Time of Possession (Seattle Lumberjacks #5)

by Jami Davenport

  “She made her choice,” he repeated.

  “Fight to get her back,” Tyler said as it were that easy. “Tell her you can love her like no one else.”

  “I don’t know. I—”

  “You’re a smart guy. Figure it out.” Tyler turned and headed for the door.

  “You’re leaving already.” Brett followed him.

  “Yeah, Lavender is waiting for me. We’re spending the weekend in San Fran, getting some sun.”

  An few hours later, Brett lay in his bed, Blackjack cuddled next to his head, while Risky stretched out against his back snoring and oblivious to the turmoil inside. Humphrey, who’d be returned to his soldier daddy in a few weeks, slept beside the bed.

  If only he could live the life of one of his pets, no worries other than when the next meal might be served and when the next ball might be thrown. Yeah, that’d be the life.

  Only he wasn’t a dog, cat, or foul-mouthed parrot. He was just a man, a man striving to do the right thing and be a better person today than he was yesterday.

  Just a man who’d run out of reasons why he shouldn’t go after the love of his life.

  * * * * *

  Estie wiped down the counters in Sylvia’s vet clinic where she’d been working the past month. Sylvia followed her.

  Sylvia sighed, one of those sighs that warned she was quickly losing all patience. “You need to go.”

  “Are you firing me?” Estie felt like an idiot. Her mind had been elsewhere for a month, ever since Brett moved out of her apartment. Even working with sick and injured animals didn’t seem to take her mind off of the man with those sad pale blue eyes.

  “No, I’m kicking your ass out of here. Go find him.”

  “I can’t.” Fear shot through Estie. Find him? So he could slam the door in her face? Berate her for being an idiot, a coward, and running?

  “Of course, you can. He chose San Francisco.”

  “I told him I couldn’t handle his dark places.”

  “But you can. You’re a strong woman.”

  “I can’t control what happens, how those wounds affect him.” Estie’s leaned against the counter and twisted the towel in her hands.

  “You love him. He loves you. You don’t need to control anything. You need to be there for him, and the rest will work itself out.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Your mother’s one smart woman, and so am I. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Could it really be that simple? Could she let go of her need to control and live with the uncertainty of all those dark places she knew nothing about? Could she do that for Brett? For herself? For them?

  “What if he says it’s too late?”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  Estie hung her head, not knowing if she could garner the courage to face possible rejection from the man she loved. “Why haven’t you encouraged me to go after Brett before now?”

  “Because you needed time to figure it out, to be ready to give your heart and soul to the one man who deserves it, despite all the messiness that goes along with a relationship.”

  And just like that, Estie knew Sylvia was right.

  Truer words were never spoken.

  Since the Super Bowl she’d realized she could live without being in total control.

  But she couldn’t live without Brett.

  * * * * *

  One more week passed, one more lonely, torturous week in the life of Brett Gunnels.

  Brett paced the living room floor, cell phone gripped tightly in his hand, while his animals sat on their haunches in a row watching him walk back and forth, their heads swiveling like spectators at a tennis match.

  Stopping in front of the window, he stared at the phone. Estie’s number was displayed on the screen. He tapped Send then a second later hit End and cut off the call before the first ring. He paced some more. His animal audience still watched his every move.

  “Dumbshit. Dumbshit. Brett is a dumbshit,” Bongo sang happily, ringing his bell then jumping from perch to perch.

  Brett paused before Bongo’s cage and almost laughed. “You know what, buddy? You sacked this quarterback with those words. You’re right.”

  “Bongo’s right. Bongo’s right. Bongo’s always right.” Bongo preened and ruffled his feathers. Risky groaned and lay down, head between his paws.

  Brett dialed again with a shaking hand. On the fifth ring, it went to voice mail. Estie’s soft, sultry voice came across the cellular waves. Brett gripped the phone as he listened to her.

  Hi, you’ve reached Estie. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.

  Simple. Nothing special, but his heart raced and his breath caught, as if she were reciting a love poem or engaging in pillow talk.

  Clearing his throat, he left a message. “Estie, it’s Brett. I love you. I miss you. I can’t live without you. You’re the sun that shines in my heart, the sparkle in my morning, and the meaning to my day. I want to make this work. Call me. Please.”

  Damned if he didn’t sound like the pathetic lovesick fool he was.

  Brett wandered around with his phone for hours. Jumping at every call, checking the charge on the phone every few minutes, and verifying the bars and the volume level.

  He tried to maintain a positive attitude, but it was tough—fucking damn tough. She didn’t want to talk to him, despite Tyler’s claims that Brett was the guy. Apparently Brett wasn’t the guy.

  Brett sighed and lay back on his couch. He started the video of last year’s San Fran team, analyzing the weaknesses and strengths of the guys who would be his teammates next season. He tried to concentrate, but his mind kept flipping to Estie, to his phone call, and wondering why she didn’t at least tell him to fuck off if nothing else. He’d understand that. If that’s what she wanted, he’d respect it.

  At midnight, his doorbell rang. Risky started barking, Bongo started bitching, and Blackjack glared at everyone for upsetting his quiet evening. Brett had been ass-deep in the beginning of a nightmare, one of those recurring ones that’d faded into the background when he’d been with Estie. For so long they’d been few and far between and lost their power. Lately, they’d been gaining momentum again, and he hated it.

  He made a mental note to find a good PTSD counselor, but first he needed to bitch out the person at his door.

  He glanced at his watch and frowned, worry replacing his annoyance over a few bad dreams. Midnight? Who the hell knocked on someone’s door at midnight unless it was an emergency? Unless Harris had come back for round two. Now that wouldn’t surprise him one bit.

  Brett tamped down his panic and channeled his inner soldier, the one that stood strong when the entire world blew up around him. Whatever waited on the other side of the door couldn’t compare to what he’d been through in the Middle East.

  Still, Brett wasn’t an idiot. He cautiously opened the door and peered out. Dozer and Marilyn sat on his front porch gazing up at him, tails thumping. With a shaking hand, Brett removed the rolled-up paper tied to Dozer’s collar and the envelope tied on to Marilyn’s. He glanced around but didn’t see anyone else.

  Brett unrolled the parchment paper and read the message written in Estie’s handwriting.

  I miss you. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.

  His heart beat right out of his chest, right up into his throat.

  He tore into the envelope. Inside was a Super Bowl ring. His ring. The one he’d earned. A small note was rolled inside it. “This is yours, and maybe we can discuss another ring of even greater importance.” Somehow she’d gotten his ring from the team and brought it here.

  A grin spread across his face. “Are you proposing?” He called out into the darkness.

  A figure moved from behind and tree and approached him until she stood under the porch light several feet from him in tight jeans and a black sweater covered in dog hair. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “I love you, Estie.” Brett bounded down the steps and droppe
d to one knee in front of her. He grabbed her hand; it was sweaty just like his. “I love you. I’ll always love you. I pledge my love to you and you alone. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes, as long as you share all your dark places with me.”

  “I will, I promise. I’ll tell you everything, and together we’ll fight through it.”

  Estie dropped to her knees in front of him and threw her arms around him. “In that case, my answer is a big yes.”

  “Love you. Love you. Love you.” Bongo screeched from inside the house.

  Estie drew back and smiled at Brett. “Love you instead of fuck you? Now that’s an improvement.”

  “I’ve been working on him.” Brett grinned. He lifted her up and spun her around until they both collapsed in a dizzy heap in his front yard, dogs dancing around them and jumping on top of them, wet tongues and sloppy kisses all around.

  Brett’s life would never be the same, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  An advocate of happy endings, Jami Davenport writes sexy romantic comedies, sports hero romances, and equestrian fiction. Jami lives on a small farm near Puget Sound with her Green Beret-turned-plumber husband, a Newfoundland cross with a tennis ball fetish, a prince disguised as an orange tabby cat, and an opinionated Hanoverian mare.

  Jami works in information technology for her day job and is a former high school business teacher and dressage rider. In her spare time, she maintains her small farm and socializes whenever the opportunity presents itself. An avid boater, Jami has spent countless hours in the San Juan Islands, a common setting in her books. In her opinion, it is the most beautiful place on earth.

  Did you enjoy this book? Drop us a line and say so! We love to hear from readers, and so do our authors. To connect, visit www.boroughspublishinggroup.com online, send comments directly to info@boroughspublishinggroup.com, or friend us on Facebook and Twitter. And be sure to check back regularly for contests and new releases in your favorite subgenres of romance!

  Are you an aspiring writer? Check out www.boroughspublishinggroup.com/submit and see if we can help you make your dreams come true.