Page 76 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
He’s in front of the press, smiling that lethal smile that’s been haunting my dreams. He’s charming the reporters, talking aboutthe goal he just scored and how he’s helping boost team morale. Like he belongs here.
I hang back in the shadows, keeping to the side as flashes go off and mics are thrust into his face. He says all the right things. He’s magnetic. And mine.
No. Not mine.
Just technically. For now.
I’m about to turn around. Maybe I’ll come back later. Or never.
But then the reporters disperse toward another teammate, and his eyes lock on mine like a heat-seeking missile. Like he felt me there before I had a chance to get away.
Everything in me jolts because I seehimin an instant. Everything we began that night in Vegas.
“Maddy! How did you find me? What are you doing here?” he nearly yells. Then he runs toward me, across the room like no one else exists. His arms are around me before I can blink. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”
I push him back, my palms flat against his chest, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
“What the fuck?” he says, stunned.
“Not here,” I whisper. “Come with me.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. I grab his hand and drag him into the nearest supply closet, where balls and nets and adrenaline live.
The second the door closes, he’s on me again. His lips crush mine and my entire body betrays me—melting into him, kissinghim like I’ve missed him for years, not weeks. It’s salacious. Addictive. Sexy.
It’s heaven.
When we finally break apart, gasping, breathless, I feel the ground shift beneath my feet.
“Why the fuck did you leave me?” he growls. “Without so much as a fucking word or telephone number?”
He’s beautiful. Angrier than I like seeing him, but still, god,sobeautiful.
And then I notice them. “You got more tattoos?”
Before, they were mostly hidden, limited to just his chest and back. Now they’ve started creeping down his arms, curling around muscle and skin like temptation in black ink. And I’m trying really hard not to drool.
He shrugs, chest rising and falling with barely restrained tension. “I misplaced a wife.”
I blink. “I don’t see how the two correlate.”
“I stress-ink.”
“You what?”
“I get tattoos when I’m stressed. It’s a thing. For me, anyway. And you left.”
His hands grip my waist again. “As long as you’re here, the need to ink goes away.”
“Declan,” I whisper.
“You remember my name now, I see.”
He pulls me closer, and I feel every inch of him. His desire. His frustration. His determination to have me.
“I need to say this.” I place my hands on his chest again, trying to push logic between us. “Las Vegas, what happened in Vegas, it was a mistake. We can’t be married. I can’t be your wife.”
His face falls. “What the fuck are you talking about?” He lifts his left hand, points to a fresh tattoo on his ring finger. “We made vows.”
