The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(95)
“You are perfect, Cherry. You’re my kind of perfect.”
“You’re my kind of perfect too, Ethan Dexter.”
That’s all I’ve ever needed.
Epilogue
One year later…
Fiona
The house looks perfect. Garlands of evergreen—entwined with twinkling white lights—grace the doorways, window frames, and the big fireplace mantel. Ivory pillar candles are set up in clusters, paired with clove-dotted oranges and sprigs of holly. In the corner by one of the big windows that overlooks the street stands a twelve-foot tree. I kind of love the fact that even Ethan has to pull out the stepladder to decorate the top of it.
But he does the job with a smile on his face. He hangs little football helmets covered in glitter, deep red crystal cherries, die-cast commercial jet planes, even a blown-glass ornament shaped like the Golden Gate Bridge.
“Fi sure likes her themes,” Gray observes, helping out too.
Ethan grins, his concentration on hanging a tiny mic. There’s a flush on his cheeks that I know is from happiness. This year, our tree tells the story of us, and he knows the significance of each and every item I’ve picked.
“What’s with this one?” Ivy asks, holding up an ornament shaped like a stack of pancakes.
Ethan glances at it and catches my eye. His brows rise with humor even as his gaze goes hot. My cheeks flush warm in response. We’ve had plenty of pancakes at midnight since our first attempt. After all, a girl needs to keep up her strength.
“Inside-joke ornament,” Anna guesses, her nose wrinkling. “Quick, put it on the tree and move on before they feel compelled to explain.”
At her side, Drew kisses the top of her head before saying, “I’m pretty sure Dex would have to be threatened with grievous bodily harm before he talked.”
I hand Drew a mug of hot cider before giving one to Anna. She isn’t drinking any alcohol: three guesses why. I give them both a big, sweet smile. “I’m happy to tell you all about those pancakes—”
“No!” the room shouts as a collective whole. Well, all but Ethan who snickers as he hops off the stepladder and comes to me.
He wraps me in his arms, bringing my back against his hard chest. His breath stirs my hair. “You’re so bad, Cherry.”
I relax against him. “Suckers. As if I would talk about our midnight lurve.”
His chuckle is a rumble I feel through my body. With a quick, affectionate kiss to my cheek, he walks off to collect the stepladder and put it away.
“How’s the shop going, Fi?” Anna asks.
Last April, I’d picked up my first client in New Orleans, Ethan’s teammate Rolondo Smith.
Rolondo had me redecorate his condo and then his beach house in Florida. When he found out I’d planned to open my own business, he offered to back me financially. And while Ethan had insisted that he wanted to help me with funds, I finally made him realize that I needed to do this without my boyfriend’s help. In October, I opened a furniture-design shop on Royal St.
“Really well,” I tell Anna now. “I’m at the point where I need to hire an assistant.”
“More like two,” Ethan says. “So my girl can spend more time in her workshop.”
I love that he knows how cathartic it is for me to spend time working on my pieces, and how much attention he pays to my work.
“This is true,” I say to Anna. “Definitely two assistants.”
I’m still working with Jackson and Hal, selling furniture to their New York clients, who pay top dollar. To say business is booming is an understatement.
When Ivy goes to check on Leo, who is napping in the bedroom, Drew and Ethan help me set the table. Anna and Gray fuss in the kitchen. Apparently they’re picking up an argument they started this morning about brining versus basting the turkey.
Gray had argued with a complicated mathematical defense, complete with statistics and water-retention ratios, that had our eyes glazing over. Though he’d gotten his way in choosing the method of cooking—mainly because no one could stand hearing him talk nerd any longer—he and Anna are back at it again. Because Anna still thinks brining is better.
Ethan ends the argument by pointing out that the damn bird is done and could we please just eat it now?
“You’ll see,” Gray promises as he carries out a golden brown turkey worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Simple butter basting produces a superior tasting bird.”
“A dry bird,” Anna retorts.
Despite their bickering, we’re all looking forward to our meal as we sit down at the table—one of the first pieces created in my new workshop. Made of reclaimed cypress wood, it’s wide and long enough to seat twelve. With six of us here, we have room to spread out, which is good since the table is laden with food.
Football players eat. A lot. But I’m not complaining. Especially when I have Ethan’s big, strong body to play with on a daily basis.
I watch him as he leans over to light the candles. He’s dressed in jeans and a dusky blue button-down that hugs his broad chest. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the colorful tats on his forearms. Those arms can toss around tractor tires without breaking a sweat and hold me as gently as if I’m made of blown glass.