Crashed by Elise Faber

Chapter Seventeen

Fanny

“Oh, my God,”she said. “Now they’re trying to lose money.”

“I know,” Charlie said. “Isn’t it great?”

She giggled like a loon, as she often did with this man. They’d grabbed drinks and food a couple of times since their dinner and now had a standing friend date on Wednesday nights. Scarlett was jealous and often crashed their time together, but seeing as she couldn’t stand the terrible reality show they were currently bingeing, she’d skipped that night.

The reality show in question followed a bunch of sexy people who liked to bone with no strings attached but couldn’t because doing so meant they would lose out on the grand prize at the end.

“I’ve said it once”—she picked up her wineglass—“and I’ll say it again. If I were them, stuck at a luxury resort for several weeks, with all the free booze and drinks I could get, I’d be boning left and right.”

Charlie cackled as he clinked his glass to hers. “Damn right, you would,” he said, then pointed at the screen. “Oh no, here they go.”

She smirked.

Because damn right, they did.

They went. They kissed and cuddled and lost a boatload of money. It was glorious.

Fan and Charlie kept up their commentary through one episode and into the next, during which Brandon came over to her place—with a key she’d given him because . . . not looking back. He took one look at both of them on the couch then the TV and shook his head. Then he picked up both of their glasses, went into the kitchen, and refilled them.

Things had been a little testy between him and Charlie at first—more from Brandon’s side than Charlie’s, since the latter didn’t know about the Hallway Incident. But as she was learning about Charlie, he’d quickly disarmed Brandon, and now the two were casual friends.

She’d take it.

She liked Charlie, and things would have been really awkward if Brandon had gone all He-man protective alpha on her.

But then again, he wouldn’t do that.

Because Brandon was Brandon.

He cared about her and what made her happy. Charlie being her reality TV show watching buddy made her happy. Along with the stories he told her while they were out to drinks or dinner, even though those drinks and dinner sometimes took Fan away from Brandon (sometimes Bran tagged along, and sometimes he didn’t).

When she’d asked Brandon if he had an issue with her being friends with Charlie—not that she would stop, because it was her freaking life (though she could be friends in a way that made Bran more comfortable, if necessary)—he’d simply asked if Charlie made her happy. She’d nodded. Then he’d smiled, kissed her cheek, and told her to have fun.

Though it should be noted that before she’d left, he’d pulled her close, kissed her within an inch of her life, then murmured in her ear, “No hallways.”

The murmur was more order than not.

But anyway.

Now she and Charlie were close, and she got to see more of Scarlett when she wasn’t traveling with the team, by benefit of her coming over to hang with Fan and her brother, a la two birds one stone.

Brandon plunked the glasses on the table just as she and Charlie squealed.

“They’re not going to have anything left,” Charlie exclaimed, picking up the glass and taking a large sip.

“No, they’re not.” She grinned at him and then sipped before turning to Brandon. “Thank you.”

A tug of her hair before he disappeared back into the kitchen.

She was firmly in Reality Show Fog when he returned, a beer in hand, and slid next to her on the couch, his arm coming around her shoulders. He kissed her temple, and she snuggled in to watch, perfectly content in Brandon’s arms.

It wasn’t until later that she realized she’d fallen asleep.

The show was paused on the TV. She was tucked on the couch, a blanket around her, and when she turned her head, she could see Brandon and Charlie talking in the hall.

“Thanks for being cool with this,” Charlie was saying quietly. “She’s . . . incredible, but I want you to know that I wouldn’t overstep, and neither would she. We just like hanging out, and she’s made it clear that we’re friends and nothing more.”

Brandon nodded. “I know. I trust her.” A beat. “Maybe not you, but I trust her.”

Charlie smiled wolfishly. “I get it. A woman like that makes a man take notice, but I promise that I’ll respect the boundaries she laid out. Friends. Nothing more.”

Brandon nodded again, and if she hadn’t had so much wine, and hadn’t been up so early at clinics that morning, and wasn’t so warm and cozy under the blankets on the couch, she would have gotten up and told the both of them what she thought about them discussing her like she wasn’t in the room.

Or the next room, anyway.

But she was tired, and a little buzzed, and more than a little snuggly. So she didn’t get up and tell them off. Instead, she let her eyes close again, burrowed into the couch, and drifted off.

She was exhausted and slightly drunk and cozy.

She still distantly heard Charlie leave and even more distantly felt Brandon pick her up off the couch and carry her upstairs, tucking her under the covers before slipping in beside her.

“How much money did they lose?” she murmured, burrowing into all of his snuggliness.

A beat, his fingers drifting through her hair. “All of it.”

She smiled, pressed her lips to his throat, and was tugged completely under.

They had goneto the movies. They had stayed in and cooked dinner. Brandon had waited for her after clinics at the rink, and she stayed at his place.

They had spent ten years apart, and yet, over the last month, it felt like no time had passed at all.

And now, she was looking forward to using the gift certificate he had given her, only instead of using it by herself as she’d thought she might when she’d first opened that envelope, he was by her side.

As they walked through the space where she once dreamed her wedding would be held.

The sun was shining, the wind was floating through the vines. Brandon held her hand, and they both had taken on a quiet that was somehow both hopeful and tense, as though they were both expecting the past to come up, dig its claws into them, and drag them both under once again.

But as they flowed through the space, the sun still warm, the wind still gently blowing, Fanny found herself beginning to relax.

The past was just that. Past.

And she was done letting it have a hold on her.

So, she just kept taking steps forward, continued feeling the sun, continued feeling the wind, continued feeling Brandon holding her, and . . . she let go.

“I remember visiting this place,” she murmured, holding Brandon’s fingers a little tighter. “I remember thinking that we’d be so happy here. I remember thinking this would be the start of us. And in a way, it was.”

Brandon turned to face her, his eyes full of old pain and she felt an answering echo in herself.

But that wasn’t why she’d brought it up. That wasn’t why he’d bought her the certificate for this place. They weren’t trying to revisit old pain, to drive their fingers into the open wounds that were still healing. They weren’t even trying to slap a Band-Aid on to those lesions, trying to stitch them up or cover them over.

Instead, they were trying to live.

Trying to face those hurts and move on.

“I was so convinced it was our turn to have our happiness,” she whispered, “and I was broken when it didn’t work out.”

His jaw clenched and he dropped her hand, fisting both at his side. “I will never, fucking ever, forgive myself for hurting you that way. The first time was bad enough, but the second time, with Angela, with all those months you spent trying to get me to remember—”

“I will never regret fighting for you,” she said, taking his hands and unfurling them. “Just like I would never, ever begrudge you your happiness, even though it didn’t include me. Yes, I was broken. Yes, I had to start over. But I’m not broken today. I’m not living half a life. I have friends and a job. I have a career I love, and . . . I have you, which is the freaking icing on the cake, because I never thought we’d be here again.” She smiled. “I never thought I’d be open to it, vulnerable to all I feel, if I’m being honest.”

“Fan,” he whispered, reaching up and swiping a hand over her cheek, capturing a tear on his thumb. “I don’t want to hurt you—”

“I know,” she said. “That’s what always made it so hard before. You were still so damned nice, even when you didn’t feel the same for me. Always polite, even though I was there all the time, and you had to want to get rid of the pesky girl who kept making you look at photo albums and listen to songs, hoping it would spark something.” She slid a little closer. “But you not wanting to hurt me is also what makes that risk bearable today. I could lose you in an instant. I could die tomorrow and leave you. We have this one life, and I’m done living behind protective walls, just because I might not come out unscathed if I step beyond them.”

He slipped his fingers into her hair, trailed them down her throat, playing with the strap of her dress, his rough callouses on the skin of her shoulder making her lips part on a sigh, her body shift even closer.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he murmured, bending his head and inhaling deeply, as though he wanted to imprint her scent on to his soul.

“You were you,” she said. “And that’s enough.”

His head came up so quickly that she jumped, but she didn’t have a chance to do more than meet his blazing eyes before his fingers had wrapped around her wrist and he was tugging her forward.

“What—”

He scooped her up when she stumbled, pushing through the vines and walking unerringly in the opposite direction from the way they’d come.

“Brandon?” she asked.

He kept walking.

“What are you doing?”

His gaze met hers for a heartbeat, but that short beat of time was enough to have her thighs pressing together, desire a heavy wave of need flowing over her skin, taking the place of the sun, of the wind. “When we came here to scout wedding sights, I did some scouting of my own.”

He pushed through a final row of vines, and she gasped at the sight in front of them.

A deep blue pond, grass—what would have been brown just a week ago, having turned green and lush from an unusual rainstorm just a few days before—surrounding its edges. Large, old growth oaks dotted the space, growing very close together near the water, as though they needed to soak in as much as they could—and they probably did, considering how often the area was in and out of droughts.

This place was California’s version of a mirage, tall weeds with small, yellow flowers in the distance, the wind just strong enough to keep the bugs away, the pond looking even more blue from the sky reflected above.

Even the birdsong was mellow, just soft enough to create a beautiful background melody.

It was . . . peace.

It was perfect.

Thiswas where she would like to get married. If she were choosing a spot as the woman she was now, not worrying about guest lists and a dance floor and a space for a DJ, this would be it.

She and Brandon. The sun shining overhead. Their future on the breeze, in the birdsong, in the warmth of the air.

But while she was reveling in the peace, in the fact that this man had known her so well then, knew her just as well now, Brandon had other ideas.

“I’d planned on stealing you away during the reception,” he murmured, striding down the hill. “I’d planned on stashing a basket here”—he set her down gently, holding her while she found her balance, then reached between two of the trees to retrieve a wicker container—“and a blanket here.” He reached up, and she saw what she’d missed before, the blue plaid material hanging from the branch. “I’d planned on starting our wedding night under the stars and the moonlight, with promises of bringing them both to you, if you only asked.”

Love.

It could be a devastating feeling, could bring someone to their knees, destroy them and yank the foundation of their being out from beneath them.

Or it could be this.

Filling her up until she felt like she was floating, until the old cracks were sealed, until she was herself and . . . more.

“So, give it to me,” she breathed, stepping toward him. “Give me every part of you, and more. Give me the moon and the sun and the stars in the sky and give me you.”

One second, he was standing there, the blanket in his arms, the basket at his feet.

The next she was in his arms, the blanket on the ground, his mouth descending. “It’s already yours.”

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t the frenzy of their first time, Fanny feeling like she was out of control, like she needed to have him right then. Oh yeah, she wanted him. Oh yeah, she was wet and aching. But this was more; this meant more. This was the beginning, their future. The sun, the moon, and the stars.

He laid her onto the blanket, his weight following her down.

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathed in her ear, the hot words sliding over her skin, dipping down between her thighs. Then he shifted slightly, his front to her side as he dragged his mouth down her throat, along her collarbone, nudging the straps of her dress to the side, trapping her arms at her sides. A moment later, his hand was beneath her, sliding up her back and finding the tag of her zipper. He slid it down.

Naked skin exposed on a warm fall day.

He tugged the material of her dress down slowly, exposing the tops of her breasts. Lower still, catching on the tips of her hardened nipples.

Her lips parted on a breath, and she inhaled sharply, the pleasure arrowing straight for her pussy. She knew she was wet. God, she’d been plenty wet with Brandon over the last month, but in this moment, she didn’t think she’d ever been wetter. She could actually feel the moisture of her arousal soaking through her underwear, dripping down her thighs, making her thighs slick as they slid across one another.

Hot breath on her skin, fingers flicking open her bra, parting the material.

Lips circling, descending, closing in, and then he was sucking her nipple deeply into his mouth, his groan rumbling through her flesh, her moan loud and mixing with his.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, when he released her, drifting over to her other breast.

More sucking, more pleasure coiling, more damp heat between her legs.

“Bran,” she urged, reaching up and grabbing his shoulders, trying to bring him more on top of her. He stayed at her side, his hands sliding up and down her body, his mouth on her breasts, and then inching slowly.

Only inching.

Slow. So damned slow.

When all she wanted was him in her.

But no matter how hard she pulled, he didn’t speed up, didn’t shift over her.

Instead, he continued with that inching, tugging her dress down, sweeping it off her legs. Her panties followed suit, and then she was naked beneath a huge oak tree, sprawled on a blanket, with Brandon worshiping her until she was a shaking, desperate heap of a woman.

He inched over her stomach, kissing along the smattering of freckles there, nipped her hips, and finally crawled over her, pressing her legs wide as he dipped his head and got to work.

Slow and steady, so fucking slow.

But good. Glorious even. Gentle licks, unhurried strokes. Every single one ratcheting her up, tightening every muscle, her desire a fire through her veins.

And then just as slowly, she came apart at the seams.

The pleasure slid outward, starting at her center, flooding her torso, her arms, her legs. It spread inexorably forward, shooting out her fingertips and toes, crawling up her neck, across her face, and she would be shocked to find that her hair wasn’t on fire.

Maybe she might bother to check, if she could lift an arm.

Brandon stayed between her thighs, gentling her with those slow licks, the delicate circles, and when she expected him to get naked and climb on her, to thrust deep and fast and furious, he stayed slow and gentle, and incrementally ramped her arousal again, until her breaths came in rapid pulses, sweat coated her body. She’d lost her capacity for words, could only make pleading sounds.

But then—finally—he stripped off his clothes.

She wanted to worship him like he’d paid homage to her body, but she didn’t have time or energy to bring voice to that request, before he was rising over her and sliding home anyway.

Unhurried strokes, reverent touches.

Crawling toward the precipice, not rushing, easing up and up and—

She almost didn’t want it to come, wanted to stay like this with Brandon forever, and he seemed to feel the same, lingering on the edge for what seemed like an eternity. But eventually, they got too close, and her release almost surprised her, seeming to climb up the cliffside and drag her down, rather than her plummeting over the edge.

Nirvana in her blood.

The man whom she loved surrounding her, extending a hand to escort her back into reality, even as he found his own climax.

Her name was on his tongue, his body was heavy on top of hers.

But only for a moment.

Then he rolled them to their sides, their chests heaving, their limbs heavy and slick with sweat, and he ran his fingers lightly through her hair.

She summoned some sort of inhuman strength to open her mouth. “I—”

Her stomach growled.

Not just growled, but erupted, shattering the peace. Brandon propped himself up on his elbow, his hair a mess, his eyes warm and layered with humor. “Hungry?”

She didn’t get a chance to reply before he tugged his T-shirt over her head, reached for the basket, and began plying her with food.

Her favorites, of course.

Because it was Brandon.

Because she knew he’d take care of her.

They sat on that blanket, next to the pond, watching the sun crawl across the sky, eating the food he’d stashed out here, talking about the past, the present, the future, and just . . . being together

It was perfect.

The absolute most perfect day of her life.

Later that week,after she’d been fed and pampered all weekend (and one might say, thoroughly fucked), they’d returned to their new reality.

But that reality was pretty damned great.

Because Brandon was in it.

Because she was finally allowing herself to live it.

“Want some?”

She blinked, knowing she had a sappy smile on her face, but it was impossible to stifle. Not when she was so damned happy. He’d come to the arena tonight, and though she was working, doing some in-game evaluations of the players, he’d seemed to make it his job to make sure she’d eaten enough calories to fuel both teams down there on the ice.

Taking care of her.

She scooped up a hand of buttery popcorn and mock glared at him. “Still think I’m too thin?” she asked before shoving it into her mouth.

He nuzzled her throat as he dropped into the seat next to her. “I’m an asshole.”

“Yes,” she teased. “An asshole who brings me food and scarves, and takes me on weekends away. Who gives me orgasms, and hooks me up with a seat in a fancy box so I can work, all while practically waiting on me hand and foot.” She scooped up another handful. “Yup. You’re a real asshole.”

His lips twitched. “Glad we’re in agreement.” He leaned close and glanced down at her tablet. She had a notebook whose pages were scrawled with her shorthand, all color-coded. “What are you looking for?”

“Hmm?” She’d gotten lost in his eyes, in the stubble on the strong lines of his jaw.

He pointed to a column on the page. “I’ve been watching you take notes all game”—it was now final intermission between the second and third periods—“so, what are you tracking?”

She glanced from him to the page then back to him. “You really want to know?”

He lifted a brow but didn’t deem to answer.

Probably, because it was a stupid question. Okay, it was definitely a stupid question. When had he ever given her any indication that he didn’t want to know about her? (And no, she wasn’t including during the lost memory years.)

“I use this for the video that Dani sends me,” she said, nodding toward the tablet, “but most of that is done after the game because she and her assistants are too busy pulling stuff for the other coaches, and occasionally she’s reviewing goals—making sure they’re good, or deciding if the on-ice coaches should challenge one that was scored on the team.”

“And the notebook?”

“I work with most of the guys in the offseason, tuning up where necessary, making sure their conditioning is solid and prepped for game play.” Pride shimmied through her. She liked what she’d built, was happy with what she was doing. “That offseason time isn’t just with the Gold. Other players from the league come and see me for private lessons. This”—she nodded at the notebook—“is my little black book. I keep track of the things we’re working on, add any new bad habits that they might pick up, all in my patented shorthand.”

He grinned. “Chicken scratch is more like it.”

“Also that,” she allowed. “So anyway, it just helps me stay on track, and though I have a program the team had created for me to track progress, I’ve found that my color-coded notebook works better for my brain.”

“Tell me about the columns.”

She kept glancing at him as she explained her system and the color coding, trying to gauge if he’d lost interest in what she was telling him. Typically, this was where people lost their fight in staying interested and their eyes glazed over.

But he was engaged and asked questions that told her he was paying attention.

Which made her feel . . .

Well, it had her leaning up and kissing him soundly on the lips. “I love you.”

It made her love him even more.

He ran his thumb along her jaw. “So, tonight is just a check-in?”

“Sort of,” she said. “You know I usually work with the whole team during the preseason”—he’d seen her at the practice facility—“but I keep track of guys like Kay, for instance. I want to make sure he’s not skating in a way that might exacerbate his injury. And more than that, that he’s not picking up bad habits throughout the season.” She sighed and shook her head. “Though they do always seem to come back to the ice with them after every break. They’re like that Whack-a-Mole game. The moment I fix one, there’s another, and then when someone is traded or a rookie joins the roster, I have to evaluate them and then—”

She cut herself off.

“Anyway, that’s most of it.”

“Fan.” He lifted a brow. “We doing this again?”

“I—” She sighed. “You’re not bored.” He shook his head, causing her heart to flutter. “Brandon?”

His fingers found hers, squeezed. “Yeah, baby?”

“Be patient with me,” she said. “I’ve spent a decade locking down the part of me that wanted a romantic relationship with someone.”

Another squeeze, but no hesitation when he said, “Always.” He leaned close, brushed a kiss over her cheek. “I’ll just have to keep reminding you.”

“Will that reminding involve your tongue?”

A wicked smile. “Yes.”

“Will it involve your cock?”

His chuckle ruffled her hair. “Yes, love.”

“I’m okay with that.”

They’d both started laughing when a cry rang out behind them. Used to the children of the Gold running around—screaming, tears, and joy all mixed together and sometimes impossible to tease apart—she set down her tablet and notebook and stood.

Becca—the wife of Brandon’s boss, Devon—was holding their son, rocking back and forth, while the little boy cried.

“Sorry,” she called. “It’s this guy’s bedtime.”

Fanny was moving before she processed it, closing the distance between them and offering, “Want me to take him for a minute?”

Devon had been pulled out for a quick phone call, even though this was only supposed to be a working night for Fanny—or at least, that was how Brandon had sold the time in the box. She’d protested bringing her work to a situation that was supposed to be for fun, but . . . Brandon was convincing.

So, instead of being in the Gold box or bugging Dani in the video suite, she was here.

With Becca, who was looking exhausted and very pregnant and . . . well, she had two arms, didn’t she? And she’d held more than her fair share of kiddos since her tenure with the team. The halls and family suite were practically crawling with them.

“Do you mind?” Becca asked. “I was just trying to pack up our stuff, but he hit the wall.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I minded,” she said, taking a page from Brandon’s book—who she felt approach her shoulder, his fingers lightly grazing her nape, his chuckle in her hair.

“Well, then”—Becca passed Jasper over—“thank you.”

The little boy was strongly in toddler mode, which meant that trying to hold him when he was tired and wanting to run around was like trying to wrestle a crocodile.

But Fan was older and stronger, and she’d wrestled more than a few kids off the ice in her day.

She took a little walk around the box with Jasper, pointing out all the exciting things, using her teacher voice that distracted kids who were scared or those who wanted anything but what she was asking them to do. By the time they were on their second circuit of the space, Jasper was less crocodile and more . . . angry panda?

Okay, she didn’t know.

He wasn’t actively crying or trying to launch out of her arms, at least.

“Do you want kids?” Becca asked quietly.

Fan blinked and rotated away from the painting that had the toddler’s attention. Jasper caught sight of his mama and immediately wanted her, so Fanny passed him over. “Yes,” she said, her throat going a little tight when Jasper cuddled close and held tight to his mommy’s neck. “I’ve always wanted kids. Hopefully, I’ll—”

The buzzer rang, signaling the teams coming out, the same time Dev came back into the suite after finishing his call.

Fanny hurried to extend her thanks and say her goodbyes before heading back to her chair and her notebook.

She slipped past Brandon, and his face was drawn, worry written into the lines around his eyes.

“Are you—?” She started to turn back, but that worry was gone, his normal smile in place, as he shook Devon’s hand and said his own goodbyes.

She hesitated for a moment, wanting to make sure he was okay, but the whistle blew.

She needed to do her job.

One more look to make sure that he was all right, another to make sure his expression was back to normal.

Then she moved to her chair, telling herself that she’d imagined the look.

And that decision was catastrophic.

“Hey,would you mind sharing the picture they took of us at the winery?” she asked as Brandon unbuttoned the rest of his shirt.

He was hopping into the shower after having spent the day at a photo shoot with Kaydon.

That photo shoot had unexpectedly been moved to the beach after a pipe had burst at the first location, and his suit was not conducive to ocean air and sand. So, she’d met him here at his house instead of the restaurant so he could clean up.

Shethought he looked good enough to eat, no cleaning necessary.

His hair was windblown, the tops of his cheeks slightly pink, and his lips were a little chapped.

Surfer Brandon . . . in a suit.

Ha.

But that was why he was showering. They had reservations at the fancy restaurant he had originally booked the night after the raffle, and Surfer Brandon wasn’t the Brandon he wanted to be for dinner.

Shame for her.

Especially since he’d banned her from getting in the shower with him.

“Do you know what kind of favor I had to pull the first time to get this reservation?” he’d said, nudging her back when she drifted close and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Let alone the second?”

“No,” she said, coming close again and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I don’t care.”

He smelled like the ocean and sunlight, and she wanted to eat him up.

Another nudge back. “I’m taking you to dinner.”

Fanny pursed her lips as she stared at him. “Or you could just take me?”

He’d groaned and dropped his head. “You’re killing me, baby.” His lips were a hair’s breadth away, and he kissed her until she’d become a lump of need and desire, and then had scooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed.

She’d thought she won.

But he’d merely dropped her on his mattress and backed away, pausing only to toe off his shoes and socks and tug off his tie.

God, why was that so sexy?

Though not as sexy as him parting the fabric of his shirt, revealing smooth tan skin below as she watched, still on the bed. It was like her private strip show, and she had to say that she was kind of into it. Especially when he unbuttoned his slacks and stepped out of them and there was so much tempting skin on display that she almost forgot she’d asked him a question.

“Sure,” he said, nodding to the dresser that took up most of the wall by the bathroom. “It’s right here. The code is 1-9-2-2.”

Aw.

Those were the dates of their birthdays.

He noticed her face, and his own expression softened. “Told you, I remembered.”

“Want to come over and show me what you remembered?”

Laughter in his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And horny.”

More laughter, though this time it was bubbling up his throat and filling the air, and God, she loved that sound, loved that she could make him make that sound. Then he turned for the bathroom and she heard the lock clicking in place.

“You’re not going to bring it to me?” she called.

“Nope.” A beat. “Because if I do, we won’t make it to dinner.”

She pouted . . . for just a moment.

Then the shower came on, and she stopped her pouting, getting up and fussing with her dress—not the sexy black one from before, but a longer midnight blue one that hit just above the knee—in front of the mirror in Brandon’s bedroom. She’d paired it with a pair of sexy heels that she could actually walk in and wouldn’t be cursing if she had to stand in them for a fair amount of time.

And underneath . . . well, if Brandon knew what was beneath the silk, he wouldn’t have been in that shower.

It was expensive.

It was skimpy.

It was sexy as hell.

Satisfied the bed toss hadn’t messed up her hair or outfit, she headed to the dresser, snagged Brandon’s phone, and then typed in 1-9-2-2. She’d text the pic to herself and then she would get it printed. She already had a plan to put it in the empty space by the entryway so that she could see it every time she came home.

It was a great picture, reminiscent of that one from nearly two decades before.

Their arms around each other, smiles on their mouths, laughter and love in their eyes, and the employee from the winery had taken it at the absolute perfect moment.

Probably because they’d spent the afternoon making love outside at the secluded pond, and she’d been half-delirious from orgasms. Either that or filled with shock that they’d somehow managed so much outside naked time without getting caught.

She started to pull up the photo as she moved to grab her purse but tripped over the edge of the rug. Stumbling, his cell nearly flying from her hands, her fingers slipped on the screen, and she ended up jabbing the voicemail icon instead.

“Shit,” she muttered, straightening herself—and the skirt of her dress—and tapping the screen to exit back to the photos section, but then her eyes caught on the text of the voicemail transcript she’d accidentally started playing.

This is Dr. Lyon. I have the results . . . Please give me a call right away. It’s imperative we make some decisions . . .

Her fingers were frozen.

No, every part of her was frozen.

Results. Call. Imperative. Decisions.

Fuck. Was she losing him already?

She’d only just gotten him back and—her hands shook as she set the cell back on the dresser—and now—

Her eyes slid closed. She should . . .

Talk to him. Knock on the door, demand he let her in and ask that he explain how he’d gone from cured to results and imperative decisions.

But . . . she couldn’t breathe.

Black was intruding on the edges of her vision, and she stumbled again, this time into the dresser. Her hand came in contact with cool wood, and then she wasn’t thinking about talking. She was darting out of the bedroom, sprinting down the hall.

She was out the front door.

She was in her car.

She was driving. Far, far away.