Page 103 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
Miss Taylor ushers them out with a wave, and then it’s just the two of us.
He reaches across the table for my hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it grounds me. We stay like that for a moment until I glance at the time.
“You better get going,” I say gently. “You’ve got a flight to catch.”
“Yeah,” he groans. “And Russo will give me hell if I’m the last one on the plane.”
He straightens, but instead of heading for his bag, he steps closer.
Then closer still.
His hand finds my waist, pulling me in until there’s barely space between us. I rise instinctively onto my toes as he dips his head, and when he kisses me, it’s slow and sure—like he’s memorizing the feel of it. Like he doesn’t want to leave, and doesn’t quite know how to say that out loud.
I feel it in the way his hand lingers at my lower back. In the way his breath catches when we finally pull apart.
He brushes his thumb along my jaw, then presses one last kiss to my temple.
And then, reluctantly, he grabs his bag and heads for the door.
The silence that follows is gentle. Still.
But as I move to rinse out my coffee mug and stare out the window toward the driveway, I already feel the days ahead stretching out in front of me.
Four days without him.
Two games.
And one very full heart already counting down the hours until he’s home.
The past few days have blurred together: gala prep, helping with the boys, and tracking Jackson’s games from afar.
His first game in Boston was two nights ago. They pulled off another win late, and I watched from bed, half-asleep but still cheering when he scored in the second period. One more game tonight, and then he’s home tomorrow.
This morning, I’m meeting Jenna for a walkthrough of the gala venue.
By the time I arrive at the Ridgecrest, sunlight spills bright across the marble steps. We head inside together, a quick hello to the event coordinator who’s waiting to walk us through the space.
The ballroom itself is empty. No linens yet, no floral arrangements, just a wide stretch of polished floors and a few sample round tables set off to one side. I pause in the doorway, picturing it filled with dimmed lights, voices carrying, and the hum of something big taking shape.
The space feels huge now, bare and echoing. In three weeks it will be packed, loud, and full of faces.
Jenna steps in beside me, her voice low. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just ready to see it come together.”
She bumps her shoulder lightly against mine. “When this gala’s over, I’m taking your phone and locking it in a drawer. Spa day. Wine. No spreadsheets.”
“Deal,” I say.
We move through the space with purpose, discussing flow, where auction tables will be, and how the check-in should run.
Everything has to be perfect.
We make a full circuit of the room, then step toward the area where the bar will go. Jenna gestures toward the corner reserved for author meet-and-greets, raising a brow.
We take one last look around, notes in hand. The event coordinator promises updated diagrams and confirms the next set of deadlines.
Jenna grins as we wrap everything up. “Look at us. Total pros.”
