I wave the group over then make quick introductions. “This is Leighton McBride. She’s a freelance photographer I hope to work with more. She’s phenomenally cool so I wanted you phenomenally cool ladies to meet her too.”

  Josie flashes her trademark welcoming grin. “That’s good enough for me. How about us phenomenally cool ladies get chocolate and hang out?”

  “I’m game,” Leighton says.

  The five of us order a chocolate sampler and catch up on our weeks, but mostly my friends want to get to know Leighton.

  “What kind of photography are you into?” Josie asks, ever the inquisitive one.

  Leighton smiles, and it’s both a little bit sneaky and a little hopeful. “I’m trying to figure that out, and I’m dabbling in a bunch of things,” she says, then lowers her voice and says almost in a confessional whisper, “But I actually kind of like boudoir photography. I’ve been assisting at a studio and helping out a bit with that. I’ve done a couple shoots so far.”

  Maeve clears her throat as her eyes bug out. “Ma’am. Show us.”

  “Really?” Leighton asks, but it’s clear she wants to share.

  Fable nods, then makes grabby hands. “Now. Show us now.”

  Leighton swipes her finger across her tablet. “Just don’t tell my dad. I don’t know exactly how to have that conversation with him.”

  I give her a playful look. “Right. I was totally going to tell the coach,” I say, then gasp when she shows us her shots.

  They’re artful and sultry, pretty and powerful.

  “I’ve been researching why women do boudoir shots, and some do it for their partners, but a lot of times it’s because it makes them feel…beautiful in their own skin,” Leighton says.

  I sit up straight. She can’t know how that hits, but it’s like she’s speaking to my soul.

  “I’m in,” Maeve says. “I want to do one.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Fable teases.

  “Me too,” Josie says. “But I also want to give them to Wes. He’d like them.”

  Max would too, I want to say.

  Then another surprising thought hits me—a few weeks ago, I might have slammed the door entirely on a boudoir shot. I’m not saying yes to one, but it’s no longer an immediate no.

  That change in me feels like something I can be proud of.

  This is a project I took on just for me. An image makeover for how I see myself. One that is further along than I’d suspected.

  After we finish our flight of salted caramel chocolates, I say, “I have an announcement.”

  Josie gapes at me, like she’s worried I’m about to tell everyone that I’m involved with Max even though pretty much everyone knows how I feel for him except Leighton.

  But instead, I say, “Why don’t we go lingerie shopping right now? I happen to be a huge fan of satin and lace, and I can help you pick out the best sets for your shoots?”

  They’re pushing back their chairs and getting up and out of there in no time. And that’s another thing that feels empowering—shopping for pretty things with my friends.

  And I make sure to pick out something special for me because I have a feeling I’ll be ready for it on a secret date very soon.

  But not in Vancouver, where we go on Sunday for a quick away game. Though Max and I do have a secret date there. That is, if you count Max sneaking down to my hotel room to rip open a bag of popcorn and watch Pretty Woman—since we’re still in our makeover movie era.

  When the credits roll, he says, “I have an idea for our next date. Something you owe me.”

  I arch a brow. “I owe you now?”

  “You offered me a raincheck.”

  Oh. Right. When he asked me to skate. I actually haven’t been on skates in a year. No particular reason. I’ve just been busy. “You were serious about that?”

  He holds my gaze, his blue eyes intense. “I’m serious about everything when it comes to you.”

  Talk about subtext.

  My heart catches then speeds up, beating too fast for my chest. How is this man my former nemesis and now he’s romancing me like no man has romanced a woman before?

  “Yes,” I say, then I tug down his gray sweats and show him how much I appreciate him sneaking down to my room.

  We return with a win and some good media coverage, including a feature on Wesley Bryant. Feeling accomplished, I get ready for my next secret date with Max. It’s Wednesday evening, and I slip into the new lingerie I bought for him the other night, looking at myself in the mirror in the white lace before I put on a sweater. It’s my morning ritual but I’m doing it before our evening date.

  I don’t do it because I need to, but because I want to. Maybe, too, because I believe in my mantra now. Completely. “I am pretty and powerful,” I say, and I believe it. I am pretty and powerful.

  But it’s not because of how I look in lace.

  It’s because of what I can do with my body.

  I have a body that’s strong. That can climb a pole. That hangs onto it while letting go at the same time. I have a body that takes me to work, up stairs, around the city, and out with friends.

  I have a body with a wild, beating heart.

  And tonight, I can use this body on the ice.

  I walk into the rundown rink on the outskirts of Oakland with Max. It’s empty. The quiet is serene. “No one’s here,” I say, stating the obvious.

  “I rented it out for the night,” he says. “I get to have you all to myself.”

  And my heart somehow impossibly beats faster. If he keeps doing this, I’m going to…

  Actually, I don’t know what I will do. I truly don’t, and it’s a little terrifying. But then again, so is ice skating so I focus on that.

  “This is ridiculous,” I shout, feeling like a baby foal as I try to glide down the ice alongside the man who could truly do this in his sleep.

  “You’ve got this,” he says, encouraging me as he spins around, so he’s now skating backward. In slow-mo. And doing it perfectly. Of course he does it perfectly. It’s literally his job.

  “Why isn’t this like riding a bike?” I ask, my ankles wobbling.

  “Hockey is the best sport there is because it’s hard. But if you can pole dance, you can skate.”

  I laugh. “I’m pretty sure pole dancing and hockey have nothing in common.”

  He shrugs. “They have us in common.”

  This man.

  Another minute or so later, I bend my knees and lean forward like I was taught to do.

  “There you go,” he says with pride in his voice. “Now push off with one foot, glide on the other.”

  It’s a basic move and I do it. Soon, I’m getting the hang of skating again. I’m pushing off with both feet and gliding with both skates on the ice.

  “Beautiful,” he says.

  Then, I do a snowplow stop out of nowhere. “How about that?” I say, smiling like I've pulled off an Olympic feat.

  “I knew you could do it, Ice Queen,” he says.

  “Is that a new nickname?”

  “No. It’s how you were with me till I melted you,” he says with a playful wink.

  “You are so ridiculous,” I tease, “but I love it.”

  “I know you do,” he says, then offers me his hand.

  We’re not about to audition for the Ice Capades, but we don’t need to because he takes my hand and skates slowly and easily with me. We go round and round, picking up a little more speed each time. But mostly we’re just laughing and having a good time. It’s as perfect as a night can be.

  After several laps, we stop in the middle of the rink, and I’m breathless but exuberant. He tugs me against him, then runs his knuckles against my cheek. His eyes blaze with need. “I want to kiss you on the ice.”

  A shudder rushes down my body as I lift my chin, offering him my mouth. “Do it.”

  But he pauses, his eyes holding mine. “I mean at our arena.”

  My heart catches. Does he know what he’s saying? Of course he does. “Yeah?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say.

  “I do. I really do,” he says, as serious as he was when he asked me on this date.

  “I want that too, but I don’t know how to get there,” I say honestly.

  He leans in, presses his forehead to mine. “We’ll figure it out together.”

  Will we though? I don’t know how we can do that. So I don’t make any promises. But I can give him this. “Until then…practice now.”

  He cups my cheek and kisses me like I matter. Like he means it. Like he wants more than secret dates.

  And the more I feel that certainty with him the more I start to think about how much I want to find a way to get there.

  But I’m also thinking about something else entirely. Something I’m finally ready for. I break the kiss, then say, “Come to my place now. Say yes.”

  “You had me at come.”

  We’re out of there in seconds.

  41

  ALL THE IMPERFECT PIECES

  Everly

  The lights in my room are soft, but not dim.

  The music beats, low in the background—a playlist I cued up. I don’t even know what’s on it. I don’t really care. It just covers the jackrabbit pace of my heart. The thump, thump, thump that’s hard and insistent against my rib cage.

  And far too fast, but there’s no way to slow it down. We kick off shoes, and in the doorway, I reach for Max’s hand and lead him across the hardwood to my bed. I stop a foot away, facing him.

  “Hi,” I whisper. I don’t know why I’m saying that. I’m just nervous.

  “Hey,” Max says, soft and tender, too, and maybe also a little bit nervous. But I think they’re nerves of anticipation. Perhaps of hope.

  I didn’t tell him what I wanted tonight.

  Just in case I back down.

  My stomach swoops, dipping like a boat battered in the North Sea as I fiddle with the top button of my jeans, fumbling once, then undoing it, then the zipper. It sticks and I laugh. “These zippers,” I say.

  “Let me help,” he says, steady and reassuring. With a quick tug, he gets it unstuck. He unzips it the rest of the way. With strong, sure hands, he skims the denim down my thighs to my ankles.

  I step out.

  His eyes drink me in from my bare legs up to the white sweater I’m wearing, landing on my face. He runs his thumb along my jawline. Then he waits for my next move.

  But that’s easy still.

  “Your turn,” I say as I tug on the bottom of his dark blue Henley and whisk it off. A sigh of appreciation escapes my lips—he’s so strong. But he’s not simply carved and toned from the gym, like an athlete should be. He’s rippling with rugged muscles, tough and battle-tested. He looks powerful in his own skin. His body is trained to stop goals but he can also carry you across the room and set you gently on a bed. Wiry chest hair descends from his pecs down to his abs. His biceps boast a few scratches. A couple blue bruises decorate his forearms.

  I want to keep exploring all of him. I run my hands down his arms, tracing all the lines and marks on him, the little blue lakes, the scratches, and even the scar on his eyebrow—that unfairly sexy scar.

  My hands roam back down to his strong chest, and I cover his pecs then play with his nipples. He groans, quick, unbidden, a gust of breath coasting across his lips that forms my name like a plea. “Everly.”

  Chills erupt over my skin from the sound of him. I drag my nails down his abs.

  He shivers.

  I inch closer, dip my face to his chest, and run my nose from his pecs up to his throat, where I kiss his Adam’s apple. “Midnight Flame,” I say. Then I revise that to, “My midnight flame.”

  He runs his fingers through my hair. “You’re possessive.”

  “And you like it,” I say.

  He presses an equally possessive kiss to the top of my head. “No. I love it.”

  I look up and he lets go of my hair, one hand capturing my waist. I blow out a breath and reach for the hem of my white sweater and tug it off. I’m wearing a tank top along with the white bra and panties. But still I’m standing in front of him with no wall behind me, no couch against my back, no pillows to sink into.

  No safety net to hide behind.

  I don’t think my heart has ever beat this fast. “Why does this feel like the first time with us?”

  He swallows, his expression shifting instantly to something vulnerable and earnest too. “Maybe it is.”

  There’s that hope in his voice. A tenderness as well. And something else—something so safe I didn’t know I was looking for it until I found it in him.

  Another song begins and that’s as good a reason as any for me to reach for his jeans. He helps me along, unzipping and pushing them down, and in no time they’re off. He’s wearing only a pair of snug boxer briefs that don’t do a damn thing to hide his obvious—very obvious—arousal.

  That thrills me. It thrills me so much. I don’t know that I will ever get enough of his want. It’s the opposite of my last experience. It’s the other side of how I felt with Gunnar. It’s the evidence I constantly crave. So I reach for his hard-on, squeezing it, drawing out a sharp gasp from his lips. I run my palm up and down the steely length of him, then look in his eyes. There’s lust there of course. But patience too. He’s been so patient with me.

  My heart beats furiously in my throat as I grab the bottom of the tank top and tug it off. I’m standing only in the white lace set I bought last week—a demi-cup bra and bikini panties with little embroidered flowers on the waistband in pinks and purples. His eyes glimmer with heat and also something like awe. “You are just…extraordinary.”

  My breath catches but I don’t say a word. I’m afraid to talk. I’m afraid I’ll just sob. I’m not sad. But I am one exposed nerve. I take his hand and walk backward to the bed, bringing him with me. He’s facing me the whole way. I sit on the mattress and look up at him. Like I’m at the edge of a cliff and the water is an inviting crystal blue, I slide a finger invitingly along the strap of my bra then jump off. “Do you want to take this off me?”

  He grabs my face and holds me with such intensity that I feel precious as he says, “I do.”

  It’s said urgently, with a wild desperation and, more so, a complete understanding of the question.

  Max starts with a kiss on my right shoulder since he’s sitting on that side. Then he blazes a trail of kisses up to my neck as his hand slides around to my lower back on my right side—the smooth side.

  Then he shifts me so I’m turned toward him. He dips his mouth to my left shoulder, kissing me there, journeying along that raised, red scar. He’s kissed me there before, many times. Touched me there every night. Seen that scar and the ones on my upper arm in the past. But we both know where this moment is going—well beyond my shoulder, well past my arm.

  With a firm hand on my chin, he raises his face, and with his eyes on me, he says in a steady, confident voice, “I’m going to unhook it.”

  He’s not simply giving me a play-by-play. He’s giving me a heads-up that he’s going to touch my back for the first time. Everywhere. I swallow and nod, granting permission once more, even though it’s already been given.

  His big, calloused hands cinch around my stomach, sliding over both sides of my back. They reach the hook and he undoes it, then lets the delicate lace fabric fall free, slowly sliding down my arms. He catches it. Sets it down on the bed.

  He’s seen my breasts before, of course. But it feels different when he cups them, weighs them, then lets go. It feels different because when I lift my chin and meet his honest gaze, I say, “You can look.”

  There’s a pause as he runs the back of his fingers along my cheek. He drops a tender, adoring kiss to my mouth, then shifts his weight. The mattress sinks. He moves on the bed, kneeling behind me for the first time.

  I hold my breath. I’ve been here before. I’ve been left alone here before. My heart beats in my throat. Emotions swim up my body. Memories, too, along with images from the night of the accident. But I breathe through them, past them, cataloging the beat of the sultry song in the background, the faint scent of midnight and longing, the softness of the duvet.

  And him.

  While I want to lower my face, I don’t do that either. I stay strong because I am strong. I know that now. I believe that now.

  A second later, Max’s big hands cover my shoulders, then glide slowly, tenderly. He’s like an archaeologist touching a treasure for the first time. One hand coasts down the smooth skin on my right side, the other along the bumpy, scarred, once-burned skin on the left.

  He touches each side of me the same way. His touch is hungry and reverent as his hands travel all over the terrain of my body, the map of the last three years of my life. Then it’s no longer just his hands on my back. They’re joined by his mouth. Hands and lips and the scratch of his beard as he kisses all the imperfect pieces of me.

  “I love them,” he says in a gravelly rasp.

  I turn back to him, unsure I’ve heard him right. Because I’m not sure anyone could say that. “What?”

  He clasps my cheek, drops a kiss to my lips that he finishes with a desperate sigh, then returns to my back. “I love them so much,” he says, his own voice full of emotion, like he’s fighting to keep it together. With a shudder, he kisses my back more urgently, all over. “Because they mean you’re alive,” he says, then he raises his face and bands his strong arms around me, pressing his warm chest to my back, clutching me against him like I’m the treasure he’s keeping safe. “You’re alive and here with me.”

  Just in time.

  I clasp his hands in front of my chest and hold on tight. But I can’t hold back the tears that flood down my cheeks. He is so much more than I’d ever imagined. “I’m here,” I say, but it’s not a whisper this time.

  It’s steady and strong, like how I feel with Max Lambert.

  “And I love them. I love everything about you, and most of all, this,” he says, his hand sliding up and between my breasts where he spreads his palm across my heart and covers it. Like he’s protecting it. Like that’s all he wants to do for me. Protect me.