ZOE

Three-Hundred and Forty-Two Days Later…

“Marshall Hunt’s laying it on extra thick, don’t you think?”

I lean forward, my hand clasped in Andre’s, as I watch the Blades’ hottest new first-stringer dip his dance partner so low that her hair brushes the floor.

Waving my hand at the couple, I add, “I mean, look at him! Supermodel after supermodel. You’d think that—”

Andre’s big body presses me against the balustrade of the balcony. “I thought we went over this, baby.” His fingers trace a path from my hip up and over to my elbow. “Leave poor Hunt alone.”

My breath hitches when Andre dips his head to kiss my neck, and all thoughts flee. Because that’s what happens when your husband has the ability to make love to you with just his voice—a voice that grows only deeper, more gravelly, when you fake a fascination with his teammate.

I tip back my head, running my hands up his arms and then back down again. “What’s the matter, Sin, not feeling pretty tonight at your own charity event?”

Dark eyes spark with mischief. “You know how I feel about that nickname.”

“Well, you know how I feel about you.”

Because my husband is sex on a stick, his next move leaves me in a pool of desire. He skims his hand up to my chest, over to the strap of my ball gown, and slips the material to the side. Masculine lips find the curve of my shoulder blade, and a shudder works down my spine. He peers up at me, his gaze hot. “How’s that?”

I have no thoughts. Except that I wish we were home so that he could strip me naked and fulfill the promise in his eyes. “I love you, of course.”

The grin he gives me is so boyish it hurts. “Well, that’s good.”

“I hope so.”

Something in his tone has me raising a brow. “You’re hiding something.”

He presses another kiss to my exposed shoulder. “Maybe.” Another kiss, this one farther up, closer to my neck. “I have a surprise for you tonight.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I tilt my head to the side to give him better access. I know, I’m utterly shameless. “You know how I feel about surprises.”

His next kiss is just beneath my jaw, his warm mint-flavored breath fanning over my face. “You love them, baby. And you’re going to love this one, too, but first you have to promise me two things.”

If he keeps kissing me I’ll promise him whatever he wants. I say as much, my fingers clutching at his hard stomach.

He chuckles softly, prying my hands from his body and lifting them to his mouth to kiss my knuckles. Swoon, honestly. Is there anything hotter than a guy who loves his wife?

“If given the option between me and your boy, Marshall Hunt,” he tells me, “you’ll always choose me.”

I gape at him a little. “Is that even a question?”

One big shoulder lifts in a half-shrug. “Figured I’d put it out there.”

Eyes narrowing, I throw my arms around his waist, just as I always do at home when it’s the two of us. I don’t care that there are people watching: those who have come for the joint charity for Boston’s first responders, hosted by the Boston Blades and Vittoria. Nope, I only care about Andre, and as I snuggle up against his chest, delighting in his rough laugh, I say, “Next promise please—I don’t put up with silly ones.”

“Well, you see, the next promise comes into play because of the first . . . ”

Thirty minutes later, I find myself standing in the crowd next to my former coworker-turned-friend, Gwen James. Everyone is gathered around a makeshift stage that was intended for a band but is now being put to use for something else.

An auction.

A date auction.

Apparently, I’ve been tasked with convincing Gwen to vote on one particular man—Marshall Hunt.

When the first player struts out onto the stage in nothing but his hockey pants, the crowd goes wild. Gwen, in particular, sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles. “His abs?” she says, nudging my side. “I could eat off them.”

On my other side, Charlie leans around me to say, “You’re insatiable.”

Gwen shrugs. “How is that my fault? You’re married, Zoe’s married, and I’m rocking singlehood like it’s the new Prada.”

I hold up a finger. “To be fair, I’ve never heard you say that you want a relationship.”

“Well, no.” Gwen grins slowly. “But that’s not to say that I wouldn’t want to get one of these players into bed.”

“Clearly she’s learned nothing from us,” Charlie says with a boisterous laugh. “We’re both cases of breaking professional boundaries, and here’s Gwen with not a care in the world if she sleeps with a client.”

“I care.” After taking a sip of her cocktail, Gwen adds, “It’s just that I like sex more. Plus, if I just make sure not to sleep with someone who is my client, problem solved.”

The next player comes out and I realize that it’s Marshall. Just like the guy before him, he’s in just his pants and shoes. Married or not, I give a low whistle because the man is dangerously sexy. Something that Gwen fails to notice, if the way she checks out her phone is any indication.

Marshall turns around at the end of the stage, blows a kiss to the crowd like a damned Victoria’s Secret Model, and swaggers back toward the rest of the guys who are all lined up, waiting for their turn.

“Gwen.”

“Hmm?” She doesn’t look up from her phone.

“Did you not see Marshall Hunt just now?” I point at the stage. “He’s your type.”

“He’s too young.”

Too young? “Girl, the man is ripped, funny, and fifteen different shades of sexy; I don’t think his age is an issue.” Time to go for broke. “I think you should bet on him.”

That gets her attention. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s just a date.” I give her a little nudge. “Dinner. Hell, you can even just grab coffee if you don’t want to spend that much time with him.”

“He’s not worth the money.”

Beside me, Charlie lets out a whoop of laughter.

I don’t know why Andre asked me to get Gwen to bet on his teammate, but all I know is that he did. Time to pull out the big guns—guilt. “Your bid goes to charity. You’re helping people.”

Gwen’s blue eyes dance away from me. “I didn’t say that I won’t bid on anyone; I just won’t bid on him.”

Hold on here a second . . . “Did something happen between the two of you?”

Her cheeks bloom red, and I know for a fact that it’s not her expensive blush doing the trick. “Absolutely not,” she mutters, eyeing her phone again. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t touch Marshall Hunt with a ten-foot pole. I’d be likely to catch herpes.”

Considering that Gwen is a wild bird herself when it comes to men, I opt to hold my opinion to myself.

But then the announcer, Coach Hall, steps forward to start the bidding process. McDermott comes first and, surprisingly, a few hands swing up as numbers are called out. He promptly goes for two hundred dollars to a man in the back of the room. Figures.

One by one, the Blades members step forward. When Duke does so, his gaze immediately searching for his wife, Charlie flings her hand up in the air and shouts, “No one bother! I’ll outbid every single one of you.”

The Mountain sells to his wife for a grand, after a few of his teammates throw out random bids just to mess with Harrison.

Charlie smiles into her drink, and murmurs, “Best one thousand dollars I’ll ever spend.”

Then it’s Marshall Hunt’s turn. I haven’t seen Andre since he left me to go meet with the guys, but I search for him now. He’s not up with the team, and a seed of disappointment sinks into my belly. Call me crazy, but I wanted to bet on him, to mark him as mine in front of everyone.

“Bids for Marshall Hunt?” Coach Hall calls out. “Lemme hear those bids!”

I elbow Gwen. “Now’s your chance.”

Her expression freezes. “No.”

“Do it, girl. He’s hot and, yes, young, but I’m sure he’ll rock it in the sheets.”

Charlie points her drink toward Gwen. “I’ve heard that he can make a woman come in twenty seconds.”

Gwen snorts. “Fucking unbelievable. Listen up, there is no way in a million years I would bet on a man who can’t even—”

“Two thousand dollars!”

Oops, that was me.

Coach Hall thumps his gavel down on his podium stand. “Going once for Marshall Hunt at two thousand! Going twice!”

“If Coach ever loses his job, he’s got a calling as an auctioneer,” Charlie says with a laugh.

“Sold!” Hall shouts. “Marshall Hunt for two thousand dollars to Zoe Beaumont.”

I sigh a little at my married name before thrusting a hand in the air. “Actually, Coach! My bid is an honorary one . . . for Gwen James.”

Gwen gasps beside me.

A seductive grin curls Marshall Hunt’s mouth.

And then I feel masculine arms, familiar arms, wrap around my middle and tug me back against a hard chest. Andre’s lips find my ear, and his breath rustles my hair. “What did I tell you about choosing Hunt?”

I can hear the laughter in his voice, though, and I know he’s just teasing me. “I had to take drastic measures. You tasked me with getting Gwen to bid on him and that’s what I did.”

He kisses my neck, then my cheek. “You did well.”

I turn my head to look back at him. “Where did you go? I was hoping to have the chance to bid on you.”

Dark eyes meet mine, and I melt. I’m not kidding. I melt in his arms right there because I can see all of the love there. “I had to go help your dad with moving some of the buffet tables. Also, I never planned to join the auction.”

“There’s no fun in that.”

“Sure there is.” His fingers brush back and forth against my belly. “You get to bid on me every night. Which position you want me to take you in. Which trashy TV show I’ll cave and let you watch. How many times I’ll tell you that I love you.”

“If you get to wear clothes that day or not,” I tease, already reaching up to sink one hand into his thick hair. “Tell me again.”

He doesn’t need further prompting. It’s a tradition we started soon after tying the knot six months ago. “You’re a goddess among women, Zoe Beaumont.” His lips curl up in a sexy smile. “And I love you more than fucking anything.”

I pull him down for a kiss. “You’re a god among men, Andre Beaumont, and I’m so glad that I slept with you in that dirty laundry room.”

His laughter is rich, throaty.

A sound that I adore.

A man that I adore.

Someday we’ll tell our future children about the time that King Sin Bin married the Queen of Bad Decisions and lived happily ever after. But tonight, I just let my husband hold me. Kiss me. And prove, once and for all, that real-life happily-ever-afters come as a result of a healthy dose of bad decisions, one ridiculously hot hockey player, and multiple stints in the penalty box.