by G. , Whitney
“Okay, yes and let’s leave.”
He kissed me without any regard for the guests, without caring whether they were recording this or not.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered. He threaded his fingers through my hair as he owned my mouth, making me remember just how badly I’d missed him, too.
When he finally pulled away from me, a few of the guests clapped.
“Can the two of you get the hell out of here now?” The curator groaned. “I have real estate to sell.”
We laughed and Hayden clasped my hand, pulling me out of the room. He led me onto the elevator, pressing his mouth against mine all over again as the car went down.
When we made it downstairs, he pushed me against a wall and kissed me so deeply that I silently promised to never go that long without kissing him again.
“My place or yours?” he asked.
“Yours.”
“Good choice.” He wrapped an arm around my waist, leading me down the street and toward his car. He held me tighter when the first photog stepped in front of us.
He kissed my forehead as two more started flashing their invasive cameras.
“No umbrellas in this rain?” “Are you two an item now?” “Any comment on Hayden’s letter, Penelope?”
Hayden opened the passenger door and helped me inside without saying a word to them.
He moved to the driver’s side and sped onto the street.
Holding my hand behind the gear shift, he looked over as we approached a red light. “What exactly did you have to talk to me about next week?”
“A communication schedule.”
“What?” He scoffed. “You honestly think I would follow something like that just to talk to you?”
“It was for co-parenting,” I said, pausing. “I’m pregnant.”
He put the car in park and looked over at me.
“Before you ask, there’s no need for a paternity test.”
“I wasn’t planning to ask that at all.” He glanced at my stomach. “How far along are you?”
“Thirteen weeks,” I said. “Are you scared?”
“Terrified.” He leaned over and kissed me, ignoring the honking cars behind us once the light turned green.
“Tell me something, then,” he said. “A communication schedule for a friendship would be one thing, but why did you think something like that would work once I found out that you were carrying my child?”
“I was willing to include a few no-strings attached sex provisions if you kept up your end of the deal.”
His lips curved into a smile. “A few would never be enough.” He ran his fingers through my hair. “I’m looking forward to a true new beginning with you, Penelope, but I want to make sure that I’m never in the way of your dreams.”
“I understand that.”
“Good,” he said. “I also want to make sure that you remain open with me and always tell me what you want, so I can give it to you.”
“In the bedroom?”
“That’s a given, but no.” He shook his head. “I mean in everything. Tell me.”
“What about letting me drive your car?”
“Don’t fucking push it.” He laughed, kissing me again. “I’ll have to take you to a parking lot this week and test that out first. What do you really want?”
Fifty One
A few months later
Penelope
I ran my fingers across a spool of red ribbon, letting out a breath as I read the words that were embedded in the trim.
[The Perfect Feather: Ice Skating Pavilion ]
The grand opening of my rink wasn’t scheduled until months from now, but I’d made it my personal mission to oversee all of the custom details for the ribbon-cutting ceremony.
My mother’s collection of medals and awards would soon have a new home on the far-left wall, right next to mine.
In between ours, I’d leave spaces for other women to show off their accomplishments. I already knew that the skaters who’d signed on to work with me in the spring had high chances of developing long-term careers on the ice.
I also knew that I could still possibly train someone who could help me get to “twenty-eight,” via the Olympics coaching rule someday, but it was far better to have twenty-eight students and counting instead.
Smiling, I walked over to a pair of skates on the bench, resisting the urge to put them on.
“I could’ve sworn we agreed that you wouldn’t come here until after our son was born.” Hayden’s deep voice made me turn around.
“Since you know me, you should’ve known that was a lie.”
“I did.” He smiled, kissing my forehead. “I also knew to fly home early if I wanted to know what you’re truly doing. This doesn’t look like hanging out with Tatiana.”
“You don’t know what it’s like to sit through hours of anime with a superfan.” I shook my head. “How’d your meeting with Sarah and Lawrence go?”
“Good.” He wrapped his arms around my waist. “They’re happy to move to the next level. Speaking of which, on a scale of one to ten, how happy are you with me?”
“Eight.”
“Only eight?” He raised his eyebrow.
“It would be a ten if you could get the tabloids to stop printing their daily, ‘How long will Penelope Carter last with Hayden Hunter?’ game. They run multiple versions of that story a week.”
“I told you that you’re not supposed to read that stuff.”
“I’m still working on it.”
“Hmmm.” He kissed me, pulling a small red box from his pocket. “Tell you what. The next time they play, you should join them and bet on forever.”
He stepped back and got down on one knee.
I gasped as he grabbed my hand and looked up at me.
“I wanted to propose to you months ago,” he said, “but I knew that you would want the traditional approach, i.e., asking your parents, which is unfortunately impossible.”
“Please tell me that you didn’t ask my brother instead.”
“I did ask your brother.” He smiled. “He said, Hell no. But I did ask him.”
I laughed.
“He came around after a few days, though. Even if he hadn’t, I would’ve done this anyway.” He squeezed my hand.
“Penelope Carter, I’ve been in love with you since breakup number fifteen,” he said. “I wish I’d told you then, and that we’d never had to go through a Cold War at all.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“Nonetheless, I’ll never put you through another one, and I want to spend the rest of my life as more than your boyfriend.” He looked deep into my eyes. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Yes.”
He slid a massive diamond ring onto my finger and kissed my hand before standing up. Pulling me into his arms, he kissed me until I was nearly breathless.
“I’m glad that you’re my first and last relationship,” he whispered against my lips.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I know that I’ll never have to give you a breakup title.”
* * *
THE END
Break Up #17
The One That Owes Me An Apology
EPILOGUE
Hayden
Don’t forget that you owe me an apology.
I know that you made assumptions about me that didn’t come true when we first met in the prologue. I could see you.
You probably thought I’d cheated on my best friend somehow or done something completely unforgivable.
Either way, since I’ve spent most of this novel doling out apologies like candy, I think it’s only fair that you extend one to me.
I’ll even email you one of Penelope’s templates.
I’m waiting.
—
The End
(Again)
Author’s Note
Thank you so much for downloading Hayden & Penelope’s love story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Up next from me is On a Wednesday, a friends to lovers/second chance/swoon-worthy novel that features a world you’ll want to jump into and never leave.
Sign up for my newsletter—The F.L.Y. List, so I can let you know the moment it goes live!
If you’ve never heard of it, it is Book 2 (total standalone) in The One Week Series, and you can get a sneak peek of Book 1 in the series (On a Tuesday) by flipping the page.
On a Tuesday
A second chance romance
We met on a Tuesday.
Became best friends, then lovers, on a Tuesday.
And everything fell apart on a Tuesday ...
Charlotte Taylor has three automatic strikes in my book: 1) She hates me. She also claims that I'm a “domineering jerk with a huge, overbearing ego.” (I do have something huge. It's not my ego, though.) 2) She takes our mandatory tutoring sessions way too seriously. 3) She's sexy as hell ... And a virgin.
* * *
At least, those were her strikes before our study sessions started lasting longer than they were supposed to. Until one innocent kiss became a hundred dirty ones, and until she became the first woman I ever fell hard for.
* * *
Our future together after graduation was supposed to be set:
* * *
Professional football for me. Law school for her.
But she left me at the end of the semester with no explanation, and then she completely disappeared from my life.
* * *
Until tonight.
We met on a Tuesday.
Became everything, then nothing, on a Tuesday.
And now it's seven years later, on a Tuesday ...
Grayson: Now
Present Day
New York City
GRAYSON CONNORS WINS SUPER BOWL MVP, AGAIN
GRAYSON CONNORS LEADS NEW YORK TO CONSECUTIVE SUPER BOWL WIN
CONNORS’ LATE TOUCHDOWN LIFTS NEW YORK OVER NEW ENGLAND
I read this morning’s headlines for the hundredth time and forced myself to smile. I tried to feel something—anything, but it was no use. This wasn’t what “winning” was supposed to feel like, and I would know because—well, I almost always won.
As a heavy snow fell over Manhattan, I walked over to my balcony and watched a construction crew adjust a new billboard that read, “Go, Grayson Connors!”
Last year, I’d celebrated the championship by joining my teammates in a reckless five-day party in Las Vegas. We’d drenched our team plane in thousand-dollar champagne, demanded over the top accommodations for the Super Bowl parade, and basked in the never-ending attention from women who wanted to know “what it felt like to sleep with a champion.”
But this year, when the game clock struck zero, and the score was in my team's favor, I felt no excitement at all. I coasted through the ensuing media interviews with a fake smile plastered on my face, and I didn't bother flying with the team to Vegas. I came straight home and called the police to report the flock of groupies that was waiting outside my condo.
I decided to host my own private celebration, but when I scrolled through the five hundred contacts in my phone, I realized that there were only two people worth calling: My mother and my best friend, Kyle. Then again, my mother didn’t believe in leaving her house for non-emergencies when it snowed, and asking Kyle to celebrate days after defeating his team in the game was a bit egotistical. Even for me.
I’ll ask him about it next weekend …
I scrolled through my contacts again, hoping I’d missed someone, but the results were the same. Frustrated, I tossed my phone at the wall and turned on the TV.
As the announcers walked through their favorite moments of Sunday’s game, a knock came to my door.
Confused as to why my doorman would let anyone up to my floor without asking me for permission first, I walked over and looked through the peephole.
Anna?
“We’ve talked about this, Anna,” I said, opening the door and letting her inside. “You’re supposed to call and ask me if you can come up here first.”
“I’m your agent.” She scoffed and held up her phone. “I called several times because you just bolted after the game. Since you didn’t answer, I was worried.” She looked around the room. “Am I interrupting a celebratory orgy or something?”
“No.” I groaned. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to personally congratulate you on winning your second Super Bowl.” She handed me a bright pink envelope. “I’m so proud of you, that I actually wrote inside of this card.”
“You came all the way over here just to give me a card?”
“Of course not.” She smiled and pulled a manila envelope from her purse. “I have a few things I need you to sign, and a few time-sensitive deals we need to negotiate.”
“That sounds like it can wait until next week.”
“It could, but what if one of us dies before next week? What if you hurt your throwing arm between tonight and this weekend and suddenly, you realize that no one wants to endorse an injured athlete?”
I gave her a blank stare. This woman was the most anxious person I’d ever met. She was undoubtedly the best when it came to doing her job, but her anxiety made her incapable of relaxing, so she never took a day off. She used the word “time sensitive” for everything, and I knew just by looking at her, that none of what she had to say to me today was that crucial.
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” I said. “I’m not spending my entire day on paperwork.”
“Fair enough.” She carried her envelope to my living room, turned on the fireplace, and hit mute on the television, like this was her house. Then she slipped off her heels and plopped onto my sofa, rearranging the ESPN and Sports Illustrated magazines on my coffee table.
“Would you mind making me a cup of coffee, Grayson?” she asked. “I’m thirsty.”
Okay. Now, you’ve got five minutes.
I filled two of my “Yes, I’m That Good” mugs with coffee and took a seat across from her, bracing myself for bullshit.
“Let’s start with the simple things first,” she said, sliding her phone to me. “The gossip blogs caught a picture of you dining with a mystery woman inside of a Tribeca restaurant a few nights ago. I know how annoyed you get about your privacy, so if you want to kill the speculation, would you like to confirm that you have a new girlfriend or tell them that this is just a fling?”
“I would like to tell them to go fuck themselves.” I rolled my eyes. “I was treating my mother to a private dinner. It was her birthday.”
“Oh.” She tapped her fingers against her phone. “Okay, well that’s now handled. Second thing, you’ll need to read over these contract amendments and sign off on them by tomorrow. Speaking of amendments, the last time we spoke …”
I tuned out her voice and sipped my coffee as she spoke a mile a minute. Without giving her my full attention, I knew that every other phrase that fell from her lips was “speaking of that contract,” “I need you to sign this,” or “Oh! Now, this one is really time sensitive.” By the time she finally stopped talking, an entire hour had passed.
“You went over by forty minutes,” I said, standing. “Whatever we haven’t discussed will have to wait. Hopefully, both of us will still be alive by then.”
She laughed. “Fine. Just make sure you’re all packed for your class reunion at The University of Pittsburgh. You’ll need three suits at most, something to wear on a golf course, and your old college jersey, of course. Delta Airlines has promised to leave two first class seats open on all their NYC to Pitt flights for tomorrow, so no need to feel rushed.”
“What?” I raised my eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your class reunion. It’s this Tuesday night.”
“Since when do college classes have seven-year reunions?” I asked.
“When your class is full of achievers, I guess.” She handed me an ivory envelope.
I opened the invitation and i
nstantly remembered when she’d first given it to me months ago, when I agreed to “do whatever they needed me to do.”
I clearly wasn’t thinking straight.
“They want you to give two speeches,” she said. “One before the fireworks, and one at the farewell ceremony. I’ve made a draft of both speeches, a list of additional things you may want to touch on, and a photo collage of your college memories that you may want to look over while we fly. You’re welcome.”
“I don’t recall saying thank you.” I shook my head and returned the invitation. “I’m not going to this. Get me out of it now.”
“Grayson.” Her face paled. “Surely, you know how terrible it will look if you back out of this the day before. You’re the surprise, special guest speaker.”
“I don’t care.” I walked away from her. There was only one person who would make me consider going to that reunion, and since she never came to any alumni events I’d attended over the years, I didn’t need to waste my time. “Tell them something came up. You can also tell them that I’m more than willing to address the crowd via Skype.”
“Grayson, listen.”
“I didn’t stutter.” I kept my voice firm. “End of discussion.”
“Okay.” She stood to her feet. “Well, now that you're not going to the reunion, I guess we can get your contract renewal with Nike out of the way. I'm having lunch with a few of their team members tomorrow, and I can make that happen, if so.”
