Power Play (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 2)

I shake my head. “No, you’re not.”

“I am. It’s my housewarming gift.”

I scrunch up my face. By the way he’s looking at me, I’m guessing I can’t fight him on this. He seems very determined. With a sigh, I say, “I was hoping you’d wear a bow on your cock for my gift.”

“That was the second part of the gift,” he says with a teasing grin. “I was trying to surprise you. Rude.”

“So rude. I’m awful.”

“Terrible.”

“A pain in your ass.”

He nods eagerly. “Definitely that.”

I pinch his shoulder, and he laughs as he lifts me into his arms, kissing me once more. When he starts to sway with me in his arms, I pull back to look at him. “Are we dancing in the middle of Target?”

“Yup.” His eyes hold mine as he nods. “I love this song. It reminds me of you.”

I listen closely, and then I recognize Ryan Hurd’s “To a T” playing on the TVs in the electronics department. My heart throbs in my chest as he sets me to my feet, and then we’re swaying. The only time I have ever seen a couple dancing outside of a dance floor is my mom and dad. They dance in the kitchen all the time, but now I’m doing it. In the middle of Target. Boon parts from me, taking my hands in his before spinning me out and then back in. I giggle as he touches his forehead to mine, staring into my eyes, the sweetest grin on his face. He spins me out again and then back in, and I rest my head on his chest as we sway, his lips moving against my hair. The soft timbre of his voice sends chills down my spine as he sings the words.

To me.

No one has ever sung to me, and my sister was a Broadway singer for a very long time. His voice isn’t Ryan Hurd’s, but I couldn’t care less; Boon’s singing for me. A song that is beautiful and so sweet. When his lips slide down my jaw and then over my chin, our eyes meet, and everything inside me freezes. His eyes are so dark, so intense and completely locked with mine as something inside me explodes. His lips move against my chin, the words so low and heartfelt. And right then and there, I know Ally’s statement was true.

Actions speak louder than words.

As our lips meet, I squeeze my eyes closed.

I love this man.

And I pray that this time, the man I love loves me too.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Boon

Posey’s apartment is real nice.

It’s a one-bedroom, open-concept apartment just off Broadway. The living room and kitchen are one, but it has a sick bar that Posey says is her favorite. Her room is huge, with a terrace and a “Shelli-size” closet. She doesn’t need that much room, but it works for me since she made me a spot. She wanted to be close to the arena so she could walk. She complains that I feed her too many carbs so she needs to exercise. I informed her that it’s colder than a witch’s tit right now, but she insists she’ll still walk. It makes me nervous since she hasn’t been feeling one hundred percent. I don’t want her getting sick.

I didn’t realize our road trips would take such a toll on her. I worry and almost looked into getting her an Airbnb wherever we go since she doesn’t like the hotel beds. Stupid documentary. But I’m unsure how that will go over. Not just with her but with the team. She isn’t a fan of assistance, but I don’t care. Like today, she insisted she didn’t need help unpacking and shopping, but I tricked her into thinking it was a date.

I think she might have seen right through it, but thankfully, she went with it.

And I’m happy.

Really happy.

Our relationship is fucking awesome. She fills my days with such purpose and bliss. When we’re not together, we’re on the phone. We have a routine. We FaceTime in the mornings while we’re getting ready. Talk on the way to the rink, and then we flirt endlessly in person. It feels like the first time I met her, every day. It’s insane and amazing all at the same time. I have never felt like this in my life. I had thought that Julia was the one for me. I was convinced we would get married, have a ton of kids, and be happy. But it wasn’t Julia who was put on this earth to make me ridiculously happy. It’s all Posey.

She sits up on her bar, unpacking the new silverware I made her let me buy her, and I’m unloading the dishes. She has a rustic style that I assume she got from her mom. Elli Adler is the epitome of country chic. “I love this stuff. Thank you for getting it for me, even though I could afford it.”