EPILOGUE

DANE- FIVE MONTHS LATER

Lettie: Good morning, slacker. Waffles or Pancakes?

Me: Morning, baby. Just ran five miles. Pancakes.

Lettie: I knew you would say pancakes. How can you not like the crispness of a waffle?

Me: I like soft things like your…

Lettie: I'm sore from riding.

Me: Is this one of those times you need me to take the edge off?

Lettie: Am I that transparent?

Me: Yes, but like always, I'm happy to oblige. When will you be back to the hotel?

Lettie: An hour.

Me: I'll be ready. Doing tongue exercises now to make sure I'm on my game.

Lettie: Stop.

Me: Never.

W hen Lettie gets back to the hotel, all of our friends are waiting, including Evy, Logan, and Harper's baby girl. She's almost nine months old, and she's the cutest baby I've ever seen. She has the skin coloring of a surfer like Logan and caramel-colored eyes like Harper, and a smile that radiates happiness.

Yesterday, Lettie competed at the Olympic Trials in front of all of our best friends, and she had a flawless ride—under the time allotment with no faults and came in first place. She's now the American favorite to medal in Show Jumping. Jasper and his wife have become friends, and his use of biometrics and data analysis has put Lettie in the top of her field. The news crew filmed the historic moment and promised to send me the raw footage since they couldn't show everything in their television piece.

We all enjoy a fancy, late lunch on top of the Peachtree Tower. It's the first time we've all been able to take a trip together and it has been a whirlwind of excitement.

Now we're at a Georgia Jets hockey game. Bryce Wynward is their starting center, former Kentucky Stallion and a good friend of Reed, Flynn, Logan, and Hagan. The rest of us know him but not as well.

We're goi ng from golf claps at the Olympic trials to drunk people shouting, "Fight."

The Jets arena is packed. Who knew hockey was becoming so big in the South?

They announce the starting lineup, and the fans roar when rookie Bryce Wynward's name is called. It's round one of the playoffs, game four. If they win, they will have swept the Las Vegas Gamblers.

As the puck drops, the electricity zips through the crowd. Wynward wastes no time in making his presence felt on the ice. Wynward's quick stick and unmatched speed effortlessly maneuvers past the opposing team's defense, controlling the puck. With a swift snap of his wrist, the puck soars into the net, scoring the first goal of the game for the Jets.

Stallion pride consumes us as all of us are Stallions, and we chant, "Stallions" in honor of Wynward scoring and eventually scoring once more with an assist on his stat sheet.

But when we go to a nightclub after the game, Logan, Harper, and Evy go back to the hotel. And Bryce Wynward's controlled demeanor on the ice is anything but off the ice. He's a player. Three women surround him, running their fingers through his blonde hair and his stereotypical Nordic features.

"Let's dance," Lettie urges the group. Wynward and his women follow us as well as Presley, Flynn, Hagan, and Adalee.

As the techno music thumps through my veins, the glimmer in Lettie's eyes washes over me. The pure look of lust and love. We let the music guide our movements, feeling al ive and carefree. I don't consider this dancing, but I'm good at grinding against Lettie. Neither of us listen to this genre of music, but I'm enjoying this with Lettie. I recognize there's so much more to experience with her, despite knowing her for most of my life.

Flynn and Presley dance, hooked together like it's a slow dance. Adalee's feet are off the floor, as Hagan spins her around, but my eyes are drawn to Bryce Wynward and how he leaves the three women. I follow his line of sight that ends on a redhead. In three confident strides, he stands in front of her, and his hands fall to the hips of a curvaceous woman and his energy changes. His sole focus is on the ruby-haired free spirit.

I can't imagine meeting Lettie anywhere but the field that separates our homes. Would we have fallen in love if we met in a nightclub?

Lettie screams in my ear, "Let's go sit. I need some water."

I tap Hagan, Flynn, and Wynward and point to the VIP section that Wynward secured.

A few minutes later, we're enjoying the view from the second floor. The strobe lights flicker and flash through the club, casting a hypnotic glow over the crowd. As electrifying and fun as this is, I would rather be at the hotel, balls deep inside Lettie. But my beautiful fiancée loves to let loose, and I love watching her.

After she downs a bottle of water, Wynward plops down on the couch and brings the redhead down on his lap. Her ivory dress is short and tight, and I watch Wynward' s hands linger up her leg.

Lettie yells over the music, "I'm Lettie, and this is Dane. What's your name?"

The redhead grins. "Rusti."

Obviously, a fake name. Why wouldn't she want the hockey phenom to know her real name?

When the clock strikes one in the morning, Lettie, Hagan, Adalee, and I head back to the hotel, leaving Flynn, Presley, Reed, and Brooke to catch up with Bryce Wynward and Rusti.

Lettie has to train tomorrow morning. Jasper wants her to stay in a routine, and when we get back to the hotel, she says, "I won't be able to sleep. I can still feel that music invading my body."

"I know that look. You want me to invade your body?" I saunter over and pull her shirt over her head, kissing the swell of her breast, rising on every inhale.

"Yes, please."

"So polite."

A seductive smile tips her lips, and her eyes sparkle. "I'll chant your name."

My lips skim down her belly and push down her skirt, pressing my lips just above her pelvic bone, slipping my fingers under her silky panties that are already soaked with arousal. "I can't deny you. I promised you that if you asked, I would do anything for you."

And I do ev erything she asks and even more of what she doesn't—celebrating Elizabeth "Lettie" Scott punching her ticket to the Olympics.

No matter what the world calls her, I'll call her my wife and eventually our children will call her Mom.