“I don’t know …” Drew sings as I guide her up the pathway leading to the large white porch, set in the center of an Edwardian-style frontage. “Hate sex is a thing, and they looked pretty flustered in my hallway.”
“Trust me,” I say as we reach the top step, and I guide her face back to mine before she gets a chance to peek through the glass front door.
I want to give her the guided tour and then take her on every surface we own.
“The way my captain looked when he burst into the locker room did not scream of a guy who had just shared a great time with a girl. More like one he wants to forget.”
Still holding her by the hand, I slowly turn her around so I can see my name where it belongs.
Where it was always supposed to be before either of us even knew it.
“How about I show you around your new palace? I need you to see the walk-in pantry. I reckon it has enough storage for a lifetime’s supply of sprinkles.”
She throws her arms around my neck, and like we’ve done a hundred times before, I loop my hands under her jean-covered ass, and she crosses her ankles at my lower back.
“You’re too good to me, Hotshot. Way too fucking good.”
We make out beneath the soft glow of the porch lighting, a couple of boats out on the lake and stars in a clear night sky above our heads.
“No, Drew,” I breathe into her mouth, heart thundering at a ridiculous pace. “This is just the way I’ll worship you each and every day. And for as long as you’ll have me, I promise to give you nothing less than the love you absolutely deserve.”
epilogue
. . .
Drew
August—Eight Months Later
“Do you think if we all climbed into a boat and sailed across the lake, they’d notice that we left?”
One brow arched and a glass in hand, Kate throws me an understanding glance. “I think we could sail once around the world, and those boys would still be debating the superior way to grill a chicken wing.” She takes a sip of champagne and observes Will and Jensen as they continue arguing whose barbeque food is better. “It’s actually pretty nauseating, watching their egos at work,” she adds.
“Truly.” June sidles up next to her mom, sunglasses resting partway down her nose so she can fully appreciate my boyfriend’s breakdown to Jensen about why Monterey Jack cheese is the best choice for today’s garden party. “And when did my brother start eating normal food again?”
“After he realized eating only seeds and the occasional organic lettuce leaf actually had nothing to do with him making lead goalscorer for the Rogues in his first season,” I comment, taking a sip of my own drink.
The early August heat beats down on the backyard, and Lake Washington glimmers beneath the sunlight. Will and I have been living in the lake house for just over six months, and honestly, it’s been the best half year of my life.
Last month, I was promoted to senior publicist after I landed a huge sponsorship deal for Silas, and despite the shit show that rained down on us late last year, First Line PR’s success continues to grow.
“Yeah, well, lead goalscorer or not, if I don’t get my hands on some chicken soon, I’m going to ram that?—”
“Yes, JJ, I think we get the point.” Kate cuts her daughter short, holding a pleading hand up for her to stop.
“I’ll fetch the salad,” I confirm, turning on my heel and heading for the kitchen, which backs directly onto the garden. “Perhaps if they see us setting up the table to eat, they might actually start plating food before Christmas.”
Crossing the wooden bridge Will built over the koi pond in the spring, I take the stepping stones one at a time. My knee-length summer dress blows in the breeze as I step into the kitchen and find Vesper chopping tomatoes.
“I say this with kindness … but why are you annoyingly motivated when it comes to household tasks? You were constantly cleaning when we lived together, and the laundry basket was always empty. And now I find you prepping food I should’ve done, like, a half hour ago,” I tease, throwing my arms around her neck as she scoops a handful of sliced tomatoes and cucumber and tosses them into a salad bowl.
She just shrugs and starts on the celery. “I’m not really. I just hate the hot weather, and your AC is way more effective than the apartment’s.” Vesper winks at me when I unloop my arms and add dressing to the salad. “I’m only using you to keep cool.”
I screw my face up at her, but my friend’s attempt to be playful falls flat. I drum my fingers against the countertop, knowing I can’t avoid the subject for much longer.
“So, I’d be wrong to assume that you’re hiding in the kitchen, away from he who shall remain nameless.”
She blows out a breath and adds the celery to the bowl. “If you’re referring to Silas, then, no, I’m not avoiding him. We just don’t have a lot to say to each other.”
