Chapter 19

It's later than I want it to be when I'm pushing into the house, body sore and aching.

Ego smarting.

Because Coach—who hadn't been on the ice for my fist fight with Pat—had seen the video.

And he hadn't been happy.

At all.

My ass still stings from the verbal beatdown.

And Pat, fucking cancer in the locker room with his idiotic minion, Duncan, at his side, had sat in the other chairs in the conference room smirking at me as Duncan supported his bullshit story. Saying that I'd acted unprovoked and taken it too far (just because Pat, the fuck, had both eyes blackened and a broken nose to my single shiner).

Smirking while my ass was handed to me.

Over and over again.

Fun times.

I hadn't thought the post-practice meeting was going to be great.

But I hadn't thought that it was going to involve the two assholes spinning a story and barely holding back laughter when Coach bought it, hook, line, and sinker, and proceeded to ream into me.

Fun fun.

If I'd known we needed to bring in witnesses, I would have accepted Cam or Rome's offers to come with me.

Except, Cam's family is in town and they live on the opposite coast. I'm not going to keep him when he wants to soak up as much time as possible.

And Rome wanted to get back to Chrissy—I'm not going to fuck with their free time, not when we have far too little of that during the season already.

I know plenty about how a lack of time together can make relationships implode.

My temple pulses with a burst of pain.

Because fuck do I ever know about how this job can tear people apart.

You're not your dad. You can't make this work.

Another time. Another relationship. Another woman.

I sigh and hang my keys on the row of hooks just inside the door, unzip my Eagle-branded jacket and hang it above them.

I didn't ask my friends to come with me because…it was my fuck up.

My shit to deal with.

"Stupid," I mutter, knowing that I wouldn't let that slide with Rome—that he and I have been through enough now to start building lines of communication…and that means calling bullshit on each other when necessary.

But I'm not ready for him to call bullshit on me now, especially with Rory in my house, with how much I want her…with all the memories that's churning up.

I grind my teeth together.

Table that shit.

My mom is here.

Rory is here.

I can focus on that and the potential shitstorm my newfound engagement with Rory might bring, can focus on the impending matchmaking that will happen if my mom finds out it's a farce.

Better that than the bullshit in my head.

Better that then?—

Soft music reaches my ears and all thoughts of relationships imploding and my mom's horrible matchmaking attempts (and how the women she sets me up with have a penchant for stealing my stuff and showing up unannounced at my door) fades.

Because…

Music is playing in my kitchen, drawing me down the hall like a siren's call.

It's not my mom's music, isn't the random mix of 80s metal and 90s rap. Isn't a track that came far before me and my siblings' time, nor is it one of the poppy songs she mixes in that we love to give her a hard time about.

It's a newer ballad, a soft and sweet song about love that I've heard Chrissy play at her house more than once, singing along softly as she cooks or handles one of her rescue cats.

And Rory's usually singing alongside her.

She's singing today too, I see as I turn the corner and look into the kitchen. Her cell is on the island, the music slightly tinny from its speaker. And Rory…

My heart skips a beat.

She's dancing.

Hips moving in a tempting rhythm that has my cock growing hard, my heart skipping a beat, my hands clenching into fists, needing to touch.

But instead…I watch.

I wait.

She's fucking beautiful as her body twists and turns in a sensuous rhythm. I can almost taste her on my tongue, almost feel those soft curves beneath my palms. There's cinnamon and sugar in the air, and the soft floral scent of her shampoo. Her laptop's open on the island. My mom's pie on the far counter. A pot simmers on the stove.

Domestic.

The entire scene is domestic, and my heart thrums, the beauty of coming home and seeing this, seeing Rory like this, embedding itself into my soul.

Beautiful.

Absolutely fucking perfect.

"…and that's why I love you…" she croons quietly, hands moving along her sides, ribs and feet clearly not bothering her any longer. She raises her arms, twines them over her head. "Forever and always…"

I don't realize I've moved.

Not until I capture her hand in mine, lacing my fingers through hers as I draw her back against me.

She gasps, head jerking up, eyes coming to mine, and then I feel it?—

She melts against me, her back to my front, her fingers softening, head dropping back against my shoulder.

And that lands right beside the vision of her dancing alone.

Slowly, I lower my arm, drawing hers down with it, wrapping both of mine around her middle, bringing her even closer against me. My body starts swaying, matching the movements she'd been making just moments before, mirroring the song's rhythm.

It's instinctual and impossible to resist.

We rock together through the chorus and then I turn her during the verse, pressing her front to mine, encircling her in my arms, tucking her head beneath my chin.

Cinnamon and sugar and flowers.

Soft and sweet and cautious.

Her hand stays above my chest for several long moments before it settles above my heart. "Your heart is racing," she murmurs, barely audible over the music, over the song winding down.

"Because I'm holding a beautiful woman in my arms," I tell her, smoothing my hand up her back, drawing her closer. So close that I can feel the sweet kiss of her breath on my throat, that my beard catches on the silken blond strands of her hair, that I'm drunk on her presence.

My words have her fingertips pressing into my flesh, her breath catching. "You've dated plenty of beautiful women," she whispers.

"I haven't dated you."

"Not dated," she teases. "Just put a ring on my finger. Or not," she adds lightly, lifting her left hand with her naked finger and laughing quietly, and the sound of that coats my soul in the sparkling beauty of her.

Rory, bright and beautiful despite everything.

Rory, a woman I'm scared to want.

But who I do—something that increases with every heartbeat.

And still, I don't let her go.

I hold her, rotating slowly, the music filling the room even though I barely hear it. I'm focused on her.

Every breath.

The way the lights overhead glint off her hair.

The scent of flowers drifting off her skin.

The cinnamon and sugar of the pie in the air.

The soft bite of her nails into my chest. The way her pelvis rocks against mine, reminding me of this morning.

The feel of her body against mine.

The slick heat of her on my tongue.

The clasp of her around my fingers.

The sound of my name on her lips as she came.

My cock stirs and I draw her even closer, burying my face in her hair, knowing I'm not being the least bit sly when I inhale deeply, bringing the intoxicating scent of her into my lungs.

Holding it as close as she is to me.

Thankfully, she doesn't comment, just melts against me, just lets me hold her.

But eventually, the ballad fades out, transitions into an upbeat pop number and we slow our movements, pull apart. "Speaking of rings," I say as I reach into my pocket, pull out the box I'd picked up on the way home.

Her mouth drops open. "What?—?"

"My mom won't believe it without a ring," I tell her, though my heart is beating strangely fast. Probably because that feels like a prevarication, a convenient excuse to have bought her something nice for no reason except…that I wanted to. "And I figured you wouldn't want to wear your old one."

That makes her shudder and I know I made the right call.

Know that it wasn't the bullshit that's been swirling in my head that made me pull over, made me stop and look in the window of the jewelry shop.

Made me buy the ring.

It was her.

I place the box in her hand and she holds it for a long moment before opening the lid.

Then stills, plump pink lips parting in surprise.

"Okay?" I ask softly.

She doesn't move—except for her eyes. Those flick up and meet mine. "Yeah," she whispers. "It's more than okay."

"Good," I say, knowing I should come up with something better, something more meaningful.

But it's all I can do to keep my hands steady as I slip the ring from the black velvet interior of the box, as I settle it on her finger.

It catches slightly on her knuckle before I manage to slip it over, not stopping until it sits at the base of her ring finger.

"Perfect fit," she whispers.

Every thought in my mind shatters, scattering this way and that, panic whipping through me, all calm sent spinning by a miniature tornado.

But then I catch sight of that ring glittering in the overhead lights…

And everything settles.

Perfect fit.