WHEN I ARRIVE for the team dinner at the old mansion in Shaughnessy, a notoriously wealthy, old-money neighborhood in Vancouver, I notice two things.
The first is that Hartley looks fucking stunning.
I stand in the foyer, slack-jawed and staring at her in her navy-blue gown while my heart races. Hazel Hartley is the most beautiful woman I know. My throat knots as I try to swallow.
Between that crystal dragon that she obviously liked but wouldn’t admit, the dress, and the envelope tucked in my tux jacket, I’m becoming addicted to spending money on her.
The second thing I notice is that fuckface, McKinnon, circling her like a vulture. He stands two feet away, talking to her while she looks disinterested. His eyes rake over her, lingering on the perfect swell of her cleavage.
He cheated on me the whole time. Everyone knew but me.
My tongue taps my upper lip as jealousy and possessiveness charge through me. Players greet me as I move toward her, but I hardly notice.
Our argument on Wednesday showed me how much I have to lose with her, and I’m not going to give up.
“Hazel.” My voice is low. Her eyes widen, either because I’m using her first name or because my hand now rests on her low back in a way that shows everyone in the room she’s mine. “You look beautiful,” I tell her, and my heart pounds as I lower my mouth to hers.
She inhales sharply, and for the longest moment of my life, I worry she might push me off, but she melts against me, kissing me back, and in my chest, something locks into place.
