by Gina Azzi
I laugh.
“Or to you,” she adds.
I reach over the center console and slip my hand into hers. “I love you, Claire.”
“Now you’re getting ahead of yourself on a first date.”
I grin. “You going to give me a hard time all night?”
She shakes her head, smiling as she leans over the console and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Not the whole night.”
I squeeze her hand before dropping it so I can pull out of her driveway. Right before I turn onto the street, she says, “And I love you too. I always have.”
The Ivy is a chic restaurant in downtown Boston known for its trendy atmosphere, award-winning menu, and celebrated mixologists. Getting a reservation is like trying to get Hamilton tickets—nearly impossible, unless you know who to ask.
Clearly, I called Noah. As always, my brother came through.
Dinner at The Ivy is an experience. But the dessert is on another level.
“Oh my God,” Claire moans, biting into the tiramisu. “This is…”
“Heavenly?” I try.
“Orgasmic,” she groans.
I snort and she closes her eyes, a smile spreading across her lips.
“I can’t believe you ordered the entire dessert menu.” Her fork hovers over the raspberry cheesecake.
I shrug, taking a sip of my tea. “I’d be an idiot not to with the sounds you’re making.”
She blushes but her eyes dance and dazzle. “This is fun.”
“Dating?”
“Being with you again. I missed you, East.”
“I missed you too, Claire. God, I was such an idiot. I’m sorry, babe, really, truly sorry for the shit I put you through.”
She shakes her head, placing her fork down. “No, I kind of understand it. I mean, you totally could have handled it better, but your heart was in the right place.”
“I talked to my dad.”
“You did?” She leans closer.
“Yeah. I set some boundaries, got some things off my chest. I feel…lighter. Does that make sense? I don’t know, Claire. The last year has been challenging as hell. But I feel like it’s starting to come together and it’s mainly because of you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You did a hell of a lot more than you think.” I reach for her hand, gliding my fingertips over her smooth skin. “You woke me up and gave me a purpose.”
“Which is?” She lifts an eyebrow, her tone skeptical.
I smile at her. I know she thinks I’m going to say something funny but instead, I give her the truth. “You made me want to be a better man. For you, for me, for us.”
“For us,” she whispers, her eyes flickering with a hope she’s too worried to give into.
I lace our fingers together and give her my truth. Honest, direct, straightforward. “I’m done taking risks, Claire. I want to do this the right way with you.”
“What’s the right way?”
“Whatever way you want.”
She laughs and I grin.
“I want to date you and make love to you and fix your coffee in the morning. I want to support your dreams and see you in my number at my games. I want to live together, in one room, with one bed. You can pick it out.”
Her smile widens but her eyes fill with tears. I squeeze her hand and continue, “I want to make a life with you, Claire. But I want to do it right. So it’s gotta be at your pace and it has to make sense with the life, the future, you want. What do you think?”
She blinks back the emotion in her eyes as she squeezes my hand back. “I think I want all of that. Everything you just said, I want it. Times a million. Always.”
I grin at her and she smiles back and we stare at each other over a table of decadent desserts.
“I have a surprise for you,” I whisper.
Panic flares in her gaze. “You’re not proposing, right?”
I snort. “Well, if I was, I wouldn’t after that expression.”
She rolls her eyes. “I just mean, I’m not ready for…”
“I got you, babe. It’s not a ring. I think right now, you’ll like it even better.”
“What is it?”
“It’s back at my place.”
She gives me a look. “You’re not the present, are you?”
I laugh.
“Because that’s hardly original, East.”
I shake my head. “It’s not me either. But thanks for thinking I’m such a great catch. Jesus, I thought you weren’t going to give me shit the whole night.”
She laughs and drops my hand to scoop up a bite of cheesecake. “Then take me home, East. I want my present. And then, I’ve got one for you.” She waggles her eyebrows.
“Who’s being cheesy now?” I ask but I love it.
I love her.
28
Claire
My mouth drops open. “An office? You made me an office?” I can’t help the hushed awe in my voice as I drag my hand over the signage on the guest bedroom door. Except it’s not a guest room anymore. ClaireBear Designs, in my brand colors of teal, silver, and white stare back at me. The sign even has my new logo, a small bear with an off-center hat with a star on it. “Oh my God, East.”
“Open the door,” he says.
I glance at him, suddenly nervous.
He bites his bottom lip and the fact that he seems nervous too gives me the courage to turn the doorknob and step into the room.
I gasp, my breath lodging in my throat. It’s beautiful, breathtaking even. White walls with a bold, teal accent wall around the huge window that overlooks the street. A gorgeous oak desk with a white and light gray chair. Silver wire baskets and a desk set sit atop the desk, already filed with office essentials. An iMac sits in the center of the desk, causing my eyes to nearly fall out of my head.
I stand in the center of the room and slowly spin around. Each detail that my gaze catches on causes the lump in my throat to swell larger. There’s even art. Three pieces of mixed media that depict Boston’s musical legends, local venues, and popular city details hang along one wall while the other showcases built-in bookshelves. There’s a set of geode agate bookends that look awfully familiar. I step closer to them, grinning when I realize they’re from my bedroom at my parents’.
I glance at East. “How did you…”
“Indy,” he explains. He shuffles back on his heels, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
I close the distance between us and throw my arms over his shoulders. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Easton. This is, God, it’s beautiful. I can’t believe you, I mean, how did you even…” I blow out a breath and kiss him hard. When I pull back, I’m pleased to see the happiness that rings his irises.
“You really like it?”
“I really love it.”
He breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good. I’m glad.”
“How did you pull this all together?” I ask, spinning around again.
“I had some help.” He laughs. “One of my teammates from college, his wife Charlie is an interior designer. She’s pretty big time in New York City now, but when I explained this project, she leapt at the chance to help out. Indy’s recruited her to do the baby’s nursery. I have her contact info if you want to change anything.”
I shake my head. “No way. This is perfection.”
“Good.” He drapes his arm over my shoulders and pulls me into his side. “Then it’s yours.”
“So, I’ll be going to the office now?” I ask, glancing up at him.
The color in his face heightens and I hold back my laughter. Easton Scotch is blushing!
“I don’t want to rush anything, Claire. Your dad gave me some good advice—”
I groan and he chuckles.
“But whenever you’re ready, I’d love for you to move back in. In the meantime, yes, consider it like you’re going to the office. We even have coffee.”
I laugh and snuggle deeper into his side. “Thank God because Mom is driving me insane.”
/>
He glances down at me, his eyes bright with humor. “Mary? No.”
We both laugh and I turn into his embrace.
Easton threads his fingers together at the base of my spine and pulls me closer. Reaching up onto my tippy toes, I raise my mouth to his. When he kisses me, the entire world melts away and it’s just us again.
Easton kisses me with promise and I kiss him back with my unwavering certainty. This time, I know we’re going to be okay. This time, I truly believe we are meant to be.
In every fiber of my being and in the deepest part of my soul, I know that Easton is mine the same way I am his.
And the second the playoffs are over, I fully intend to move in.
His lips drag over my cheek, down the column of my neck. I arch into him as his hands drop, squeezing my ass.
I giggle and pull Easton down to the floor with me. The fluffy white rug cushions my head as his body shadows mine. Easton pulls back and grins at me as I unbutton the line of buttons on his dress shirt. Then, he drops his head again and kisses me slowly.
We christen my office before moving on to the other rooms in the house.
And it’s perfect. Perfectly us.
Epilogue
Torsten
Taps is quieter than usual tonight. Maybe it’s because I’m here earlier? I glance at my watch. It’s 9PM.
Maybe it’s because Tuesdays are slower? Nah, that’s not it.
Maybe it’s because you’re realizing just how alone you are?
The thought rips through me and I gesture to Pete, the bartender, that I’m ready for a shot. Last week, my hockey team, the Boston Hawks, qualified for the playoffs. I was riding a natural high, filled with excitement and pride. I was so thrilled, it was easy to block out the increasing pressure around my knee when I push onto the ice. I was even able to ignore the tightness in my shoulder that extends to my chest when I’m aggressively stickhandling.
But then yesterday happened.
Yesterday, I sat down with Hawks owner, Scott Reland, Coach Phillips, and senior management. I had the toughest conversation of my career, of my life, and it ripped me wide open. But, the truth will do that to you.
I had to admit that my body is broken. That I’m not recovering from the hits and the surgeries and the layering scar tissue the way I did a decade, hell, even five years ago.
As much as I wish it wasn’t true, it’s time for me to hang up my skates. A bittersweet taste, more bitter than sweet, fills my mouth and I pick up my beer and take a swig. I can’t imagine my life without hockey. It’s been the one constant I’ve clung to since I was a nineteen-year-old kid. The one thing I could count on, save for Farmor, my grandmother. But she’s in Norway and I’m here and…
Unless I can find a way to stay in Boston, I’ll be forced to leave the US when my contract expires at the end of June. I rub my palm over my chest. That’s the real issue, isn’t it?
I toss back the tequila and let its warmth unfurl through my body.
Of course losing hockey hurts. But losing my home, the life I built, the only life I truly know, aches right on top of it.
I manage to grin at some guys who sit a few seats over at the bar, shooting me glances.
I’ve been in Boston for so long, a part of the Hawks franchise for so many years, that even fans forget that I’m not from here. Can I really move back to Oslo now? After all this time? With so many irreparable wounds between Father and me? Between my brother Anders and me?
“Hey Pete,” I call out. When he looks up, I tilt my head. “I’ll take another shot, please.”
“You got it, Hansen. We’re all pumped that you’re heading to the playoffs.” He pours the tequila and places it in front of me.
My stomach knots and my chest tightens. I force a smile. “Thanks, man. I can’t wait.”
A group of women, three friends, mid-twenties, enter Taps. The little bell jingles over their heads and they giggle. They’re beautiful, every single one of them, and I take a moment to study them.
When the brunette looks up, her eyes catch mine, and her gaze lingers for a beat too long. The invitation in her glance is clear as day and I chuckle, tipping my shot glass in her direction before taking it.
I wish I had a woman to go home to. I wish I didn’t have to make all of these decisions on my own. But I’ve been on my own for a long time now.
Last night, my lawyer Bill joked that the easiest, fastest way to stay in the States would be to get married. Married.
The longer I sit at the bar, the more an idea grows in my mind. An idea I shouldn’t even consider. But here I am, turning it over like it’s a viable option.
I’ve been a perpetual bachelor for so long, I don’t know the first thing about being in a serious relationship. I definitely know nothing about marriage.
But I do know a lot about commitment and communication and living up to my word.
I frown. This is crazy, right?
Who would even want to marry me?
Black hair, dark, mysterious eyes, and a rosebud mouth flash in my mind. Curves that make my mouth water and hair I want to tangle my fingers in, knot around my knuckles. I shake my head, pushing the images from last month away. All I did was make sure a drunk girl, my captain’s little sister’s best friend, got home okay. Nothing happened between us save for some innocent flirtation.
Nothing that would lead me to think of her like this. Now.
Still, my eyes are pulled back to the women at the end of the bar. They’re laughing and talking, their hands gesturing, their wine glasses dangling from their fingers.
What if I had a woman, a partner, to share my life with? What if I had someone who loved me, a wife to go home to?
What if I could find a real reason to stay?
Do you love marriage of convenience romances? How about billionaire heartthrobs? If yes, then you don’t want to miss Torsten and Rielle’s story! It’s hot and sweet and overflowing with feels! Preorder The Faker now! Coming April 21.
Hey Reader!
Hi lovely reader!
Thank you so much for reading The Risk Taker! I hope you fell a lot in love with Claire and Easton as they navigated their complicated, gritty love story. I was easily swept up in their angst and hope while writing this book. If you want to share your thoughts, please consider leaving a review.
Desperate to learn more about Norwegian sex god, Torsten Hansen? Make sure you check out his and Rielle’s emotional, unexpected, marriage of convenience, in The Faker. There’s a lot of intensity, misunderstandings, desperate feelings, and a trip to beautiful Norway included!
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Keep turning the pages to check out my other books and read a snippet of Broken Lies, an angsty Hollywood Romance.
Thank you so much for all of your support.
XO,
Gina
Broken Lies
Zoe
Two truths and a lie.
Moments ago, Eli Holt, famous Hollywood heartthrob, walked into Shooters Pub and discarded his winter coat and scarf in a booth.
My best friend and co-worker, Charlie, may pass out from excitement.
Meh. Holt doesn’t really do it for me.
Liar.
Eli Holt does it for every legally aged vagina in the universe, and a significant number of penises too.
Holt is larger than life, his presence sucking the oxygen straight from the pub. Not just because he’s the sexiest man to ever grace this bar — which he is — but because he’s a bona fide celebrity hailing from the same streets of our nondescript Chicago suburb.
Even though I don’t follow the celebrity news printed in Gossip or care about who’s dating who in a circle I don’t understand, I’d have to be living under a rock to overlook Holt’s rugge
d good looks and dedication to his craft.
He turns toward me, setting off in the direction of the bar, and tugs some of his merino wool sweater up on his forearms. I nearly drool; hard muscle, corded veins, strong hands…where the hell did my chill disappear to?
Green eyes latch onto mine, amiable yet aloof, both present and not. Still, my heart stutters in my chest as his eyes slowly peruse my face, like he’s trying to gauge my reaction to him, maybe wondering if I recognize him. Thick, brown hair, cut close to his scalp on the sides and left longer on top, is perfectly styled. Several days of stubble coat his steel jawline, adding an edginess that speaks to the playboy persona celebrated in the tabloids.
He saunters closer, his bulging biceps and strong back pulling at the merino wool, stretching it. Appreciation causes the corners of my mouth to tick up as I drink in his traps and lats the way an art collector salivates over a Basquiat. This man is a rare commodity, a contemporary Adonis, a perfect specimen of male anatomy.
“Hey, can I get a beer?” Fred, one of the regulars, shakes his empty pint glass.
“Not now, Fred,” Charlie answers, never dragging her eyes away from the sex god who approaches the bar, commanding the space around him like a drill sergeant.
Heads swivel in his direction. While a logical part of my brain acknowledges it’s because he’s famous, the nerves and energy dancing around my stomach also know it’s because he looks like every bad decision every woman’s been tempted to make. At least once.
Green eyes pierce me to my core, causing Charlie to jab me in the ribs with her index finger. “He’s going to talk to you,” she whisper-hisses.
He stops in front of me, dropping his elbows to the bar. “Hey. A bucket of Heinekens and three shots of your top tequila.” His voice is low and rumbly, tugging on the strings that hold my pelvic floor in place.
