Good Boy (WAGs #1)(18)

Jess lets out a long, unsteady breath. “She said she was proud of me.”

I gasp. “The nerve of her!”

My angel doesn’t even crack a smile. My jokes aren’t doing it for her? Shit. This must be really bad.

“She told me I planned the best wedding she’s ever been to,” Jess whispers.

“Again, not seeing the problem.”

“You don’t get it.” She shakes her head forcefully, and a chunk of hair falls out of her updo and into her eyes.

I tuck it behind her ear, and she lets me. Yup, shit’s bad if she’s letting me touch her like this. Lately she has an aneurysm if I so much as smile at her. Not sure why. I mean, I rocked her world this spring. We both know it.

“This doesn’t happen often,” she goes on. “I’m not someone who gets a lot of compliments from my family—I’m the one who screws everything up. I’m not like Tammy, who’s super smart and turned down a million scholarships. Or Scott, who’s wanted to be a cop since he was five. Or Jamie, who fell in love with coaching the moment he started his job. I can’t even tell you how many jobs I’ve had and failed at.”

“You didn’t fail at this.” I gesture to the party that’s in full swing up on the lawn.

“No, I didn’t.” She bites her lip.

I want to be the one nibbling on that lip. I nibbled the fuck out of it back in March. She nibbled on my lip, too, among other things.

Man, once definitely wasn’t enough with this chick. I haven’t been a monk in the four months since we boned down—there may have been a hookup or two between then and now—but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking of Jess.

If anything, I think of her too much. Usually when I’ve got my hand wrapped around my cock. She’d probably slap me if I admitted that.

“But I’m about to,” she says.

I frown. “You’re about to fail?”

“Sort of. I mean…Mom was standing there telling me how proud she was, and all I could think was, how the hell am I going to break it to them that I…” She stops.

“That you what?”

“I don’t want to be a party planner,” she blurts out.

My lips twitch. Shit, that’s what she’s crying about? “Honey. Is someone holding a gun to your head forcing you to plan parties?”

“No.” Her eyes flash with exasperation. “See, I told you that you wouldn’t get it. It’s considered a failure, okay? I started down yet another career path, and I’m yet again bailing. Trust me, my family is going to have a lot to say about this.”

I shrug. “It’s just taking you a while to identify your superpower. That’s all.”

“My…what are you talking about?”

“What’s your superpower?”

She snorts. “I make wine disappear. And money.”

“Naw. Don’t sell my Jess short.” I squeeze her hand. “Everyone has something that makes them the best.”

“Yours is hockey?” she asks with a sniff.

“Not exactly. There’re more talented athletes than you can shake a hockey stick at. My advantage is my amazing tolerance for pain.”

She’s listening carefully now, those big brown eyes taking me in. “What if I never find my special thing?”

“You will. You just have to keep looking.”

“It’s so hard sometimes.”

She moans, and yeah, it’s in despair, but my cock isn’t one to differentiate between moans. The big guy just remembers the throaty pitch of the sound. He heard it a lot that night in Toronto.

Jess Canning makes a lot of noise in bed. Or, rather, in chair. I like that, because I make a lot of noise, too.

“Planning this wedding was a total nightmare,” she confesses. “I hated every second of it. I hated making lists and phone calls and chasing people around to RSVP. I worked my ass off, Blake. And you want to know the ironic part? The only reason this thing is a success is because of you!”

I blink. “Naah.”

“Yes,” she says firmly. Then she moans again. She really needs to stop doing that, because my dick is getting confused. “I arranged the flowers and the food and the guest list, but you—” She makes an irritated noise, “—you took care of the most important things. You found those pictures of Wes. You brought his mother to the ceremony. I wanted so badly to make this wedding about both of them, but I couldn’t, because Wes’s family is so fucking difficult. But it was easy for you.”

“I can’t figure out if you’re mad at me or happy I did all that.”

“Both!” She reaches up and starts pulling the pins out of her hair, letting the golden strands fall to her shoulders.

Aw man, there are tears sticking to her eyelashes again.

“Don’t start crying again,” I warn.

“Or what?” She sputters out a sound that’s a cross between a sob and a laugh.

“Or I’ll have to take drastic measures.”

“Like what?” she challenges.

I stare at her mouth. She’s wearing pink lipstick. Usually I prefer red—looks hotter when it leaves a ring around the head of my cock. But the pink’s not bad either. Makes her look sweet, and sometimes sweet is just as hot as spicy.