Page 68 of Hockey Wife

She really should leave off, but now she was stroking his jaw with her thumb—and he was the fool letting her.

“She’s always wanted to see me settled, like my sisters.”

“An old lady’s wish. Beats my mercenary motives, for sure.”

This wasn’t a competition for self-sacrifice. As if living with Georgia, even with all the pretense, was a hardship. Sure, it was “hard” in a different way, but not unpleasurable in the slightest.

“We both have our reasons, and one isn’t better than the other.”

“Hmm.” She wanted to disagree. “I had a chat with Trish. She mentioned that she and your sisters are in on the caper, so that’s good.”

“They’re hard to fool. But my gran sees what she wants to see.”

Maybe we all do. With Georgia standing close, stroking his jaw, the situation was feeling more real with each successive heartbeat. And with her next question, he felt himself sinking deeper.

“So you dropped me like a hot coal because it felt good. What about it felt good, Banks?”

Jesus, her hands, her touch, the way she smelled, how tiny and precious she was standing next to him, before him, in his arms … he could make lists for days.

“All of it.”

Her breath hitched. “Then you’ll have no problems faking it.”

Faking it. Excellent. He needed the reminder. Her hand was still on his jaw, showing tenderness because of his ailing gran. Not for any other reason that his starry-eyed imagination might conjure.

He cupped her hand, because she seemed loathe to leave his jaw be, and while he had no objections, he didn’t want her to feel obligated out of some sort of pity. But now her hand was clasped in his and something occurred to him, something that had been bothering him since the moment she moved in.

“This isn’t right.”

She looked startled and pulled her hand away.

He held on. Rubbed a thumb over the fourth finger. “You’re not wearing my ring.”

Color tagged her cheeks. “I left it behind in the hotel room. It didn’t seem fair to hold onto it.” She peered up at him, almost shy. “Do you still have it?”

He nodded, and not letting go, guided her to the dresser. He pulled open the top drawer and removed the small box beneath his underwear. That night, she’d chosen it from a selection at the chapel and he vaguely recalled some discussion about choosing what was effectively a traditional engagement ring over a wedding band. He hadn’t cared. She could have whatever the fuck she wanted as long as she wore it forever.

Less than six hours later, it was on the nightstand, and Cinderella was gone.

Making a big deal of opening it and slipping it onto her finger would assign this too much significance. He put the box on the dresser and pushed it a couple of inches toward her.

No hesitation, she flipped the lid and sucked in a breath.

“I wasn’t sure if I imagined it.”

A pale pink solitaire, all the more beautiful for its rarity. Pricey for a quickie Vegas wedding, but it was her choice. He was her choice.

Until he wasn’t.

“Could you put it on?”

Could he …?

“Because you’re holding my hand and …”

Right. He still had her hand clasped in his, limiting her mobility. Hauling air into his lungs, he let go of her long enough to pull the ring out of its snug, velvet bed. It caught a shard of sunlight, though maybe that was the reflection of her bright, shining eyes.

She offered her hand. “I feel like we should say something.”

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