and stepping into his underwear. He’d expected to have to fend her off when he came out. But maybe she’d decided to give them both a break and go downstairs.
He tugged up a fresh pair of slacks then buttoned on a blue shirt that would match Fanny’s gorgeous dress.
Shoes and socks. His phone in his pocket.
“Fan?” he called again. Maybe she’d taken a call.
No, dumbass, her phone was right next to his. He grabbed hers, too, stuck it in his pocket. Maybe she’d gone out back.
But she wasn’t there either.
Nor was she on the couch, having fallen asleep.
Not in the kitchen or the other bathroom. Not in his office reading a book. Not . . . anywhere.
He opened the front door almost robotically, and his heart sank when he saw her car wasn’t in the driveway.