Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)
Meghan Quinn
Prologue
TWO YEARS AGO . . .
SILAS
“I don’t know, dude. Maybe I should have gone with the princess cut,” I say into the phone as I head up the elevator to my penthouse apartment that offers expansive views of the Burrard Inlet.
When Sarah and I found this place, she told me we had to get it. Not only were the views everything we could have asked for, but the privacy was also a huge bonus, especially since privacy doesn’t come so easily anymore. Not when you’re the star right wing from the Vancouver Agitators.
“Do we really have to go through this again?” Pacey Lawes says through the phone, clearly irritated with my inability to settle on the right ring.
“I want to get this right.” The elevator shoots me up to the penthouse. “I know Sarah has been waiting for this, and I’m finally in a place in my life where I can get her the ring she deserves. I want to make sure it’s perfect.”
“How many times do we have to go through this? She sent you pictures of that halo ring. That’s what she wants, and what you got matches that. Don’t change anything.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” I sigh. “Shit, I’m nervous.”
“Are you doing it tonight?”
“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “I have to figure out her ring size first.”
“That would have been job number one,” he says just as the elevator dings and the doors begin to part.
“Probably.” I scrub my hand over my face as I step off the elevator. “This is my first and last proposal, so I’m not quite sure of the timetable here.”
“Don’t think that’s part of a timetable. Just common sense, man,” Pacey says as I set my keys on the side table next to the elevator, kick off my shoes, and then head toward the kitchen where I find one of Sarah’s bras discarded on the counter.
That’s weird.
She’s a bit of a neat freak, so finding something like a bra on the counter and no other laundry feels out of place.
“You there?” Pacey asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat and pick up the black lace, a bra I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear before. And I know because I’ve been with her since high school. I’ve seen the ins and outs of this woman’s wardrobe, and I would have easily remembered a bra like this. “Hey, I have to go.”
“Everything okay?” Pacey asks with concern, obviously hearing the change in my tone.
“Yup, just, uh, realized I forgot to take the meat out of the freezer.” A simple lie that I know will do the trick.
“Oh shit, dude, you’re in trouble.”
“Don’t I know it,” I say right before hanging up and setting my phone on the counter.
I examine the bra, tracing my fingers over the lace. Have I seen this before?
No, definitely not.
This is different.
This is not the Sarah I know who only wears nude-colored undergarments. That’s all she’s ever worn, and I’ve been fine with it. I couldn’t care less. I just wanted to see what was under the undergarments, and lately, there’s been a drought in that department.
She blames it on hockey, saying I’m never around. But I don’t see how my schedule is any different from last year. Sure, I might have acquired more deals that have brought in an exponentially higher income, and those commitments have stolen some of my time, but I still make an effort to make time to be available for her.
She’s the one who tells me she’s tired.
She’s the one who offers me her cheek when I try to kiss her good night.
I spoke to the guys about it. How she never initiates intimacy, how she rolls away from me at night, and we concluded that maybe she was tired of waiting for a true commitment from me.
Hence the ring.
But this bra . . . maybe she’s trying to spice things up for the both of us.
Maybe she left this here, knowing I was coming home and would believe it’s a clue.
A smile stretches across my face as I stick the bra in the back pocket of my jeans and move toward the bedroom.
“Sarah, babe, you here?” I ask, heading closer to the shut bedroom door. “Found your bra.”
“Mmmmm.” I hear her moan, which makes me pause in my path to open the bedroom door.
Was that moan for me, or was that moan . . . something else?
Confused, I reach for our bedroom doorknob and twist it just as I hear her again. “Yes, right there.”
What the . . .
I part the door open, just enough to see Sarah spread naked on our bed with a woman’s head between her legs. What. The. Fuck?
My mouth drops to the floor, my heart sputters to a stop, and I can feel all the color draining from my face.
“That’s it, baby, keep up that pace,” a male voice speaks from the side of the room, nearly knocking me back on my ass.
I glance toward the window and find a naked man sitting in the chair I use to put my fucking shoes on, stroking his mediocre erection.
“What the actual fuck?” I say, unable to stop myself.
Sarah’s head pops up, and her eyes connect with mine. Fear crosses her pupils right before pure ecstasy. The woman doesn’t stop eating Sarah’s pussy, the man doesn’t stop stroking his dick, and it’s as if everything is playing out in slow motion like some sort of fucked-up porn video.