Page 71 of The Rival (Looking to Score 2)
“I might be able to do that,” she says playfully.
“We have some lost time to make up for.”
Between soft, sweet kisses, I help Aspen out of her dress. She tugs at my jacket, and I remove it. And as she undoes each of the buttons on my shirt, I walk us backward toward the bed.
Once she’s naked and in my arms, I have to remind myself to slow down, that we have all night . . . and that I want this to be perfect for her.
But then I hear a soft chuckle, and I meet Aspen’s gaze.
She touches my tattoo. “Is this new?”
I guess it’s time to come clean. “Uh, so I might have lost a bet.”
Aspen laughs. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Saint bet me that I couldn’t go the summer without falling in love with you.”
She raises one eyebrow.
“And when I got home . . . I told him we’d better go get that tattoo.”
She touches my cheek, her eyes filled with emotion.
“Aspen, what I’m saying is that I fell in love with you in Canada. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she says softly.
It feels good to say the words, to finally admit to Aspen how I really feel. And it feels even better to show her, and that’s exactly what I spend the next hour doing. Long, and hard, and deeply until she’s flushed and panting out my name.
Then I fold her into my arms and hold her close. All night long.
EPILOGUE
* * *
ASPEN
“Can I help?’
I sidle up to the kitchen island, leaning over the polished wood to showcase my cleavage in the long-sleeved romper I’m wearing. Alex looks up from where he’s chopping vegetables, his gaze pinging between my face and my breasts.
“Eyes up here, Braun.” I wink, walking my fingers toward him, and he playfully swats them away.
“No stray fingers near the sharp knife,” he says with a smirk. “I’ve got this.”
I pout, looking back into the living room where our friends have all gathered.
Logan Tate walks around the room, passing out beers. Lucien and Camille are comfortable in the window seat, chatting with Coach Wilder about their plans to have another kid. Reeves and Saint are arguing about something ridiculous, based on the way Saint is gesticulating and Reeves is shaking his head in pure dismay. Even Eden and Holt are here, exchanging soft whispers by the staircase. Newlyweds are like that.
It’s been a little over a year since Alex and I officially got together. For our one-year anniversary, he surprised me with the keys to a small cabin in Ottawa, just north of Saint’s cabin. Once we got it decorated the way we liked it, the first order of business was to hold a housewarming party. But when word got around, the housewarming party became a housewarming weekend . . . so now our little cabin is brimming with company, most of whom are burly Boston Titans.
“Thank God Saint offered to take a few folks to his place at the end of the night,” I say under my breath, shooting Alex a look. He knows how much of an introvert I am, and he’s already apologized tenfold for how far the guest list got away from him. “Are you sure I can’t—”
“Why don’t you go chat with Camille? You were saying that you wanted to get to know her better, weren’t you?”
I narrow my eyes at Alex. Something’s fishy. He’s been busy entertaining guests the whole day, so we’ve hardly had any time to talk, one-on-one. I guess I won’t distract him from making his dinner magic. “All right, fine.”
I spend the next hour trying to socialize with the group, but it’s hard to keep up with the conversations ping-ponging around me from all sides.
When Alex rings the dinner bell, I’m more than relieved for the change of scenery. We all crowd around the folding tables in the dining room, complimenting Alex on the spread of roasted chicken, casseroles, vegetable medleys, and heaps upon heaps of mashed potatoes. It’s a tight squeeze, but we all manage to fit with minimal elbowing.
“Thanks for bringing an extra table and chairs,” I say to Saint, who settles in across from me, instantly reaching for a juicy chicken leg.
“Mi casa es tu casa, Scaredy Sprout.” He grins at me, and though I haven’t heard that nickname in ages, I still roll my eyes.
Dinner is delicious, and everyone is singing Alex’s praises by the end of it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man flustered, but for a guy who spent an entire season being the villain in everyone else’s story, I think he’s handling the compliments well.
I catch him staring at me during dessert, but when I smile back, he quickly averts his eyes and resumes his conversation with Coach Wilder.
Weird.
Later, when we’re all done eating, I offer to help Alex clear the table and load the dishwasher. He outright refuses my help, gently guiding me back into the living room where the group has gathered for a nightcap.
