Him (Him #1)(87)

His mouth travels along the edge of my jaw before hovering over my lips. “They’re going to love you.” He kisses me, slow and sweet. “I love you.”

I rub the pad of my thumb over his bottom lip. “Loved you every summer since I was thirteen years old. Love you even more now.”

Our lips are millimeters from meeting again when he says, “I need to know something, and you have to promise to be honest.”

“I’m always honest with you,” I protest.

“Good. I’m holding you to that.” Those gorgeous brown eyes gleam. “Did you throw the shootout?”

I know exactly which shootout he’s referring to. My lips quiver, so I press them together to keep from grinning.

“Well?”

I shrug.

“Wesley…” There’s a warning note in his voice now. “Tell me what happened during that shootout.”

“Well.” I hesitate. “I really don’t know. I was terrified to win, because I knew I’d have to let you off the hook. And I was terrified of losing, because I wanted to touch you so bad, and I was afraid you’d figure that out.”

His face is full of sympathy, but I don’t need it anymore. It’s water under the bridge now. I lean closer and kiss him on the nose. “So, those last two shots? I hardly remember what happened. I was all—Jesus, take the wheel!”

Jamie laughs at me. And then he kisses me. I lock my hands at the nape of his neck and tug him closer. Warm skin slides against mine, and I know I’m home.

Because home is with him.





EPILOGUE





Wes



Thanksgiving


“Ryan Theodore Wesley! Put that knife down this instant!”

I freeze like an ice sculpture as Jamie’s mother barrels toward me, one hand planted on her hip, the other pointing to the chef’s knife in my hand.

“Who taught you how to chop onions?” she demands.

I glance down at the cutting board in front of me. As far as I can tell, I haven’t committed any major onion-related crimes.

“Um…” I meet Cindy Canning’s eyes. “Well, that’s kind of a trick question. Nobody taught me, per se. My parents have a cook that comes in four times a week to prepare meals and—wait, I’m sorry, did you call me Ryan Theodore?”

She waves her hand as if the question is inconsequential. “I don’t know your middle name so I had to make one up. Because, sweetie, you really needed to be middle-named for mangling those poor onions.”

I can’t stop the laugh that flies out of my mouth. Jamie’s mother is so f*cking awesome. I’m far more relaxed in her kitchen than I expected to be.

Jamie and I arrived in California two days ago, but since I had a game the first night, Jamie went to his folks’ place while I stayed at the hotel with my teammates. After the team crushed San Jose, I did the usual post-game press, and then yesterday morning I drove up to San Rafael to join Jamie and his family.

The big holiday meal today will be the real test of their acceptance. I’ve already met Jamie’s mom and dad and one brother. So far, so good.

“These need to be chopped into smaller pieces,” Cindy tells me. She smacks my butt to move me aside, then takes my place. “Have a seat at the counter. You can watch while I chop. Take notes if you need to.”

I grin at her. “So I guess Jamie didn’t tell you how much I suck at cooking, huh?”

“He most certainly did not.” She fixes me with a stern look. “But you’ll have to learn, because I can’t spend all my time worrying that my baby boy isn’t being fed over there in Siberia.”

“Toronto,” I correct with a snort. “And I’m sure you can guess he’s the one who’s been feeding me.”

Now that the hockey season is underway, life is hectic as f*ck. Practice is brutal, and our schedule is exhausting. Jamie’s my rock, though. He comes to all my home games, and when I drag my tired self home from the airport after an away game, he’s waiting there to rub my shoulders, or shove food down my throat, or screw me until I can’t see straight.

Our apartment is my safe place, my haven. I can’t even believe I considered trying to make it through my rookie season without him.

It’s easy to figure out where he got that nurturing gene from, because his mom has been fussing over me all day.

Another snort sounds from the doorway, and then Jamie’s father strides into the kitchen. “Toronto,” he echoes. “What kind of city doesn’t have a football team? Explain that to me, Wes.”

“They do have one,” I point out. “The Argonauts.”

Richard narrows his eyes. “Is it an NFL team?”

“Well, no, it’s CFL, but—”

“Then they don’t have a team,” he says firmly.

I stifle a laugh. Jamie warned me that his family was football fanatics, but I genuinely thought he was exaggerating.

“Where’s Jamie?” Richard glances around the kitchen as if he expects Jamie to pop out of a cupboard.

“He went to pick up Jess,” Cindy tells her husband. “She wants to have a few drinks tonight so she’s leaving her car at home.”

Richard nods in approval. “Good girl,” he says, as if Jess can somehow hear him all the way across town.