“Oh yes. He’s a total melted marshmallow under that tough NHL coach hat. Calls his niece Sweet, calls me Cutie.”
“That’s so cute,” she cooed.
“I know, right?”
We ended the call soon after.
My besties and my sister—my hype girls—were all happy for me. Their squeals, jokes, and disbelief washed over me in waves. I laughed throughout the day at random things, completely blissed out. This was really happening. I was to marry Sean. Even if I tried, I couldn’t shrink from that for a second. My single days were officially, gloriously over.
Epilogue
“No bad behavior today,” I whispered, straddling Sean with both hands splayed across his bare chest. “If you so much as try, you’re getting unpredictable behavior, and I’m not wearing pants, so don’t test me.”
His low morning laugh rumbled under my palm. “A bossy, butt-naked Cutie is the best way to wake up,” he purred.
“Flattery won’t save you,” I said, fighting a grin as heat curled under my skin.
He was dangerous like this—sleep-warm, sexy, amused. I gave him a warning kiss, then climbed off the bed, snagging his robe from the floor. He didn’t take his eyes off me as I tied the belt and padded barefoot toward the door.
“So sexy,” he murmured.
I flashed a grin over my shoulder. “You’re lucky it’s your birthday, Coach Murphy.”
It was September 12th. Sean turned forty-one today, and I was making him breakfast. That was what wives did right?
Wife.That word always sent a buzz through me. A happy, dizzying buzz.
In the kitchen, sunlight spilled across the counters, casting soft gold over the hush. The house held that gentle stillness only morning could offer. I cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked gently, letting the rhythm center me. My rustic omelet with tomatoes, onion, and a little cheddar had quickly become Sean’s favorite breakfast.
The same one I made the morning of the Cup in our hotel suite.
I flipped the bacon, topped a lemon tart with whipped cream, and garnished a glass of berry juice with a mint leaf. Then, I washed my hands slowly, thumbs brushing over my rings—the sapphire he’d slipped on my finger that night and the band he’d hunted down to match it, even though it hadn’t been easy.
Tray balanced in my hands, I walked toward the back porch and nudged the door open with my hip.
Sean sat up on the lounge chair, hair rumpled, his eyes dark with that lazy just-woke-up birthday smolder. He didn’t say a word as he took me in. My cheeks heated, and I rolled my eyes. The man could charm the socks off a statue, and clearly, my robe was next on his list.
“You said to behave properly. You didn’t say stop checking you out,” he said, grinning.
“Okay, Romeo. Hungry?”
“Very.”
He took the tray, set it beside him, then pulled me against his bare chest. Just like that, the man who made my heart poundlike playoff overtime was at it again. Forget butterflies—a whole colony of mockingbirds flapped in my stomach as he kissed me.
When I finally pulled away, my breath came in slow, stunned pieces. Was it even legal to be this ridiculously happy before 10 a.m.?
“Your breakfast,” I said.
His lips hovered over mine. “Kissing you and seeing you in my robe? Best birthday gift ever.” He turned to the tray. “But this can’t go to waste.”
“I love how you’ve got your priorities straight. I’m perfectly fine being number one.”
He chuckled and dug in.
I curled up, legs tucked under me on the cushion next to him.
“You know,” he said between bites, “that morning at the hotel, you made this exact omelet. Then we won the Cup.”
