Page 128 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
I didn’t think I could want this more than I already did. But tonight, I played for them.
For her.
And knowing they’re at home, watching this, seeing it happen…
That makes this win everything.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
AVA
It’s been almost a week since Jackson’s team clinched the Finals, but the house still feels like it’s vibrating with that win.
Or maybe that’s just me. Nerves, exhaustion.
Take your pick.
I lean over the kitchen sink, bracing both hands on the counter as I breathe through another wave of nausea. It’s not overwhelming. Just persistent. A faint pressure that refuses to fully settle. A constant clench in my stomach I keep blaming on stress.
The gala is today. I’m allowed to feel off.
By 3:30, I’ve already done four laps around the ballroom.
The sponsor signage is crisp and the place settings polished. The silent auction tables look like something out of a catalog. The lighting crew is adjusting the last spotlight over the stage, and backup wine has arrived, so I can finally stop worrying the bar will run dry before dessert.
Jenna moves through the room like she’s been mainlining espresso since sunrise, calling directions with one hand and clutching a checklist in the other.
“You’re incredible,” I call after her.
She lifts the clipboard in salute without looking back.
I head for the side of the stage, glancing over the final run-of-show taped to a podium. My speech is printed and folded neatly in my clutch, but I already know every word. I’ve been whispering it to myself all week: over my tea, in the car, in the shower.
My palms sweat anyway.
I smooth a hand down the front of my black satin dress. The fabric skims my frame, sleeveless with a high neckline and a low V in the back.
The ballroom doors are closed for now. The Open Pages logo glows softly on the wall behind the stage, framed by warmlighting and indigo floral arrangements. Tables are dressed and waiting. The quartet is rehearsing again, just out of view, their notes floating like a lullaby.
This is really happening.
I’m standing at the center of something my team and I poured ourselves into. Weeks and weeks of planning, stress, and impossible hours. And even through the nerves curling at the base of my spine, I feel it: that quiet, certain pride beneath the noise.
I turn as the side entrance creaks open, and Jackson steps in.
And suddenly, my mind blanks completely.
He’s in a perfectly cut, classic black tux, the bow tie snug at his throat. Broad shoulders fill out the jacket like it was tailored just for him.
He’s holding two coffees and scanning the room until his eyes land on me.
Goosebumps lift across my arms, heat blooming low in my stomach. His piercing blue eyes meet mine, steady and sure, and for a second, everything else, every detail, every checklist, and every worry, just... disappears.
He walks toward me, eyes locked on mine, and everything else fades.
“Wow,” he murmurs. “You look—” He exhales. “Okay, yeah. You look unreal.”
He hands me a cup. “Extra shot. You earned it.”
