Crashed

by Elise Faber

  Brandon snorted.

  Ethan sighed.

  Fanny found herself grinning for the first time since she’d come to the ice, and the guilt twining through her insides all but disappeared when she glanced at Brandon and saw that he was smiling, too. “What do you think, baby?” she asked. “Should we try our hand at makeup sex?”

  Ethan snorted this time.

  Brandon’s smile widened.

  Then he took her hand, hauled her away from Ethan, and kissed her senseless.

  When she surfaced, Brit and the others were cheering. Brandon nuzzled her throat, nipped at her ear.

  And then he took her home.

  And Brit was right because makeup sex was the absolute best. It was made even better when paired with her sexy as hell underwear (which convinced Brandon that he didn’t really care about the favors he’d had to call in to get the fancy dinner reservations that they’d missed . . . for a second time).

  But what made it the best was Brandon holding her close afterward, stroking her hair, and saying, “Babies?”

  She smiled and rolled to face him, knowing that while all the fear of losing him hadn’t been erased and probably never would be, that she wasn’t giving up. Shifting, she rested her hand on his chest, leaned down, and stared into those gorgeous deep brown eyes as she declared, “I can’t wait to have babies with you.”

  “Fuck,” he hissed.

  Fan pulled back slightly, thinking she’d hurt him somehow. “What?”

  His hand rested on her hip, tugged her back. “Just that fuck, I love you.”

  “Goof,” she teased, leaning close to kiss him, not caring when he pulled her to move fully over him so that she could straddle his hips.

  That was right where she wanted to be.

  The kiss broke. His mouth got to work, was joined by his fingers.

  Pleasure began to coil, her pussy was drenched, need had her wanting to slide down and take him inside—

  Wait a minute.

  “Why condoms?”

  Brandon’s forehead was sheened with sweat, his cock was rock hard just millimeters from where she was desperate to have it. His eyes . . . well, his eyes said he didn’t give two shits about her question, only that he get inside her and send them both into oblivion.

  “What?” he rasped.

  “Why have we been using condoms all this time if you can’t have kids?”

  He blinked. Once. Twice.

  Then he flipped them, pressing her back down into the mattress. “I don’t know if I’m definitely shooting blanks, baby. Figured it was better to be safe than sorry.”

  She smiled.

  “Any more questions?” he asked against her skin, trailing his mouth down.

  She bit her lip. “One.”

  A sigh, his mouth slowing to lave at her belly button. “Lay it on me.”

  She ran her fingers through those soft curls. “Will you come inside me?”

  This time, his blink made her smile. But not for long because he recovered from his surprise quickly. He slid inside, wiping the smile from her face. She groaned, held on tight, and went along for the fucking glorious ride that Brandon gave her.

  Stroking deep and hard, steadily driving them both up and over the edge.

  It was glorious.

  It was perfect.

  And then when he rolled to the side and held her tight, whispering in her ear, “I really hope I’m not shooting blanks because that was fun, and I want to do it again,” and they both burst out laughing, it somehow grew even more perfect.

  Because Brandon was there.

  Because she was finally living her life.

  Because they had laughter and love . . . and the potential for him to not be shooting blanks.

  P.E.R.F.E.C.T.

  Epilogue

  Brandon

  They were lying in bed, as had become their habit, talking about nothing, one of Fanny’s movies on in the background.

  They still hadn’t made it to that fancy restaurant.

  He couldn’t give two shits.

  Because he had Fan in his arms.

  But it had been six months since that night when everything had threatened to fall apart but instead had all come together, and he figured it was time.

  He slipped from the bed, pressing a kiss to Fanny’s head when she asked where he was going. He’d just moved into her house that morning, and his boxes were stacked at the edge of the bedroom (and in plenty of other places), but what he needed was in the suitcase he’d stashed in the closet.

  Deep down, beneath some other papers. He’d stumbled upon it when he’d cleaned out his filing cabinet.

  Another notebook.

  Only this time, it was one he’d written in.

  One he’d started after his second surgery.

  There were entries of being in the hospital and going through physical therapy, cataloging his recovery, jots of the things he remembered.

  And drawings. Later, after she’d gone, there had been so many drawings.

  All of one thing.

  He brought it back to her, along with the folder he’d had put together for just this moment.

  “What is it?” she asked, sitting up, the blankets tucked around her chest.

  “This,” he said, handing it to her.

  Fanny froze, then slowly her eyes came back up to his. “What is this?”

  “I think you know,” he murmured, climbing on the bed and sitting down next to her.

  Her gaze dropped, her fingers tracing over one of the pages, over the drawing of a house. Then flipping the page and seeing the same drawing, again and again and again. There were different details each time—outside a wraparound porch, a large back yard with a pond similar to the one they’d made love next to, a swing set, a winding path leading to above ground vegetable planters; and inside a large kitchen with a huge island, the upper cabinet doors made of glass, a laundry room, a huge sectional, a pantry door with frosted glass emblazoned with the word “Pantry.”

  Stone and warm wood. Granite and tile. Huge rugs and colorful throw cushions.

  He’d drawn every angle inside and out.

  Over and over again.

  “How?” she breathed.

  “I don’t know.”

  This was the house that he and Fanny had dreamed about building. The one they’d discussed from the moment they knew they were going to be together forever. They’d discussed the kitchen on the phone when she’d been touring after her silver medal. They’d talked about furniture after he’d aced his finals. They’d planned the pond when he stayed up late to talk, her lying in his in bed after a tough practice. The pantry was during chemo when he couldn’t keep anything down. The swing set after he’d finished with his PT.

  It was the culmination of late nights and long conversations on the phone, of long, drugging kisses followed by whispering in each other’s ears.

  It was all of the small moments, the smiles and laughter, the quiet satisfaction after meals shared, the cool kiss of the night’s air when they snuggled together in the back of his truck and stared up at the stars in the sky.

  “When did you do this?” she whispered.

  “After the surgery,” he said, as she flipped another page, “and far after you left, all the way up until I remembered.”

  Her eyes were glassy with tears when she glanced up at him. Then she went back to studying the pages, slowly turning through each one until she reached the end of the notebook. “It’s beautiful,” she said gently.

  It was.

  Because it was their dream.

  “So,” he said, handing her the other thing he’d retrieved, the folder he’d put together, and taking the notebook. “I was kind of hoping that we might be able to live there.”

  Fanny frowned. “But it doesn’t exist.”

  He opened the folder, showing her the sheaf of papers. Each packet had a listing of lots of land for sale in the area. Any of which could house their dream, could be the place where they built their future
. “Pick,” he murmured.

  “Bran,” she whispered, tears slipping free.

  “I—oof!” He’d started to lean forward to wipe her cheeks, but suddenly found himself sprawled back on the mattress, her arms around him.

  “You wonderful, wonderful man.”

  Then she kissed him until he forgot about the papers, about the dream of the future, about everything except for the dream of now.

  Of this woman, who’d found the courage to love him.

  Of this time together, never promised, always precious.

  Of this chance to build something new and never look back.

  Only later—much later—did they go through the papers and narrow it down to two that they would visit in person.

  Then he topped off Fanny’s glass of wine, stole a handful of her buttery popcorn, and held her close as they watched a movie that was not full of blood and gore.

  But instead, it was filled with love and a happy ending.

  And Brandon thought that was pretty damned perfect.

  P.E.R.F.E.C.T.

  Epilogue

  Part Two

  Scarlett

  Fanny all but sailed across the ice, pretty and graceful, and on a love-hazed cloud.

  Scar’s heart squeezed tight.

  It would have been nice if she’d fallen for Charlie, but it was pretty damned great that she’d fallen for Brandon.

  Who was working at a table in the corner of the rink, his laptop open, his earbuds in, papers spread out on the chair next to him. Even though he had a cushy corner office at Prestige Media Group, he preferred to bundle up and work where he could see the woman he loved.

  A little girl was crying on the ice, but before Scar could make her somewhat shaky way over to her—they couldn’t all be graceful silver medalist skaters—Fanny knelt and comforted the little girl, and in just a few seconds, they were both on their feet and back to class.

  And Brandon was staring at his woman with warm eyes.

  God.

  She wanted that.

  No. No, she didn’t. She wanted to keep working. As assistant publicist for the Gold, her job was to manage the team’s social media and do her best to keep the public loving them.

  It wasn’t hard.

  The guys were great.

  As great as Brandon was.

  “Mrs. Scar.”

  She blinked, forcing her eyes away from Brandon and his obvious affection for Fanny, and looking down at the tiny boy at her knees. “Hey, Dominic. Everything okay?”

  His bottom lip wobbled.

  Oh shit.

  “Hey, buddy,” she said, clumsily getting to her knees. “Talk to me.”

  That lip kept wobbling and was now joined by tears.

  Fuck.

  “Candace said that I’m bad at skating.”

  All the kids were bad at skating. That’s why she—equally as bad, or perhaps maybe marginally better, depending on who was judging—was helping out with class. She wasn’t good enough at skating to help any other time.

  Front and back.

  Slow turns.

  Doing her best to not eat shit.

  And mostly she succeeded.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell him they were all terrible.

  “You’re doing really good, buddy,” she said. “You’re just learning, and I know you’ll be good in no time.”

  The tears were still there, but they were slowing. “Really?” he said, snot trailing under his nose.

  “Really,” she said, shuddering. She started to pull a packet of tissues out of her pocket, kept there for exactly this reason, but before she could get one out, someone else skated over.

  Someone tall and handsome, who had her in a constant battle to keep her panties up and around her hips.

  They just wanted to drop right off anytime Kaydon was around.

  He had arms that made her drool, a strong jaw with a hint of stubble she wanted trailing over her skin, and lips that would pillow perfectly against hers.

  If only they didn’t work together.

  She liked this job.

  She loved this job.

  Which meant she wanted to keep it.

  And while the Gold were a treasure trove of couples working together and living out their happy endings, Scarlett didn’t have that track record.

  When she was in a relationship, things never went well.

  And that unwell transitioned into her life, her job, her happiness.

  She had terrible taste in men, and when those relationships ended, her shit got dive-bombed. She lost her job. She got kicked out of her apartments. She was dogged by debt collectors, or psycho ex-girlfriends she hadn’t know existed (or were wives, in one case—and not the ex-variety—and the reason the man she’d been dating had become her ex), or mothers who were pissed that the wedding they’d been planning without Scar’s permission (or their son’s, for that matter) was off.

  So, suffice to say, she was on a break from men.

  It was work and friends and rebuilding her life.

  No. Men.

  But one look at Kaydon when he’d joined the team made her want to reconsider her hiatus. But it was more than his glorious jaw and yummy stumble. He was nice and talented and was just a really decent guy.

  Case in point?

  Now.

  Kaydon bent next to them, scooped up Dominic. He said something that made Dom laugh, and he didn’t seem to care when Dom rubbed his snotty nose against Kay’s shoulder.

  His big hand came to the back of Dom’s helmet, and then he took off with the little boy in his arms, zigging and zagging through the cones, avoiding the other kids effortlessly.

  Dom laughed and held on and by the time they circled back, both man and boy had huge smiles on their faces.

  A moment later, Dom’s skates were on the ice, Kay holding him steady as he spoke quietly.

  Scarlett couldn’t make out the words, only could see Dom nod intently before he threw his arms around Kaydon’s neck. And, oh sweet baby Jesus, her ovaries, because Kaydon didn’t hesitate, just hugged him back and patted him lightly on the helmet before lightly pushing him forward so he could rejoin the other kids. Scar could barely resist the urge to clamp her hands to her heart and sigh, the longing to know him better was so intense.

  Used to shoving that longing down—she’d done it for nearly an entire season—she pushed to her feet and continued to patrol the ice, making sure everyone was happy and tear-free and staying far, far away from Kaydon, lest he see that longing.

  Eventually—thank God, for her ovaries—Fanny blew the whistle, and the classes were over.

  Scar’s feet ached, but she started cleaning up the ice, so Fan didn’t have to, trying deliberately to not notice that Kaydon was picking up cones much more rapidly than she was.

  And moving closer to her and her bumbling self.

  “I can get this, you know?” he rumbled, skating past her, a pile of cones in his arms.

  Much bigger than the pile she’d managed to collect.

  “I know,” she said.

  Not that he could hear her.

  He was already on the other side of her ice.

  The rink had cleared out. The kids in the lobby, Brandon and Fanny in deep discussion over something at his makeshift workstation. Scar lumbered to the door to the ice, her cones the worst sort of Jenga tower, and managed to just barely climb up the step as Kaydon returned from stashing the supplies around the corner.

  “Let me,” he began.

  She walked right by him.

  “Okay,” he muttered.

  She ignored him. It was much better for her sanity.

  But apparently today, he was done with her ignoring him. “What’s your problem?” he asked, following her into the narrow hallway.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, gracelessly bending so she could place the cones on the stack.

  She mostly succeeded.

  Mostly because a few tumbled off and scattered on the gr
ound. Stifling a curse, she knelt and started picking them up.

  So did Kaydon.

  Fucking hell. She was trying to be good.

  “Scarlett.”

  Cones. Cones!

  She set one on the stack, but because she wasn’t paying attention, that setting resulting in knocking over, and the cones went everywhere.

  Shit.

  She reached for them, hands flailing, trying to shift around without slicing hers or Kaydon’s—since he was too damned nice and still helping her—fingers off.

  “Scarlett.”

  A warning this time.

  Glancing down, she realized exactly where she was reaching. His crotch. Well, for the cone that was less than an inch from his crotch.

  She froze, but before she could pull back, his fingers encircled her wrist.

  Warm and a little rough.

  Her lips parted on an exhale, and she shivered.

  “Scarlett,” he said again, and this time his voice was like his fingers, warm and a little rough.

  She wobbled. He shifted a little closer, smoothing a lock of her hair off her cheek. “Why don’t you like me, Scar?”

  Still processing all that warm and rough and him smoothing back her hair, it took her a second to process his question. But the moment she did, she unstuck, laughter bubbling up her throat and filling the air.

  He let her laugh for a minute before his hand—the one not tracing light and lovely circles on her wrist—reached up and cupped her cheek. “I don’t love being on the butt end of a joke, baby.”

  That stoppered up her guffawing.

  His thumb moved, swiped at the skin beneath her eyes, and she realized that she’d been laughing so hard, she had tears on her cheeks.

  “You’re not a joke, Kaydon.”

  He was so far away from that it wasn’t even funny. She was the joke. She was the one who was trying to be good.

  She was the one who was going to fail.

  Again.

  Because she leaned forward, whispered before he could reply, “It’s not that I don’t like you, Kay. It’s that you are the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”

  And then she kissed him.

  —Cycled is coming October 5th!