The Game Plan (Game On 3)

The joy I feel in knowing he’s mine, in being with him, is so strong it scares me. I want to guard it with my entire soul. I want to tuck big, strong, capable Ethan Dexter to my side and protect him from the world.

It makes absolutely no sense; he doesn’t need my protection. But the desire is there just the same. I don’t want him to be unhappy or vulnerable to the vultures out there. I want—need—him to know how much he’s loved.

I know he feels the same about me. It’s in his every touch, every word, look, and smile he gives me. With him, here in this home he’s made, I feel that safety.

Only now I’m afraid I might have fucked up by not warning him. Highlights from the game show him being ejected for starting a brawl. I’ve watched the footage over and over, my mouth gaping. Ethan never fights, never really loses his temper at all.

God, but he looked so angry, blood and sweat running down his face as he pummeled the shit out of a player on the other team.

At first I thought maybe he was fighting because of a disparaging remark the guy made about me. But now I’m not so sure. Because the game is long over, and Ethan still isn’t home.

When I tried to call him, I found his phone sitting on his dresser, forgotten in his haste to be on time today.

Short of roaming the city for him, I can only stay here and bake and wait.

I’m pulling a tray of biscuits out of the oven when I hear him come in. “Ethan?”

The sound of his car keys falling into the bowl on the front console fills the silence. Then he speaks, his voice deep. “Yep.”

One word. I shouldn’t read anything into it, but he sounds off.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I say in a bright voice, trying to sound upbeat. “I’m making biscuits and was thinking about getting some gumbo from down the street.”

Footsteps thud across the floorboards, and Ethan appears.

A biscuit drops from my fingers to the floor as I behold the man standing at the threshold of the kitchen. He’s tall, broad, and muscular, his eyes jewel bright. The line of his jaw is a clean sweep, his smooth chin stubborn, firm, and unfamiliar to me. This man doesn’t have a beard. Or much hair. All that glorious, sun-streaked brown hair has been shorn off close to his skull.

And he stands there—hands shoved in his pockets, a gray cotton button-down shirt straining at his shoulders—looking so different I hardly recognize him. Younger, more vulnerable. Exposed.

“Why?” I warble, my heartbeat thudding in my throat.

He shrugs, his gaze sliding away. “Felt the need for a change.”

In a daze, I walk to him. He keeps his head down, the squared-off hinge of his jaw bunching as if he’s grinding his teeth.

“Ethan.” My hand touches his smooth cheek. God. His beard. His thick, lustrous beard is gone. A deep pang of mourning rips through me. “Why?”

He shakes his head. Once, as if to say, don’t ask me. Don’t make me say it.

But I know. With a cry, I fling myself on him. And he gathers me up, holds me against him as I press my face into the warm hollow of his throat. He smells the same. Exactly the same. Like birthdays, Christmas morning, and pancakes at midnight.

I’ve needed to feel his solid strength and hear his steady breath, more than I realized. Tears well hot and heavy in my eyes as my fingers find the back of his shorn head.

I must be choking him, my arms are wrapped around his neck so tightly. But I can’t stop. I want to be closer, under his skin, or maybe tuck him under mine where I can keep him as safe as I can. Sobs burst out of me, rapid fire.

Ethan’s arm wraps more snuggly around my waist, his big, warm hand on the back of my head. “You’re crying over the loss of my beard.” He doesn’t sound upset but as if he’s confirming a long-suspected belief.

And it breaks my heart. Somehow I manage to let him go enough to look up at his face. His eyes are solemn, sad, as if he hates seeing me cry but doesn’t know what to do about it.

His thumb brushes my wet cheeks, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets me look at his now-smooth face.

I cup one of his cheeks, press my palm against skin that’s warm and tight. “I’m crying because you thought this outer shell meant more to me than what’s inside of you.”

His big body jerks in surprise, but I cling, not letting him go. As if he’s too tired to keep his head up, he bends down and buries his face in the crook of my neck.

Gently, I stroke his head, his close-cropped hair bristly yet soft. “You think I kissed you that first time—that I wanted you—because of a beard? You couldn’t be more wrong. It was because you were a sexy-as-fuck, sly-as-all-hell charmer who grabbed my attention and held it.”

A muffled grunt blows into my hair.

“I mean, look at you,” I say, even though we’re still clutching each other and I can’t see anything. But my memory is just fine. I think of his solemn eyes and that mouth of his, that soft, wide, pouty mouth. “I’m in serious danger of having a young Marlon Brando Street-Car-Named-Desire moment here. I kind of want you to tear at your shirt and shout ‘Stella!’ Or I guess it should be ‘Fiona!””

Ethan snorts, but it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. Still, tension vibrates along his strong body, and I know he remains upset.

When he finally answers, his voice is raw. “Rather hear you shout my name, Cherry.”

“So make me.”

He doesn’t move, only grows stiffer.

“Ethan, I loved your beard, but I love you more.”

He blinks down at me, then he swallows hard as if trying to clear his throat. “I love you too, Cherry.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Feels like I’ve loved you forever. I thought you knew that.”