CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hazel
The sun was descending below the mountains, the sky bathed in a kaleidoscope of oranges, yellows, and pinks, when I finally pulled up to my mother’s house after one of the most mentally exhausting days I’d had in a while. Rescue Granted was part of a wider network of animal protection groups that partnered with state and local law enforcement to aid in cruelty cases, and while every incident was soul crushing in one way or another, the circumstances surrounding Toffee had been one of the worst I’d seen.
His previous owner—if you could even use the word “owner” to describe the monster who had abused my favorite little Scottish terrier—had insisted that Toffee had been born without the majority of his hair or part of his left ear. But the prosecution had known better and had set out to prove the owner wrong, bringing in expert witnesses to testify about burn scars and knife wounds. Ultimately the judge had ruled in Toffee’s favor, sentencing the defendant to maximum probation and banning him from possessing animals in the future. It’d been the best possible outcome given how lenient the law was for animal abusers, and yet there was still a long road ahead to get Toffee adopted into a safe, secure home.
Shutting off the engine, I grabbed my mother’s dry cleaning from the passenger seat and got out of the car. I climbed the front steps, but froze with my hand on the knob when I heard a familiar voice come from the other side. My heartbeat sped up and my stomach lurched. Chris was at my mother’s house? Why? How?
Pushing open the door, I nearly dropped the bags of dry cleaning as I scanned the scene. Chris stood in the middle of the living room with his arms stretched out wide, several dresses from my mother’s wardrobe swathed over him as though he was a department store clothing rack. My mother moved in circles around him, muttering to herself, clearly in the midst of an episode. Oh god. How had she dragged Chris into the middle of it?
“Hi, Mom . . . Chris.” I kicked the door shut with my sneaker and deposited the items in my hand on a nearby chair, trying hard not to worry about the horrible things that were no doubt running through Chris’s mind. “What’s going on?”
“How about it, Grant? Think I could trade in my football career for a stint as a professional mannequin?” Chris winked at me. Was he actually enjoying himself or was he merely acting happy as a way to try to calm my mother?
My mother turned toward me. “Karen Yost invited me to a dinner gathering at her house tonight, and I don’t know what to wear.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had a glassy quality to them, which let me know she’d taken her anxiety medication recently, but it must not have fully kicked in yet.
My mother was going out? It wasn’t that she was a total shut-in or didn’t have friends, but my mother usually avoided large parties for fear of getting trapped in conversations where she could accidentally behave the wrong way or insult people with the wrong words, instead preferring quiet one-on-one lunch dates or low-key coffee runs. This was a huge step for her, and because I was proud, I forced myself to be patient, too.
“Mom, you’ll look beautiful in whatever dress you choose,” I said, meaning it. With her golden blond hair, green eyes, and strong bone structure, my mother was a classic beauty—elegant and refined, but never so gorgeous as when her nerves unwound and her smile unfolded. When she was happy and confident, my mother could light up a room with a glimpse.
“Karen didn’t tell me the occasion,” she said in protest, pacing back and forth. She reached for a deep purple dress, then snatched her hand back, as if she didn’t own it.
I frowned. “Why don’t you call her to clarify?”
My mother’s eyes grew wide, as if I’d suggested she phone Karen and offer to do the party potluck style. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly bother her—not at such late notice. She’s probably swamped with organizing the seating arrangements, dealing with the caterers, and taking deliveries.”
“Well, if it’s at her house, it can’t be too formal,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear the uncertainty in my voice.
Truth was, the dinner party could be a black-tie affair—the people in my mother’s limited social circle were never short of money or ways to spend it. But if she wouldn’t contact Karen, I needed to find a suitable solution that wouldn’t stress her out any more than she was already.
“What about the teal one?” I pointed to the dress hanging from Chris’s wrist. “It’s got a great shimmer to the fabric, which says dressy, but a flirty hemline, which says fun. And because it’s in the blue family, it could read formal or casual depending on what everyone else wears.”
“I’m not sure, sweetheart. Teal is really more appropriate for spring, wouldn’t you agree?” My mother shook her head. “I knew I should’ve chosen another day to visit the antique fair so I could fully prepare for this evening, but last year I waited to attend and all the good finds had been already purchased.”
Antique fair? I glanced at Chris, and he mouthed, Will explain later.
“Okay, what about the crimson one? It’s sleek, and you look fantastic in jewel tones,” I said, nodding to the knee-length cocktail dress that still possessed the tags that was slung over Chris’s right shoulder. “Pair it with some nude pumps and your favorite strand of pearls, and you’ll fit right in.”
“Oh, but you remember that Karen was widowed earlier this year, right? Is red an appropriate color for someone still in mourning?” she asked. “Should I wear black, or maybe a sensible gray? I wouldn’t want to insult her or make her think I’m insensitive for showing up in something so flashy.”
I wanted to tell her that if Karen was worried about that sort of thing, she most likely wouldn’t be hosting a party in the first place, but that would probably only worsen my mother’s anxiety and present another reason for her to doubt herself.
My mother reached for the plain black wool dress draped over Chris’s elbow, and I resisted the urge to slap her hand away. How many times had I tried to smuggle that hideous thing out of the house? The frock had a neckline the Amish would consider appropriate and a hemline that the Queen herself would approve of. Not to mention, it was two sizes too big and two decades out-of-date, and for my mother, it was basically a security blanket.
“Don’t you dare,” I said playfully, careful to keep my tone upbeat. “That dress isn’t fit for a funeral, Mom.”
“But you know how your father favored it.” She glanced at me over her shoulder. “He always said it was simple and unassuming . . .”
Translation: That piece of clothing had made my mother disappear from the scene, made her fade into the background so she could neither offend nor draw attention, just the way my father had preferred. Heaven forbid he’d ever allowed her a moment in the spotlight. I hated that plain wool dress almost as much as I hated him.
“Well, that statement rules out this dress,” Chris cut in mercifully, flinging the ugly black garment off his arm and onto the hardwood floor. “You’re far too young to wear something that looks so old, Evelyn. Go with the red. It’s your perfect color.” He winked, and my mother actually blushed.
My whole body tightened with yearning before I could stop it. Chris was risk and cleverness and fun, all wrapped up in a long, muscular frame. He was wit and irreverence and the man I’d always hoped to someday meet, even if I’d never admit it. No matter how much I fought against the feeling, there it was.
“Mom, will you excuse us a moment?” I grabbed Chris’s hand and dragged him into the sunroom, which was out of listening range, my mother’s clothes falling off him like boulders in an avalanche.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “What are you doing here?”
“Your uncle called me when he couldn’t reach you,” he said, then explained everything.
“And you just . . . drove all the way to Castle Rock to pick her up?” I asked, my throat closing around surprise and something else I wasn’t ready to name yet.
Chris shrugged. “I own a truck, possess a valid license, and had a free afternoon. So no big deal.”
How long had it been since someone had offered to handle big tasks like this on my behalf? To step in, take charge, and make my life easier because they wanted to, because they cared? But that didn’t explain why Chris had been standing in the middle of my mother’s living room when he could have easily dropped her off and gotten on with the rest of his day.
“You didn’t have to stay,” I said, even as gratitude swelled inside me.
“Evelyn’s excellent company, so I figured I’d hang out with her until you arrived.” Chris gave me a look I’d worn far too often, one that indicated he hadn’t stayed because he’d felt like it, but rather that he’d feared abandoning my mother might result in her behaving stupidly or harmfully.
“Still, I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” A wrinkle formed between his brows, as if he couldn’t comprehend that this whole situation was mortifying for me. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. Tell me what happened at the courthouse today.”
How had he remembered Toffee’s court date? I’d only mentioned it in passing.
“Toffee got his vengeance.” I swallowed and shook my head. “But that’s beside the point. I know you have better things to do with your time, and I can only imagine how much patience it required dealing with her all day.”
Chris’s features softened. “It’s fine, Hazel. And more importantly, you should never have to deal with anything alone, your mother included. Not if I’m available. Not if I’m willing. Which I am,” he replied, his tone and expression so sincere it caused a knot to form in my stomach.
“I didn’t want an event like this to be how you first met her . . . or for you to witness my mother in this state . . .” My voice sounded toylike and fragile in the small space. Ordinarily, I’d attempt to mask my vulnerability, but what was the point when Chris was so unnervingly perceptive?
“In what way? Acting like herself? You’re the one who hates fronts, so why do you feel like you have to apologize for your mother and insulate me from the difficulties in your life?” he asked, placing his palms on my shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. “Please trust me when I say that I like being here for you, Hazel, and not because I get anything out of it. You’re strong, and I’m fully aware that you can handle anything, but I want you to put your faith in me and I want to help. So let me, okay?”
“But now do you understand why I can’t afford indulgences or risks? Why I require stability, safety? I already have too many balls in the air without adding more to juggle.” Self-preservation was all I had, and if I lost it, then where would that leave me? How would I manage?
“Then let me catch a few, alleviate some of your stress.” Chris slid his palms along my arms and settled them on my hips, tugging me closer. “Though I must admit, your ball-handling skills are excellent.”
I groaned. “Really? You had to go there?”
“One of us had to lighten the mood. And besides, can you blame me?” He grinned that grin that shouldn’t turn my insides into jelly but did every time. “I mean, we did put on a pretty spectacular show the other night. I think I heard applause at one point.”
There was a playful gleam in his eyes, but the tendon in his jaw flexed, as though he was forcing composure when internally he was picturing all the ways we’d been spectacular together. I’d been doing the same, if I was honest, naked images of us playing on an endless loop in my mind. I doubted the memory of him braced on top of me would ever fade.
“I don’t recall clapping, Chris.”
He bent toward me, his nose skimming my cheek, and I shivered. “But there was begging. And screaming.” Chris bit my earlobe, and I held back a moan. “I’d suggest a repeat performance right now, but . . . well . . .” He leaned back and cocked his head toward the living room, where my mother was talking loudly to herself.
I sighed. “Yeah, Evelyn.” Always Evelyn.
“But soon.” He pressed his lips against my forehead in a gesture I didn’t think I’d ever grow accustomed to and asked, “Shall we?”
For once, I nodded and followed him, allowing myself to be swept away in his current.
When Chris had brought up the idea of creating and selling a calendar with twelve of the Blizzards’ hottest players gracing the glossy pages to benefit Rescue Granted and our partner organizations, I’d thought he was kidding. But here I stood, a week after I’d stumbled upon Chris acting like a clothing rack in my mother’s living room, in a massive photography studio brimming with festively decorated sets, professional athletes, barking dogs, and enough hair and makeup people to execute the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.
And thanks to Chris posting about the calendar shoot on his social media, a sea of women all desperate to catch a glimpse of their favorite player decked out in costume had gathered outside the building. Every time one of the guys joined the crowd to snap pictures or sign autographs, the whistling and hollering that followed was so loud it could be heard through the brick walls.
What a circus. But given how Imogen had seen Chris’s tweet and had called me this morning to inform me that Rescue Granted had officially been chosen for the Denver Day of Giving event next year, all the chaos was worth it.
Thankfully, there were only a few months left to photograph before we could call it a day. I was mostly trying to stay out of the way and avoid gawking at all the bare skin surrounding me. I’d never seen so many long, lean torsos, broad chests, and sculpted abs in all my life.
Chris nudged my side and whispered, “Hazel, quit ogling my teammates. You’re gonna give them a complex.”
I laughed and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “I think that’s highly unlikely given how often you remind me that you’re the greatest of all time.”
He leaned in closer and his scent—soap and laundry detergent and hints of something spicy—covered me in a rush. “Shhh. The others can hear you. And while it’s a fact I’m the most attractive player on the roster, it’s cruel to point it out.”
“I find that offensive, Lalonde,” Tony hollered from where Penny was sprinkling glitter all over him. “Everyone knows that even the Blizzards cheerleaders ain’t got shit on me.”
“Well, they have six-pack abs, itty-bitty skirts, and as far as I can tell, a sense of shame, so . . .” Penny raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her. She had yet to admit it, but I was pretty sure there was more than witty banter happening between them—they’d flirted during the entire adoption event, and Tony had even called the shelter a few times looking for her.
“Why are you always crushing my dreams?” Tony glanced down at his stomach. “And why are you being stingy with the good stuff? Drench me in sparkle. I want to shine from space.”
Penny sighed in exasperation. “Your personality’s got more sparkle than the Vegas Strip and Mardi Gras combined. Now shut your yapper and let me work.”
I’d suggested Tony should claim Mr. February, since he always referred to himself as the “love machine,” but he’d insisted on dressing up in a New Year’s theme for Mr. January, complete with black boxers and suspenders, gold sequined bow tie and top hat, and strands of beads. Sausage and Beans lay at his feet, wearing matching gold sequined bow ties, glimmering head boppers, and those ridiculous plastic glasses announcing the year, gazing up at Tony with expressions that could only mean, Hurry the heck up already! Their session with the photographer should have started fifteen minutes ago, but Tony had needed more primping time.
“How in the hell did I get suckered into this?” Ben muttered, sulking off the set adorned in enough red, white, and blue to mortify even Uncle Sam. He couldn’t quite pull off the All-American boy-next-door persona like Logan Stonestreet, but it was close enough. And anyway, the female Blizzards fans standing outside would go crazy seeing their new quarterback as Mr. July, which was all that mattered.
“A bet’s a bet, Fitzpatrick. Maybe next time you’ll actually throw for three hundred yards like we’d agreed,” Chris gloated, kneeling on the floor to rub Olive’s stomach before offering her one of the fresh-baked treats I’d brought. Olive hadn’t left Chris’s side since they’d shown up together this morning—I doubted she ever would.
“Oh, fuck off, Lalonde.” Ben passed a panting and exhausted Waffles to Donna—poor fella had hit his excitement limit hours ago, though Waffles did look precious in that Bruiser the Bear baseball cap with his pointy ears sticking out. “We demolished the Chiefs. That should be enough.”
“Don’t get testy, Fitzpatrick.” Chris stood and brushed off his jeans. “Just let this be a lesson to you to never wager against me. Ain’t that right, Hazel?”
He shot me a smug, satisfied look, and I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. With my mouth. Instead I settled for scowling at him.
I’d made the mistake of betting Chris that there was no way in Hades he’d be able to rally together enough of his teammates to pose half naked with shelter mutts—I’d thought that surely most professional athletes possessed a modicum of self-preservation and dignity—but Chris had merely smiled and said, “Watch me.”
Turned out he’d contacted my uncle, and the next thing I knew, Chris had twelve guys lined up to participate in the calendar shoot. If you ask me, Chris cheated. He still hadn’t told me what I owed him for losing, but I hoped it involved the two of us alone in a dark room.
“Don’t get too confident, Lalonde. What comes around goes around, and now I’m motivated.” Ben shrugged out of the Stars and Stripes suit jacket and tossed it onto the pile of discarded outfits that Penny had insisted on purchasing for today.
“The cheesier the better,” she’d said. “Or we could just go with neon-green lamé banana hammocks, if you’d prefer?” I’d conceded to the costumes.
“Excuse me, Chris.” Donna tapped him on the shoulder. “Your session is up next. Come with me. Hair and makeup are ready for you.”
“Well, if you insist . . .” He swooped Olive into his arms and followed Donna to the other side of the studio. I rolled my eyes. What a fool. A sexy, delicious fool, but a fool nonetheless.
While Chris got beautified, I refilled water bowls and took the other dogs outside for a potty break. As I was putting Snowcone back in a crate, I nearly dropped her face-first on the ground at the sight of Chris emerging from the changing area wearing only a mistletoe hat and boxer briefs with a candy cane pattern on them that left nothing to the imagination, Olive trotting out after him.
Chris met my gaze, and whatever emotion he saw in my expression—lust, yearning, desperation—caused his lips to curl up in a crooked, devilish grin. My stomach flipped, and a slow, heavy ache spread through me. God, how I wanted to experience that mouth hovering above me, pressed against my neck, nipping at the inside of my thigh. Right here, right now. That night at my mother’s house Chris had said soon, but soon still hadn’t arrived, and I was desperate for him to touch me again.
Chris picked up Olive, straightening the giant red bow tied around her neck, and strolled over to the Mr. December set that resembled a winter wonderland. “All right, where do you want us?” he asked the photographer, who handed Chris a shiny wrapped box with a tag that read OPEN ME, I’M NAUGHTY. Penny’s suggestion, once again.
“Before you and Olive get too carried away, maybe you should put on some tunes. Disney’s greatest hits, perhaps?” I asked, moving over to the table littered with props and grabbing the boom box I’d stolen from the shelter.
“I like how you think, Grant,” Chris said. “Olive and I do work best when we’re being serenaded.”
Adjusting the settings on his camera, the photographer furrowed his brow and said, “Whatever y’all want. You’re the bosses around here.”
I turned on the music, the familiar chords of “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King” from The Lion King filling the space. How appropriate.
For the next ten minutes, the photographer snapped pictures of Chris and Olive in various poses—standing beside the spruce tree strung with colored lights and ornaments, sitting in the sleigh overflowing with presents, playing in the fake snow—the two of them hamming it up for the camera.
At the end of the session, Chris pitched Olive up in the air in celebration, and when he caught her, she attacked his cheek with kisses, a few licks landing in Chris’s mouth. And damn, if that wasn’t the most charming display I’d ever witnessed.
“You know, I’d planned on bringing home a feisty blonde with me tonight,” Chris said, tossing me a wicked grin as though we weren’t surrounded by people, “but maybe this shy and sweet little lady should join me instead.” He cradled Olive against his side, her tongue lolling out of the corner of her mouth as Chris scratched behind her ears.
“Replaced so easily.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure Olive’s ready for the full Chris Lalonde experience.”
He placed Olive on the ground and stared down at her as though she’d hung the moon. “Then I’ll make changes.” Chris met my gaze, and the intensity in his expression caused my throat to constrict. “My girl’s worth it.”
His girl.
The sincerity in his voice, the adoration in his eyes, gripped my chest. For the first time in my life, I wanted to belong to someone else. And not just anyone. I wanted to belong to Chris. The realization should have terrified me. I’d had my fill of assertive, domineering men in my life, but Chris felt more like a soft place to land.
“So, what do you say, Hazel? Can I keep her?”
“They won’t all be good, easy days, Chris, especially given Olive’s history,” I said, compelled to warn him about what life was like when you sheltered someone utterly reliant on you. “Changing your mind isn’t an option, even when it’s hard.”
“Without the hard, how would I recognize the good?” he asked, peering at me as though he was well aware that we were having two conversations. “I’m all in, Hazel. Assuming you’ll sign off.”
“Yeah, I will. Of course I will.” I swallowed heavily. “Olive loves you.”
My words hung in the air, and I wondered if Chris could sense what I was feeling but couldn’t admit out loud. But then after a beat, he slipped on his megawatt smile and said, “All right, enough of this nonsense. Come over here. Get in on this fun with us.”
Without arguing with myself about why it might not be a good idea, I just went.
As I stepped onto the set, imitation snow swirling around me, Chris wrapped an arm around my waist and tugged me against him. “I’ve got you trapped under the mistletoe.” Tilting my chin up with his finger, he brushed his mouth against mine.
Chris kissed me slowly at first, then parted my lips with his tongue, intensifying the kiss. His heartbeat sped up under my palms as my own tried to keep pace with his. For one perfect moment, everything outside the two of us faded. Then he broke away, a mischievous look crossing his face.
“What?” I asked, still a little dazed and breathless.
Chris bent down and snatched one of the fake snowballs dotting the ground. Before I could process what was happening, he flung the snowball at me, pumping a fist in the air and performing a little dance when it hit me square in the chest with a thud. “Touchdown!”
For a second, I could only stand there. I heard the click of the camera and saw the flash, forever freezing in time the surprise plastered on my face.
“It’s on now, Lalonde.” I picked up a few snowballs gathered around my feet, the synthetic fibrous material crunching in my hand, and hurled them in his direction, laughing as they bounced off his forehead, his shoulder, his stomach.
Chris lunged for me, but I dodged his grasp, careful not to crush Olive, who was darting around our feet and whining, clearly confused as to what was going on. Plucking another snowball off the ground, I chucked it at Chris, cheering when it collided with the side of his neck and left a satisfying red mark on his skin.
“Did you catch that?” I asked the photographer. He nodded, chuckling to himself, and raised the camera to his eye again.
“Hazel, your aim is good, but mine is better,” Chris said, winding up and pelting me in the ass with snowballs, one after another.
Then it was all-out war, snowballs flying everywhere, Olive jumping and barking around us, the photographer capturing our antics. Tony and Penny and Ben gathered around us, hollering and clapping each time Chris or I hit our intended target. Before long, tears were streaming down my cheeks and my stomach hurt from laughing so hard.
Finally, when I had to stop short because Olive, bless the tiny tyrant, growled at me, Chris made his move, grabbing my wrist and drawing me in for a kiss.
“Eww,” I said, leaning away. “My face is all wet and gross and puffy.”
“You’re beautiful, Hazel Grant.” Dipping me, he pressed his lips against mine as the camera flash went off again and the audience yelled and someone—probably Tony—let out a long wolf whistle.
And amid all that mayhem, in Chris’s arms and under his mouth, one realization rose above the rest: This was love. Loud and spontaneous and a little chaotic. Scary and risky and, like Chris, everything I never allowed myself to want but now had in vivid, blinding color.