One night when a beautiful stranger dragged me to a party I did not want to go to (and almost didn’t), where she sexy-danced with me, kissed me, and pushed her way into my life with zero encouragement from me.
Thank God for that party, and the kiss, and just…all of—
“This is it,” Kit says in my ear, interrupting my thoughts with a sharp elbow to the ribs.
Sitting to my left is Billie, clutching my hand in a death grip as last year’s winners approach the podium. I give her hand a little squeeze in return and mouth, I love you and you’re going to win.
Feels like ages of time as each nominee is named with accompanying video and graphics up on the stage—
“The Grammy for Song of the Year goes to The Keeper, music and lyrics by Billie Hirsch.”
Yep, yep. My fiancée just won Song of the Year.
For a song she wrote about me.
I watch her make her way up to the stage to accept her award after the celebratory kisses and hugs from me, her parents, fellow bandmates, and Kit at our seats. I know this is all being filmed live, that we’re all being captured on video. Every gesture, facial expression, and probably any words I speak are being analyzed and deciphered by lip-reading experts who rabidly follow this sort of celebrity event. But I tune it all out and focus on my Billie. She’s the only important thing right now.
And I do mean only.
Because Billie Hirsch is drop-dead gorgeous tonight. Full stop.
Well, she has always been in my eyes, even from the very first time I saw her playing the drums in a small Vegas club. She caught my eye then as she catches it now…along with the millions of others watching this the whole world over.
I think I might be jealous of them.
She’s in a dark purple dress that clings to her skin like shimmering metal. Her vibrant violet-tipped hair, arranged in a single sculpted wave down her back in the vee of a very low-backed gown, is the stunning focal point as she makes her graceful approach toward the steps to the podium. This video clip of her going up to receive her award could be seen a billion times on every social platform and media format that reports the Grammys.
I know this.
Every eye in the place is on her, devouring every inch of her, admiring her talent and her beauty, falling in love with her if, by chance, they hadn’t already in the past year.
She’s mine, people.
Yeah, I’m definitely jealous.
My brain goes into a kind of fog as I try to process the magnitude of the moment, what this means for Billie…what this means for me…what it means for us. She’s a famous celebrity from a famous family of celebrities, even though she chose not to live her life that way for many years. She might have a harder time doing that now. But that’s where I come in. It’s my job to be there to support her and protect her from those who might try to take advantage of her fame and talent. Billie’s in good hands though. She has a family who loves her and me, of course, who’ll do whatever it takes to keep her happy and safe.
My worries fade away though as she begins her acceptance speech, her words of confident but sincere thanks to the fans and to all those involved with the song, captivating the audience into a pointed silence as they hang on to her every word. “…and finally, to my beloved for whom this song was written. You fill my heart each day more than the day before. If not for you, I wouldn’t be up here right now. My dream is realized because of you. My soon-to-be husband, my lover, my rock, my keeper. I might have to share your ‘keeper’ duties with the Vegas Crush, but, Calum Lefleur, you are definitely my keeper.” She points her statuette at me and then blows me a kiss before waving to an erupting crowd as she finishes.
The audience roars their approval as I prepare to respond for all to witness. A camera operator crouches in front of me, and the crowd goes weirdly quiet.
I do not care who hears me because…well, it’s totally irrelevant.
I am speaking to her and only to her.
“I am your keeper.”
I think the audience just sighed a collective awww around the room…
“And you are mine, Billie Hirsch.”
sneak peek of lucky puck
Vegas Crush #7
Please read on to enjoy the first chapters of LUCKY PUCK, Book 7 in the VEGAS CRUSH series featuring the new GM, Grant and Devon the team nutritionist who get quite the surprise after a one night puck they share in the off season. We’ll get to catch up with some of our friends from the previous books as well. All books in the VEGAS CRUSH series are STANDALONE contemporary romance with a happily ever after, and always plenty of steam burning up the pages. Available to PREORDER now.
1: max terry
Grant
“So it’s done then, hey?” Marcus asks as he takes a swig from his beer bottle. “The I’s are crossed and the T’s are dotted?”
I open my mouth to respond but then realize what he’s said. “I think you got that backwards, friend.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Whatever. You get the picture.”
I nod. “Yep. I signed all the paperwork yesterday in the presence of my lackluster divorce attorney. We’re selling the house and splitting the proceeds, but I might as well just hand her the money, considering the spousal support I have to pay.”
“Bitch cheats on you in your own bed and then asks you to pay her to go away,” Marcus answers, shaking his head of wild, blonde curls. “Did you at least get to punch Brady Frankel in the face?”
I cringe at his choice of word. Bitch. I just don’t like to talk about her like that. Even after she had an affair with one of my best friends. Even after she acted as if our fourteen years together meant nothing. “I’m not…Don’t call her that,” I say quietly, toying with the label on my beer.
“Dude, you’re too nice. Too much of a gentleman. She did you wrong.”
“She did,” I agree. “But I still don’t like that word. For any woman, really.”
He lifts his shoulder again. “Okay, man. Sorry. And what about Brady?”
“I’ve got nothing to say about Brady. He’s nobody to me now.”
“Gonna make work holiday parties a real hoot.”
I snort at this. He’s not wrong. The thought of having to be in a room together with the two of them, in front of the team and the whole office staff? No thanks. It curdles my stomach, actually. Makes my beer taste sour.
“Dude, this is a shit show.”
Marcus nods, his mouth set in a distasteful pucker. “With a capital S. I’ll bet you wish you’d never heard the name Margot at this point.”
Margot. We met when I was a twenty-four, just two years out of college. I’d taken my college team to the national championships playing center and there was no way I wasn’t going to make a career of the game I’d been playing since I could stand on a pair of skates. I went straight into the AHL and made a name for myself early.
One night, my teammates and I were out celebrating. The usual group of hockey groupies were hanging around, eager to spend the night with a pro player. Any pro player. But that wasn’t an interest of mine. However, my eyes did keep wandering to a table full of college-aged women, where a pretty, brown-haired, blue-eyed woman was trying hard not to catch my eye.