Page 41 of Slapshot Bride

“I have a career and I will still have it tomorrow. I won't have it if I let you walk out of this house and into a worse situation because you are afraid you are an inconvenience to me. You are not an inconvenience. Do you understand?”

“I'm crying on your couch in your shirt and I have a hundred and forty-eight notifications and one of them is my fiancé telling me he's going to make decisions for me. Do you know what that translates to? He’s going to make life difficult for me. For you.”

“Ex-fiancé.”

“W-what?”

“Ex-fiancé. You are out. He doesn't get to call himself anything else.”

Something in my chest opens further.

He's still holding my hands.

His thumbs move over my knuckles in slow, absent circles. His eyes stay locked on mine.

I inhale shakily, and it's his scent that fills my lungs. Cedarwood. Clean laundry. Easton.

I just stare at him because I honestly don't know what to say.

No one has ever been this firmly on my side before.

No one has ever looked at me like leaving was the obvious choice.

“Come here.”

Before I can respond, he pulls me against him again.

One arm wraps around my shoulders, the other settling across my back, and he simply holds me.

Tears fill my eyes again, overwhelmed by everything I've been trying to hold together since I saw those photos.

I feel his chest rise and fall beneath my forehead, steady and unhurried, and somewhere beneath the tears and panic, I realize my own breathing has started to match his.

It's the most cared-for I have felt in six years.

I pull back, just enough to look at him.

“Thank you.”

I mean to say more. To apologize for the wet stain on his shirt. To tell him he doesn’t have to do all of this, but the words don’t come. Instead, I find myself staring into his eyes…

The hazel with green flecks catches my attention, and I mentally trace every detail.

And he doesn’t look away. He’s right there with me, his hand still at the back of my neck, and the air between us goes thin.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” His voice is low, and the calm washes over me.

From the corner of my eyes, I see his thumb move. It swipes a lone tear on my cheek and wipes it clean. Then tucks a stray strand I hadn’t noticed behind my ear.

His touch is warm, sending shivers down my spine, and when I exhale, it comes out shaky.

His name is on my lips before I can think it through.

“Easton…”

It’s the last thing I say before his lips find mine, and I don’t hesitate. I kiss him back.

His lips are warm and softer than I imagined, which is ridiculous because I absolutely should not have imagined them at all.