The Game Plan
Page 92
His chuckle is a rumble I feel through my body. With a quick, affectionate kiss to my cheek, he walks off to collect the stepladder and put it away.
“How’s the shop going, Fi?” Anna asks.
Last April, I’d picked up my first client in New Orleans, Ethan’s teammate Rolondo Smith.
Rolondo had me redecorate his condo and then his beach house in Florida. When he found out I’d planned to open my own business, he offered to back me financially. And while Ethan had insisted that he wanted to help me with funds, I finally made him realize that I needed to do this without my boyfriend’s help. In October, I opened a furniture-design shop on Royal St.
“Really well,” I tell Anna now. “I’m at the point where I need to hire an assistant.”
“More like two,” Ethan says. “So my girl can spend more time in her workshop.”
I love that he knows how cathartic it is for me to spend time working on my pieces, and how much attention he pays to my work.
“This is true,” I say to Anna. “Definitely two assistants.”
I’m still working with Jackson and Hal, selling furniture to their New York clients, who pay top dollar. To say business is booming is an understatement.
When Ivy goes to check on Leo, who is napping in the bedroom, Drew and Ethan help me set the table. Anna and Gray fuss in the kitchen. Apparently they’re picking up an argument they started this morning about brining versus basting the turkey.
Gray had argued with a complicated mathematical defense, complete with statistics and water-retention ratios, that had our eyes glazing over. Though he’d gotten his way in choosing the method of cooking—mainly because no one could stand hearing him talk nerd any longer—he and Anna are back at it again. Because Anna still thinks brining is better.
Ethan ends the argument by pointing out that the damn bird is done and could we please just eat it now?
“You’ll see,” Gray promises as he carries out a golden brown turkey worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Simple butter basting produces a superior tasting bird.”
“A dry bird,” Anna retorts.
Despite their bickering, we’re all looking forward to our meal as we sit down at the table—one of the first pieces created in my new workshop. Made of reclaimed cypress wood, it’s wide and long enough to seat twelve. With six of us here, we have room to spread out, which is good since the table is laden with food.
Football players eat. A lot. But I’m not complaining. Especially when I have Ethan’s big, strong body to play with on a daily basis.
I watch him as he leans over to light the candles. He’s dressed in jeans and a dusky blue button-down that hugs his broad chest. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the colorful tats on his forearms. Those arms can toss around tractor tires without breaking a sweat and hold me as gently as if I’m made of blown glass.
A beard—not as full as it used to be but no less sexy—shadows his jaw. His hair is growing out too, still super short on the sides and sticking up in thick, dark brown spikes at the top.
He’s so damn hot, he leaves me breathless every time I look at him. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t jump on him at that first Christmas party.
Catching my gaze, he winks and sits at my side. One hand slips under the table to settle warmly on my knee while the other lifts his wine glass high.
At his salute, we all pick up our glasses.
“So then,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
Even though it’s technically Christmas Eve, we all toast.
Gray sets his glass down. “Shouldn’t Fi be saying, ‘And God bless us, every one’?”
“Are you implying I’m Tiny Tim in this scenario, dickface?”
“Dickface?” Gray gives an expression of mock outrage. “If I didn’t happen to have an awesome dick, I might be offended.”
“So you’re saying you’re on board with your face resembling your dick?” Drew asks with a laugh.
“I’m saying that if my face has to resemble a dick, it might as well be the stunning sight that is my own,” Gray retorts with a waggle of his brows.
I lean in. “If you want to talk about stunning dicks—”
“No!” everyone shouts again.
I shrug and hide my smile as I take a sip of wine.
“I’m so glad sausage is on the menu,” Ethan deadpans before slicing into his banger. Drew and Gray wince, but Anna, Ivy, and I laugh.
Happiness is infectious and fills me with warmth. I’m no longer that restless girl I’d been for so long. I’d finally found my place. I give Ethan’s shoulder a kiss, and he winks at me as if he knows exactly how I feel.
Much later, it’s just me and Ethan, kneeling on our big bed, the golden glow of lamplight casting shadows over his bold features. With infinite tenderness, he cradles the sides of my neck as he slowly peppers my face with kisses. His soft lips and prickly beard send little tickles along my skin, and I sigh, leaning into his touch.
His voice is a low rumble. “So your stance on beards is?”
I smile, remembering how he first got me to kiss him. “Total fangirl. You might even call me a groupie.”
He grins against the corner of my mouth before giving my upper lip a little suck. “And football players?”
“I’m completely gone on one in particular.”
He hums in approval. “Good thing. He loves you, heart and soul.”
“How’s the shop going, Fi?” Anna asks.
Last April, I’d picked up my first client in New Orleans, Ethan’s teammate Rolondo Smith.
Rolondo had me redecorate his condo and then his beach house in Florida. When he found out I’d planned to open my own business, he offered to back me financially. And while Ethan had insisted that he wanted to help me with funds, I finally made him realize that I needed to do this without my boyfriend’s help. In October, I opened a furniture-design shop on Royal St.
“Really well,” I tell Anna now. “I’m at the point where I need to hire an assistant.”
“More like two,” Ethan says. “So my girl can spend more time in her workshop.”
I love that he knows how cathartic it is for me to spend time working on my pieces, and how much attention he pays to my work.
“This is true,” I say to Anna. “Definitely two assistants.”
I’m still working with Jackson and Hal, selling furniture to their New York clients, who pay top dollar. To say business is booming is an understatement.
When Ivy goes to check on Leo, who is napping in the bedroom, Drew and Ethan help me set the table. Anna and Gray fuss in the kitchen. Apparently they’re picking up an argument they started this morning about brining versus basting the turkey.
Gray had argued with a complicated mathematical defense, complete with statistics and water-retention ratios, that had our eyes glazing over. Though he’d gotten his way in choosing the method of cooking—mainly because no one could stand hearing him talk nerd any longer—he and Anna are back at it again. Because Anna still thinks brining is better.
Ethan ends the argument by pointing out that the damn bird is done and could we please just eat it now?
“You’ll see,” Gray promises as he carries out a golden brown turkey worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Simple butter basting produces a superior tasting bird.”
“A dry bird,” Anna retorts.
Despite their bickering, we’re all looking forward to our meal as we sit down at the table—one of the first pieces created in my new workshop. Made of reclaimed cypress wood, it’s wide and long enough to seat twelve. With six of us here, we have room to spread out, which is good since the table is laden with food.
Football players eat. A lot. But I’m not complaining. Especially when I have Ethan’s big, strong body to play with on a daily basis.
I watch him as he leans over to light the candles. He’s dressed in jeans and a dusky blue button-down that hugs his broad chest. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the colorful tats on his forearms. Those arms can toss around tractor tires without breaking a sweat and hold me as gently as if I’m made of blown glass.
A beard—not as full as it used to be but no less sexy—shadows his jaw. His hair is growing out too, still super short on the sides and sticking up in thick, dark brown spikes at the top.
He’s so damn hot, he leaves me breathless every time I look at him. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t jump on him at that first Christmas party.
Catching my gaze, he winks and sits at my side. One hand slips under the table to settle warmly on my knee while the other lifts his wine glass high.
At his salute, we all pick up our glasses.
“So then,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”
Even though it’s technically Christmas Eve, we all toast.
Gray sets his glass down. “Shouldn’t Fi be saying, ‘And God bless us, every one’?”
“Are you implying I’m Tiny Tim in this scenario, dickface?”
“Dickface?” Gray gives an expression of mock outrage. “If I didn’t happen to have an awesome dick, I might be offended.”
“So you’re saying you’re on board with your face resembling your dick?” Drew asks with a laugh.
“I’m saying that if my face has to resemble a dick, it might as well be the stunning sight that is my own,” Gray retorts with a waggle of his brows.
I lean in. “If you want to talk about stunning dicks—”
“No!” everyone shouts again.
I shrug and hide my smile as I take a sip of wine.
“I’m so glad sausage is on the menu,” Ethan deadpans before slicing into his banger. Drew and Gray wince, but Anna, Ivy, and I laugh.
Happiness is infectious and fills me with warmth. I’m no longer that restless girl I’d been for so long. I’d finally found my place. I give Ethan’s shoulder a kiss, and he winks at me as if he knows exactly how I feel.
Much later, it’s just me and Ethan, kneeling on our big bed, the golden glow of lamplight casting shadows over his bold features. With infinite tenderness, he cradles the sides of my neck as he slowly peppers my face with kisses. His soft lips and prickly beard send little tickles along my skin, and I sigh, leaning into his touch.
His voice is a low rumble. “So your stance on beards is?”
I smile, remembering how he first got me to kiss him. “Total fangirl. You might even call me a groupie.”
He grins against the corner of my mouth before giving my upper lip a little suck. “And football players?”
“I’m completely gone on one in particular.”
He hums in approval. “Good thing. He loves you, heart and soul.”
