Over a kiss. What am I? Fifteen?
Understanding washes over Gage’s face and his eyes soften. He strokes his thumb along my cheekbone. “That’s okay. Talk to me.”
He sits back in his chair but not before he grips the underside of mine and tugs me closer to him.
“I threw a lot at you,” he offers with a thread of apology wrapped into his tone. “It’s your turn. Tell me what you’re freaking out about.”
“I…” I close my eyes, trying to put my thoughts in a coherent order. They spin relentlessly, making me dizzy. “I’ve been alone for a long time.”
“Too long,” he agrees.
At my look, he presses his lips together and pretends to zip them up and toss the key.
I snort, rolling my eyes. Gage is a grown man but sometimes, his playful side makes him too damn likable. Like a golden retriever. There aren’t many players who have had as long a career as he’s had—and with the injuries and setbacks he’s overcome. Still, he exudes a lighthearted, easygoing vibe that puts people at ease. Most of all, he makes me comfortable without even trying. He makes me want to crack and confide in him when there hasn’t been anyone to talk to in a long time.
“I’m stubborn. Set in my ways,” I add, as if I’m trying to talk him out of wanting to spend the week with me. Wanting to spend more than just a week with me.
He quirks an eyebrow that confirms my statement and questions it at the same time.
I huff and stand from my chair. Resting my lower back against the balcony railing, I cross my arms over my chest and stare at Gage.
“I’m married to my career. I promised myself, years ago, that I’d never need anyone else to support me.” I pause, waiting for his reaction.
He leans back, crossing his ankle over his other knee. “Being with someone, in a romantic relationship, is more than just finances.”
“What if you retire and I’m not a good partner?” I shoot back. “What if you hate sitting around, waiting on me, when I’m dashing across the country at a moment’s notice? What if you resent that? What if I can’t satisfy you?” I blush as the words, confessions, tumble from my mouth. “What then?”
Gage rolls his lips together, looking at me thoughtfully. He pushes to his feet, stepping next to me at the railing. He rests his elbows on top, leaning forward slightly, his gaze toward the ocean. The breeze from the sea ruffles his hair and I turn, taking in his profile.
Strong. Confident. So damn sexy.
Scruff coats his jawline and I have the desire to drag my palm across his cheek. He purses his full mouth, and my eyes trace his lips. I’ve fought my attraction to this man for years. More than a decade.
And now, with the soothing sounds of the sea, the comfort of the night sky, and the steady rumble of his tone, my defenses are down. My walls are crumbling.
I want him to crash through them as much as I want to fortify them.
Because I don’t know how to do this with him. I don’t know how to do this with any man.
And yet, there’s none I want as badly as Gage Gutierrez. But am I enough? Could I ever be enough?
My heart rate is steady as I study him. It should gallop frantically but that’s the thing about Gage—he puts me at ease. He always has. Back when I was a green agent, new to the industry and trying to find my way. Through the ups and downs, both professional and personal. He’s been a constant presence in my story nearly as long as I’ve been a sports agent. Rooting me on, celebrating my victories, and offering a shoulder and an ear when the losses gutted me.
He came to Dad’s funeral. And Grandma’s.
I blink, recalling the day I received the news of her passing.
I’m sitting in the stands after a Coyotes win. The crowd is going nuts, celebrating and cheering their home team on. I’m caught up in the merriment, in the excitement unfolding over thousands of people. For an instant, things are perfect. My heart is light, my eyes are trained on Gage, huddled with his teammates, and the sun warms my cheeks.
As the cheers fade and the stadium empties, I plop down in my seat. I want to wait for the crowd and traffic to die down before I leave. Besides, I want to catch up with Gage.
My phone rings and I reach for it, frowning when I note Dad’s name on the screen. He knows I’m in Tennessee, cheering on the Coyotes.
“Dad, hey,” I answer.
A muffled sob rings out.
“Dad?” I ask, my concern heightening.
