I creep toward the door as if there’s a serial killer behind it. But the only thing I find is a beautifully decorated nursery.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathe.
It’s painted a pale pink. White curtains hang over the big windows. An off-white crib sits against one wall, and a dresser with a changing table is pushed up against another. Between them is an upholstered glider, one that I’d sighed over and posted on my Instagram account.
I shoot an astonished look at Tucker, but he’s too busy loving up Jamie. God, he’s too gorgeous for words. His biceps is bigger than her head, but he’s as gentle as a lamb with her.
That whole picture is Tucker, though. Strong, steady, with exactly the right touch to make his ladies melt. I know I do.
I wrench my gaze away from his bent head so I don’t launch myself at his poor unsuspecting frame. To my right, at the end of the room, a door sits slightly ajar. I head over to investigate and find an en suite bathroom. It’s too much.
“What’s going on? Did you win the lottery?”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Nope. I bought a bar. This came with it.”
“This?” I wave my hand around the room. “The pink room, the crib, the electronic keypad entry!”
“Okay, the building came with an apartment. I’m not done with the renos up here. That’s going to take a while. I was hoping to surprise you around November when the bar opened.”
Feeling weak, I lean against the wall. “I don’t know what to say.”
He strides across the room and tucks a hand under my chin. “Say that this is home. For you, Jamie, and me.”
I close my eyes so he can’t see the emotion in them—the relief, the gratitude, the overwhelming love I have for him. I don’t deserve him. Not one bit, but for some reason he wants me in his life.
I turn my face into his palm and press my lips against the warm skin. “I love this place. It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” And because I can’t help myself, I rise up on my tiptoes and throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you.”
One muscular arm clutches me close while the other holds our baby close. “This is going to work,” he murmurs. “You’ll see.”
I hope so. God, I hope so.
37
Tucker
November
“Holy shit! This place is sick.”
I flush with pride at Logan’s exclamation. Weeks of hard work have led to this moment, but my backbreaking efforts are made all the more worthwhile as I witness my friends’ reactions.
And I’m so fucking touched that everyone showed up to be here for me tonight. Dean and Allie rode in on the train from New York, and Coach Jensen actually canceled an evening practice so that all my former Briar teammates could attend my big opening.
But the most important guests are my two girls. Jamie’s strapped to my chest in a BabyBjorn, wearing a custom-made pink onesie that reads “Tucker’s Bar” in gold glitter.
Sabrina is beside me, dressed a little less fancy in faded jeans and a tight green sweater. Her full tits are nearly pouring out of the deep V-neckline, and every time I glance her way my dick turns to granite. I almost wish she was still moaning about the baby weight she’s carrying and refusing to let me touch her, because even though she doesn’t have her pre-baby body back, I’m horny twenty-four/seven.
“Hitting the head,” Logan says. “BRB.”
As he disappears into the crowd, Garrett sweeps his gaze over the packed bar. “I can’t believe how well the renovations turned out,” he marvels.
I look around, trying to see the room through his eyes. After I’d completely restored the wood paneling and exposed beams, I went on a hunt for sports memorabilia to hang on the gleaming walls. This isn’t technically a sports bar, but hey, I’m a hockey player. I can’t not have framed photos of athletes in my bar.
And it helps to have friends in high places. Garrett got me signed jerseys from several of his new teammates—many of whom are here tonight. One of the chicks by the pool table wasted no time blasting it on social media, and within an hour of opening my doors, I had people lining up to get in, hoping to land an autograph or chat up the professional hockey players.
The groupies, however, have been surprisingly unobtrusive, letting Garrett’s teammates drink in peace without harassing them too much. I appreciate that, because the vibe I’m going for is “neighborhood bar.” A place where people can come after work (or hockey practice) and just relax. Somewhere that’s not too loud and not too rowdy.
So far, it’s exactly what I wanted it to be.
“Thanks for all your help,” I tell Garrett, who shrugs off my gratitude. He deserves it, though. He gave up way too many days off to come here and help me rip up flooring and gut the bathrooms.