Amy melts into my body. Her response isn’t tentative. It’s a declaration that we’re together.
My tongue gently runs against the seam of her lips, seeking entrance to her warmth. When she parts her lips, I know I’ll never be able to live without the woman in my arms ever again.
When we break apart, her forehead rests against my chest. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I rest my chin against the top of her head and know loving Amy is everything. Today, we stand in her classroom. Tomorrow, we’ll step into the world together.
38
BUTTON HOOK: THE PUCK CARRIER CURLS BACK TO CREATE SPACE FROM A DEFENDER
Tonight, Amy glows.
Unfortunately, not all of it is from her stunning beauty.
She’s lit up with anxiety but hasn’t verbalized why. Instead she’s pacing.
Despite her heels, her stride is purposeful. Still, I can’t help but notice every time her left leg takes a step, the slit in her gownreveals a stretch of leg that makes my mouth water. I want to drop to my knees in front of her, shove her dress to her waist, and reassure her—preferably with my mouth releasing her stress in a way that pleases us both.
But her movements are quick. Three steps from the couch to the window. Pause. Pacing two steps back in the opposite direction. Trembling hands smooth imaginary wrinkles from her gown. Chin lifting, then lowering again.
She looks stunning in her floor-length dress draped with a high cowl neckline. That’s undeniable. But there’s a tightness to her shoulders that beauty doesn’t erase and I finally broach why.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say gently.
She stops mid-stride. “Yes, I do.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I add quickly. “I mean—you don’t have to go tonight. Not if it feels like too much.”
Amy exhales, long and slow, then turns to face me. “This isn’t about the dress or the cameras or the donors.”
“I know,” I say because we’ve discussed it countless times.
We both know tonight is going to be a potential train wreck because the media let it slip that I’m attending and since then, Mark reached out.
Standing, I trail my fingers gently down her bare arm, pleased when goosebumps rise in response. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“She’s going to come for us.”
I think back to the email I got from Mark earlier in the week—one I shared with Amy.
Subject: Charity Gala
To: Brennan McCallister
From: Mark Espias
Brennan—
I know I’m the last person you want to hear from, but I need to tell you something important.
We both know Brielle’s obsession with you going pro is what started this all. I wasn’t a great friend then, but I hope you read this.
Brielle’s on the committee for the charity gala. I saw you’re attending with a “plus one.” I hope like hell it’s Amy—that you worked things out between you.
Regardless if it is, you know Brielle’s a spoiled brat who never played well with others. If someone else had something better and shinier, she wanted it.
