Page 150 of Lighting the Lamp
“Sturdy.” His hands grip my hips tighter, pulling me flush against his body, leaving no question of what he wants. His mouth drifts to my ear, voice a growl wrapped in silk. “Careful, Shortcake, or this house doesn’t stand a chance.”
“I told you I don’t like that nickname.” I groan, pushing weakly at his chest even as heat pools low in my stomach, betrayal written in every tremor of my body.
“You love it. I knew it the first time I said it.” Beau chuckles, the sound deep and certain, vibrating through me. He catches my mouth again, kissing me until thought itself dissolves. When he finally pulls back, his words are a low rasp against my lips, rough with promise. “God, I could get lost in you.”
I’m still trying to breathe, still clinging to the edge of his shirt, when the universe reminds us we’re not alone as Kyle’s voice barrels down the hallway, far too loud.
“Pizza’s here in ten, losers!”
Beau doesn’t even flinch, his hand holding me against him like he dares the world to try to pull me away. My pulse thrums wildly, my body aching to close the space his teasing words have opened. I’m still clinging to him when Ramona strolls into the kitchen, eyes narrowing in on us with merciless precision.
“Well,” she drawls, smirking, “looks like the kitchen isn’t the only thing getting broken in tonight.”
Mortification slams into me, my face going up in flames. I try to wriggle free, but Beau only tightens his grip, like my squirming is nothing more than entertainment.
“The bedroom’s finished,” Ramona adds with a wink, “so try not to traumatize the rest of us, okay?”
Before I can die of embarrassment, Michele breezes in, grinning bright and wicked. “Good news, lovebirds. I’ve got the perfect distraction.”
Her eyes flick to mine for just a second, the knowing glint there making it clear she’s purposely doing this to rescue me, or maybe throwing gasoline on the fire, I can’t tell which.
She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts toward the living room, “Hey, boys! Whoever grabs plates first doesn’t have to do dishes!”
The response is instant, the entire living room erupting in chaos as bodies scramble for an advantage.
Beau’s grin curves slowly as his laugh rumbles through me. “Much obliged.”
“You’re welcome,” Ramona and Michele chime together, smug and far too pleased with themselves.
Then, without warning, he bends and hauls me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all.
“Beau!” I yelp, pounding a useless fist against his back as he strides for the hallway, my protests undercut by the giddy, traitorous heat rushing through me.
His only answer is a dark, satisfied chuckle, the kind that promises exactly what’s coming next. The bickering fades behind us, drowned out by the click of a door closing.
And just like that, another part of this house is about to be broken in. Another part of us claimed. It feels reckless, ridiculous, maybe even a little doomed,but more than anything, it feels inevitable. Because this is who we are now. Him, me, this house, this family. Of course, this is where we’ve ended up. Where else could we be?
Epilogue
Beau
Four Months Later
The locker room hums with energy under harsh fluorescents and smells like fresh ice shaved thin as paper, spearmint gum, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel. Somebody’s blasting a hype playlist that keeps jumping from hard rock to old-school pop because no one understands genre discipline, and also because it works. Half the guys are drumming on their thighs; the other half are pretending they don’t care while their knees bounce in time anyway.
I’ve got my tablet open and a Sharpie behind my ear like a cliché, which is fine because clichés stick around for a reason. “Eyes up,” I growl, angling the tablet so Langley can see the tight clip I’ve looped three times already. “They’re dragging a guy through the slot late. Don’t over-rotate. Own your posts, then shuffle. Don’t slide. Make them beat your feet.”
Langley—my once-backup-turned-starter and my favorite proof that patience isn’t the same thing as waiting—leans in to squint. He chews his mouth guard like a man negotiating with fate and wins on charm.
“He’s hanging on the goalie’s right,” he says, tapping the screen with a carefully wrapped knuckle. “So watch the weak-side bump?”
“Exactly.” I freeze a frame and circle a stick blade with my thumb. “And remember, their PP2 likes to disguise the seam by taking the high wrister. You’re not giving it to them. You’re swallowing it, spitting it back out only if you can steer it to where their tallest guy isn’t, which is?—”
“The far hash,” he finishes, eyes cutting to mine, steady. “Got it.”
Crosby elbows him lightly. “Translation: be huge, be perfect, time-travel when necessary.”
“Correct. Also, save all the pucks.” I flip the Sharpie off my ear, let it spin once over my knuckles, and catch it.
