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  I release a slow exhale and force a grin onto my face. “Better?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Not really. I’m gonna call the guys. We need to take you out, get you drunk.”

  Maybe this is how dudes handle breakups, I have no idea, since I’ve never been close enough with a woman for it to hurt when it ended. But this empty feeling inside my chest, I’m guessing this is what getting your fucking heart broken feels like. Good times.

  He scratches at the stubble on his neck. “So, wait, you guys finally played bury the salami, right?”

  I crook one eyebrow. “I thought it was called hide the salami.”

  He shrugs. “Just answer the fucking question. Did your salami get some lovin’?”

  I chuckle. “No comment.”

  “Rookie,” he deadpans, unamused.

  I forgot he wasn’t standing on the villa patio listening to me and Aubree that morning after his wedding like everyone else. But I guess as the groom, Owen had bigger things to worry about than the status of my virginity.

  “Fine.” My mouth lifts in a crooked grin despite my shitty mood, because there’s no denying things in the bedroom with Aubree were A-fucking-plus.

  “Damn. About time, dude.” He reaches his fist out to bump against mine. “So, how was it?”

  There aren’t words for how I feel about that night with Aubree. Our first time was . . . off-the-charts incredible.

  Owen chuckles, reading my silence for exactly what it is. Speechlessness. “That good, huh?”

  “Better,” I murmur, letting out a sigh.

  “Just call her. Talk to her then.”

  I shake my head. “Be real. The whole thing was doomed from the start. I’m the only idiot who thought it could work.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” he says on an exhale. “But I saw how the two of you were together.”

  “Yeah? And how were we together?” I say bitterly.

  “Well, for starters, you were in love.”

  I shove the rest of my uneaten food into the bag and carry it into the kitchen. I have no idea what to say to that.

  Am I in love with Aubree? Maybe. Probably. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

  Just tell that to the achy feeling in the center of my chest—which can go away anytime now.

  “You think Becca and I never got in a fight?” He follows me into the kitchen. “Of course we have.”

  I meet his eyes, leaning one hip against the counter. Something tells me he’s not worried about whether his relationship with Becca can survive a trip to Ikea. Sometimes mine has felt that touch and go.

  “This is your first fight as a married couple. I’m sure you’ll have many more, but now it’s up to you to figure out how you want to move forward.”

  Shaking my head, I draw a deep breath. “We’re not moving forward, dude. I’m moving to Canada to play hockey, and she’s . . . well, I don’t know what she’s doing. Her texts say she gave up the promotion, but I really don’t care. She wasn’t honest with me. Our trust has been broken. Trust is everything. You know that.”

  Owen gives me a disappointed look. “Couples get in disagreements all the time. It doesn’t have to be the end of things. And I’m sure she had her reasons. Just think about it, Covey.”

  “I’ve been doing nothing but thinking about it for the past . . .” I look down at my watch. “Twenty-four hours.”

  “Come on.” Owen groans. “I know you’re stubborn, but even you’ve got to see the cosmic significance of you both getting placed in the exact same city. It’s meant to be.”

  I shake my head. “Not seeing it. And really, Parrish, cosmic significance? Meant to be?”

  “Drink that, would ya?” He tips his chin toward my coffee. “You’re a cranky bastard when you haven’t had your caffeine.”

  Rolling my eyes at him, I take a sip of my coffee. “Since you’re in the mood to dole out advice, help me out here. How did you win over Becca?”

  Owen’s eyes darken. Without even hesitating, he says, “Easy. I showed her my dick.”

  “Be serious, jackass.”

  “I am,” Owen says. His expression is solemn, and somehow I fear he might be telling the truth.

  “Well, she’s seen my dick and she seemed to enjoy it,” I mutter, and Owen laughs.

  He checks his phone and nods toward the door. “Hey, I’ve gotta get going. But, seriously, man, talk to her. Fix this.”

  I roll my eyes again, taking another sip of coffee as Owen heads for the door. I can’t just fix this. How does he not see that?

  “And stop sending me pictures from Greece,” I call out after him. “If I wanted to see it, I’d fucking go there!”

  “Cranky bastard,” he calls back just before the door closes.

  But once he’s gone, I can’t stop his words from ringing through my head. As I drop onto my couch and force down the coffee, I start to think that maybe Owen’s right. Maybe if my dad had stayed and fought for his relationships, if he hadn’t just given in at the first sign of trouble and fled, everything could have been different for him.

  I guess I have a decision to make.

  Am I going to walk away?

  Or am I going to stay and fight for my wife?

  Then again, calling Aubree my wife is way too generous. She’s never felt like mine, so no matter what Owen has said about love or fate, I don’t know if there’s anything left of our relationship to salvage. And that definitely hurts worse than getting kicked in the balls.

  I grab my busted phone from the counter, dial the familiar number, and wait for the call to connect.

  “Dad,” I say once he answers.

  “Landon. What’s up, son? It’s good to hear from you.”

  I swallow my pride and let out a slow exhale. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  20

  * * *

  Vancouver or Bust

  Aubree

  If I’ve learned anything from fifteen years of failed relationships, it’s how to mend a broken heart. I’ve mastered my own personal recipe for recovery—one part tears, two parts junk food, add a sprinkle of vodka-fueled rebounds as needed. Let heal for one to two months, and voilà, I’m back on my feet again.

  But when I was driving to my apartment yesterday, desperately trying to blink away my tears to get a clear view of the road, I knew that this would be no ordinary heartbreak. This is the kind of thing I might never recover from. And my night of nonstop crying, hyperventilating, and blowing up Landon’s phone with texts only reinforced that fact.

  After maybe a grand total of two hours of sleep, the view from my couch this morning is equally bleak. I’m not sure which is less healthy—my breakfast of double-chocolate brownie ice cream that I’m eating straight from the pint, or the fact that my puffy red eyes have been glued to my phone all morning, in hopes of getting a reply from Landon.

  Spooning up a heaping bite of ice cream, I catch a glimpse of the light dancing off my wedding ring. I know I shouldn’t be wearing it, based on the way Landon all but slammed the door in my face yesterday. But I just can’t bring myself to take it off.

  I raise the spoon of chocolaty goodness to my lips, hardly tasting the ice cream before swallowing it. I’m not even enjoying it at this point. I’m just trying to numb the pain of the past twenty-four hours.

  I’ve lost my husband, turned down my promotion in hopes of getting him back, and still, he’s completely ignoring me. The only thing that hurts more than this complete and utter mess is knowing that it’s all my fault. I have no one to blame but myself.

  When I go in for my next bite, my spoon hits the bottom of the pint. Shit. It’s over before I even realized it. Kind of like my marriage. What a depressing thought.

  I set the empty carton aside, turning my attention back to the TV. The news is showing some press conference footage from the day before. My gaze ventures to the bottom of the screen, tracking along with the rest of the day’s headlines. Some NHL trades are happening, and while they’re mostly names I don’
t recognize, I lean in closer. And then, in a big bold font, streams a string of words that I swear I must be misreading.

  BREAKING: LANDON COVINGTON TRADED TO VANCOUVER REBELS, SOURCES SAY.

  My heart boomerangs up into my throat, then down to the pit of my stomach. Sources? What sources?

  I scramble for my phone, typing Landon’s name and the word Vancouver into the search bar. Half a dozen articles flood the results, each one echoing the same sentiment. The Ice Hawks are trading their rookie, and the team that wants him happens to be in the city I just turned down a promotion in.

  What are the freaking odds?

  Was this the thing he wanted to talk to me about yesterday? Yesterday when he came to my office and things disastrously broke right before my eyes?

  Frantically, I grab my phone to shoot Landon a message about this, but after one look at the huge string of unanswered texts I sent him last night and I stop dead in my tracks.

  Slow your roll, Aubree. If he hasn’t texted you back yet, he’s not going to respond now.

  My thumb hovers briefly over the call button, but then I close out of my contacts altogether and open my email instead. There’s a new message from David Stone, his response to my email turning down the promotion last night.

  Aubree, I’m sorry to hear that you’re declining the position. Please take the weekend to reconsider, and we’ll move forward on Monday morning.

  My eyes lock on those last two words. Monday morning. Less than forty-eight hours from now. Which means I have no time to waste.

  I toss my phone down, leap up from the couch, and race toward my bathroom with a renewed sense of hope. Because if I don’t have hope, I have nothing right now.

  I hop in the shower, run a razor over my legs, and scrub the depression out of my pores with a generous amount of apricot body wash. Once I’m toweled off, I dig through my closet, emerging with the navy-blue T-shirt dress I wore that first morning in Vegas. After a few coats of mascara, a swipe of lip gloss, and a quick pep talk in my bathroom mirror, I’m out the door and into the driver’s seat of my SUV.

  The new-car smell is still thick in the air. I’ve hardly put ten miles on this car, opting instead to use my old trusty sedan for the past week, but it feels right to drive it today. And I guess if he turns me away, I can give him the keys back and find a way home.

  As I press the button for the ignition, I shake off that depressing thought and focus on the task at hand—getting to Landon as fast as I possibly can.

  I zoom through town, well over the speed limit, and by some miracle, make it to Landon’s apartment without getting pulled over. I take it as a sign from the universe that I’m doing the right thing by having this conversation with him in person.

  My strappy sandals carry me through the parking garage and to the doors of the elevator, which open to welcome me in. I scan the access card he gave me and hit the button for the top floor, and when the elevator shifts into motion, my stomach lurches with it. It’s not until the doors are opening again that I realize I haven’t decided on exactly what to say to him.

  Too late now. Here goes everything.

  Approaching his door, I lift one shaky hand to knock. But to my surprise, before my knuckles can make contact, the door swings open on a totally unsuspecting Landon, who just barely catches himself from walking straight into me. He blinks at me with wide, startled eyes, frozen in the doorway with keys in hand, one arm already shrugging on his favorite leather jacket.

  “Aubree.” My name falls off his lips like a soft, desperate prayer, sending goose bumps scampering down my limbs. “What are you doing here?”

  I draw in a shaky breath, my throat threatening to close up. What am I doing here? Groveling? I don’t want to admit that. Instead, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

  “I saw that you’re being transferred to Vancouver.”

  His brows push together with skepticism. “You were watching the sports channel? You know they don’t play Annie on there, right?”

  I purse my lips, holding back an unexpected laugh. Leave it to Landon to make me laugh when I feel so awful. But the fact that he’s joking with me is a good sign. I was half expecting him to breeze past me, ignoring me in person just like he did over text.

  “Were you on your way to sign with the Rebels?” I nod toward the keys in his hand, and he looks down at them too, spinning the key ring around in his nimble fingers.

  For a moment, I’m worried he’s going to turn around and lock me out. But instead, he looks up at me, the slightest hint of a smile threatening the corners of his lips.

  “Actually, I was on my way to you.”

  I blink up at him in disbelief. “Really?”

  “Really.” His brilliant blue eyes flicker with something familiar. Hope, I think. Or maybe it’s fear. “I’ve felt like shit since you left yesterday.”

  My heart swells as he reaches out to grab my trembling hand, running his thumb along the band of my wedding ring.

  “That’s why I’m here too. We need to talk,” I say.

  He nods. “We do. Are you okay?”

  Emotion rising in my throat, I shake my head.

  “Come here,” he says softly, opening his arms.

  I step into them, pressing my face into the front of his shirt and inhale. The distinct scent of musk and male and Landon arrests me. How in the world did I think I could live without this smell? Without this man? And for what? A promotion? A job? No way. I’m his. I never planned to be, but there’s no denying it now.

  Lifting my face toward his, I smile weakly. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  He shifts, putting some distance between us yet again. “I was wifeless for less than twenty-four hours,” he says, his voice as serious as I’ve ever heard it, “and it was fucking awful. But it took losing you for me to realize a few really important things.”

  I lift a brow. “Like what?”

  “Like I never want to let you go again. And . . .” His Adam’s apple bobs as his gaze drops to his feet momentarily, then back up to meet with mine. “I guess I should let you say what you came here to say.” He takes a step back, and a cloud of worry crosses his features.

  After a quiet moment, I work up enough courage to respond, my tone a little shaky. “I’m sorry for everything. I just . . . I didn’t think I could actually do this. Didn’t think I could rely on another person when it could all go up in smoke.”

  He touches my cheek with his thumb. “I know. But I’m going to be there. Today. Tomorrow. When shit goes south. During the good times, the bad, and everything in between.”

  My throat tightens, and I inhale slowly. “It killed me that I hurt you yesterday. I went home and sobbed like I haven’t since my dog, Lucy, died when I was thirteen. It felt like the death of something real, you know? Something life changing and so important to me was poof. Gone. It killed me.” I take a shuddering inhale and continue. “And me and you . . . it’s crazy how it all started, but what we have is real. I see that now, and I believe in it. In us.”

  He nods, still watching me with a tender expression.

  “What we have isn’t something I’m just going to give up on,” I say, gathering courage. “Our relationship is bigger than where we live, or what job we have, or who’s getting transferred where.”

  Landon’s eyes darken as they lock onto mine, his expression filled with so much emotion, I could burst. “I love you, Aubree. I love you, and I never want to be apart again.”

  My breath catches, and I have to hold tight to his hand to keep the shock of the moment from knocking me over. That look in his eyes—it wasn’t hope or fear. It was something way better.

  It was love.

  I squeeze his hand extra tight. “I love you too, Landon.” The words sound so natural, but they leave my lips tingling because they’re the absolute truth. “More than I’ve loved anyone before.”

  When his hand finds the small of my back, tugging me in for a soft, delicate kiss, the tingling spreads to every inch of m
y body. And, God, it feels like heaven. I find my grip on his shoulders as I press up to my tiptoes, deepening our kiss. When he finally pulls back, I’m able to take in my first full breath since yesterday.

  That realization is followed by a huge sense of relief.

  I haven’t broken everything. Landon loves me.

  “So, Vancouver, huh?” I ask, steadying myself against him.

  “Vancouver.” He gives me a firm nod, his expression tightening in a moment of seriousness. “I hope you didn’t mean what you said in your texts about telling David you didn’t want the job.”

  I smirk, squeezing his side playfully. “Oh, so you did read my texts.”

  He rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, but his smile gives him away. “Let’s forget about your bombardment of texts for now. What did you tell David?”

  “I tried to reject the offer, but he told me we’d discuss it Monday after I took the weekend to think about it.”

  “And have you thought about it?”

  I nod. “A lot.”

  “And?”

  “And I want to be where you are, so if you’re staying here, so am I. And if you’re going, I guess I’m moving to Canada too.”

  An enormous smile breaks out on his face, bringing out that dimple I love so much. I press my thumb against it, which only makes him smile wider.

  “And if I got transferred to Minnesota?” he asks with a smirk.

  “Then I’d buy some warm mittens. You’re not going to scare me away, mister.”

  “I hope you know you’re moving in with me,” he says. “I refuse to spend another night without my wife.”

  “I kind of like it when you’re bossy.” I grin. “But, yeah, I think I’m down for living together. I like the idea of having my husband whenever I want.”

  It’s quiet for a moment, not that I mind. I’m all too happy to be getting lost in his eyes.

  “So, what now?” he finally asks.

  I chew my lower lip for a second before deciding. “Now you get your heinie back into your apartment.”