Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“I’m pretty sure they’ve seen him stretch before,” she says.
I elbow her—because I’m mature like that. “You mean…humping the ice.” Bless them, that’s what most of the guys are doing now. They’re in their full uniforms, on their hands and knees on the ice, lifting their hips up and down.
“Stretch those hip flexors, handsome,” I shout to the hotshot winger, though I doubt he can hear me.
Leighton shoves my shoulder. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
“With whom? Your dad?”
“Um, other fans?” she points out, glancing around. The arena is less than a quarter full, crowds straggling in slowly. But the ones here early are hardcore, decked out in Sea Dogs jerseys and beanies.
“Pretty sure Asher wants everyone to know I’m here for him,” I say, gesturing to the back of the jersey I’m wearing, the one he left for me on the kitchen counter this morning. The one he had custom-made. Then I lower my voice to not entirely a whisper and hold her gaze as I ask, “Or do you think the Feral Falcon will swing by and hear you?”
Groaning, she rolls her eyes. “First of all, let’s make sure that doesn’t stick as a nickname.”
“The Filthy Falcon? The Fucking Falcon? The Flirty Falcon! Yes!” I thrust my arms high at that last one. “And we have a winner!”
“He’s hardly flirty.” She drops her voice. “Well, not in public. Also, did I say we fucked?” She gives me a saucy look.
“No, because you’re a mean friend,” I say with a pout. I turn back to the ice action, waving a hand in front of me like it’s too hot in here. “Goddamn,” I murmur to myself. My husband looks so sexy, moving his body like that. Then, screw it. If other people can hoist signs asking him to bed them on the side, I can let him know I think he’s a fine drink of man. I stand, cup my mouth, and shout, “Looking good, Twenty-Nine.”
He heard me because he pops up with his hockey stick and flies across the rink, sending a spray of ice toward the boards when he stops right by the empty bench. “You’re coming home with me tonight, Mrs. Callahan.”
And yes, I already knew that, but he’s declaring it—loud and cocksure for the other fans to hear.
A woman a few seats over whines. A guy nearby cheers me on. But Asher only has eyes for me. He takes off his gloves and beckons me closer. “Get over here, wife. I need a good-luck kiss.”
My stomach flips. Leighton nudges me, saying, “Go.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. I hustle down a few rows. When I reach the bench, the only spot where there’s no glass, he leans over and drops a quick, possessive kiss onto my lips.
Immediately, he lets go, skates backward, and points at me, shouting, “You’re mine.”
Is my heart supposed to flutter so much in a temporary marriage? Is my chest supposed to tingle like this? Should my cheeks feel this flushed? I press a hand to my face. I’m hot all over even though I’m surrounded by ice.
With a dopey smile that won’t disappear, I rejoin Leighton right as Miles glides by, giving the quickest of chin nods in her direction. She steals a glance at the coaches on the ice, then flashes a barely-there smile to Miles before he skates behind the net and away from her.
I turn to her and sigh sympathetically, squeezing her arm. “Pining Falcon,” I say quietly but clearly enough so she can hear. “Maybe that’s more apropos.”
“I don’t know about that,” she says wistfully. Then she quickly changes the subject, waggling her phone at me. “Guess who snapped a picture of your husband kissing you before the game?”
This makes me unreasonably happy. “Let me see.”
She shows me the shot—I’m stretching for a kiss, and that feels fitting too. It feels true. It feels like us. My heart balloons as I stare. “You’re good,” I say, then meet her eyes. “Can I post it?”
“That’s why I took it. I had a feeling you’d want it.”
“Thanks, babe,” I say.
As she sends it to me, we chat briefly about the sub of a sub of a sub, and she tells me how the place is working out. “Thank you again,” she says. “I needed this. I have a lead on a place I can move into in the summer, but this has been perfect for now.”
The summer. When this arrangement between Asher and me ends. When we return to our regularly scheduled lives.
That thought weighs on me as I post the photo on my social, but then I furrow my brow at my profile. “Um, do I have a bunch of new followers?”
Leighton stares at the number on my phone. “Do you?”
“I do,” I say, and it’s weird and wonderful at the same time. “It’s not entirely earned, is it? They’re not really here for me. They’re here because I’m…Mrs. Callahan.”