Page 3 of Meesha & Connor (What Happens In Vegas #2)

“Ma belle, I was going to tell you. It was decided yesterday—”

“You had all day yesterday,” she cuts me off. “You had the entire time we were in the shower together. Instead, I had to find out like this?”

Tabarnac . “I tried to warn you upstairs—”

I sigh, leaning against the granite counter. “C’est pas comme ca. It’s not like that, là. Frédérique is Maman’s nurse, eh? She needed someone familiar with her case—”

“And the only qualified nurse in all of Canada is your ex?” Meesha shakes her head in disbelief. “Come on, Connor. You can’t be that na?ve.”

Maman raised me on her own, supporting my hockey dreams, even when it was financially difficult. How can I refuse her now?

I remember finding her asleep at the kitchen table countless nights, her fingers still curled around a needle as she mended my hockey gear because she couldn’t afford new ones.

How she worked double shifts at the hospital so I could train with Coach Renaud, who turned average players into NHL prospects.

How she’d fallen asleep in the stands during my games, exhausted but refusing to miss a moment.

Her one indulgence had been a silver medallion of Saint Sebastian, patron of athletes, that she’d presented to me before my first major tournament. “Pour te protéger,” she’d whispered as she fastened it around my neck. I still wore it as a reminder of what she sacrificed.

“Maman had major surgery, Meesha. She needs care.”

“I don’t dispute that. What I’m upset about is you making this decision without talking to me. We’re getting married in two months, and you’re letting your ex-girlfriend live with you until then?”

I try again, feeling like I’m back on the ice, skating against a stronger opponent. “The guest suite is completely separate—”

“That’s not the point!” She takes a step back. “You didn’t consider how this would make me feel. Your mother has never liked me, and now she’s brought her ideal daughter-in-law to live under your roof.”

From the living room, I hear my mother’s quiet cough. I glimpse her reflection in the kitchen window, one hand pressed against her hip as she winces in pain before quickly composing herself when Frédérique approaches.

I reach for Meesha, but she steps away. “Ma belle, please. It’s not what you think.”

“What am I supposed to think? That this is a coincidence? That your mother, who has spent the last ten years blaming me for ‘stealing her baby’, suddenly brings your ex to live with you right before our wedding, and you just go along with it?”

My jaw tightens. When she says it like this, I can see why she is upset. But what choice did I have?

“What was I supposed to do? Tell my mother she couldn’t stay here, là?”

“No. You were supposed to talk to me. To consider my feelings. To give me a heads-up before I walked in and found them here.” She shakes her head, and I can see her fighting back tears. My chest constricts. “This is exactly what she wants. To drive a wedge between us.”

“Tu exagères,” I say, immediately wishing I could take back these stupid words. “You’re overreacting.”

“Am I? Really? Maybe I should hit up Malcolm and become his roommate?”

Anger flares hot and immediate. Malcolm, the boyfriend she left to be with me ten years ago. The man still likes and comments under all her pictures on social media.

“Ben voyons donc! You better not—”

“See?” she cuts in, a look of winning crossing her face. “You don’t like even the thought of it.”

“That’s different,” I insist, though I see the picture she paints.

“How so?” she challenges.

“Because every cell in my body belongs to you. Fréd is nothing to me.” I grip her wrist. “Malcolm still hungers for what’s mine. What has always been mine. What will always be mine.”

What Meesha doesn’t understand is my relationship with Fréd was nothing like the burning fire I feel for her. From the first moment I saw Meesha, I knew she was my soulmate.

I chose the Winter Bay Bolts over bigger teams in North America because of her. Even when that cross-check in the back ended my career, I never regretted that choice.

Meesha shakes her head, looking suddenly tired. “I can’t believe this. This can’t be my life.”

I step closer, my anger melting. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should have. This isn’t just about your mother or Frédérique. It’s about us, Connor. About how we make decisions. About trust.”

Something moves across her face when she says “trust”. For a moment, she looks almost... guilty? But before I can think more, the expression is gone.

“I messed up. But it’s temporary, and doesn’t change anything between us,” I say, wanting it to be true.

“Doesn’t it? Your mother gets two months of you living with the woman she wants you to marry.”

“Meesha...” I reach for her hands, and breathe easier when she lets me take them. “You’re the one I’m marrying. Not Fréd. You.”

I want to tell her how there’s no comparison, how Frédérique is a small paragraph from my past while Meesha is the whole story. That back injury three years ago could have broken me, but instead, her love and support grounded me.

I’d taken my settlement from hockey and invested every dollar into JAK Innovations, the gaming startup launched by Meesha’s stepbrother Antonio and his best friends Jaxon and Kamal.

It was a risk, trusting three men with no business experience with my future after hockey, but that gamble had paid off beyond anyone’s expectations.

To keep myself useful during the day, I opened a small real estate company, leveraging my investment dividends to purchase several rental properties around Winter Bay.

The business had grown steadily over the last few years, giving me a sense of purpose and the means to fund Meesha’s designer shoe addiction.

I wasn’t the hockey star anymore, but I’d found a different kind of success. All because I’d chosen to stay here, with Meesha. No matter what Maman wanted, I’ve only ever wanted to build my life here, with Meesha.

From the living room, Maman calls out, “Connor? Why you take so long? Come, we need help with the bags, là!”

Her timing, as always, is perfect. And terrible.

Meesha pulls her hands from mine, stepping back. “You have a choice to make here, Connor. I’m not saying your mother can’t stay with you during her recovery. But Frédérique? That’s asking for too much.”

Before I can respond, Meesha’s phone rings. She glances at the screen, frowning.

“It’s Asia,” she says, stepping away and answering. “Hello?”

I watch as her expression shifts from annoyance to shock. Her free hand comes up to her forehead, pushing back her braids.

“What do you mean you can’t do it anymore? We’ve already paid you.” Her voice rises. “Two months before the wedding? Are you serious?”

I move closer, concerned by the panic creeping into her voice. Asia is our wedding planner.

“No, I understand personal emergencies, but—” She pauses, listening. “Yes. Fine. Can you at least email me the vendor contacts? Thank you.”

She ends the call, staring at her phone in disbelief.

“What happened?” I ask, reaching for her elbow.

“Asia quit,” she says, her voice shaky. “She’s self-deporting. Been in the country illegally and doesn’t want to mess up her chance to return legally someday.”

“Tabarnac,” I mutter. “Is there anything we can do to help her?”

“Not really,” Meesha sighs. “She’s marrying her boyfriend before she leaves. Says she’s hoping to return within two years once every thing’s sorted out legally.”

“Mon Dieu, what terrible timing,” I say, momentarily forgetting our argument.

“Connor, we have two months until the wedding. Two months!” Panic edges into her voice. “The venue is booked, but everything else—the catering, the flowers, the photographer—she was coordinating all of that.”

I pull her into my arms, and she doesn’t resist. “We’ll figure it out,” I assure her, stroking her back. “We can find another planner.”

“In Winter Bay? During wedding season?” She pulls back. “Everyone good is booked solid. This is a disaster.”

I squeeze her shoulders gently. “We’ll handle this. I’ll make some calls.”

Meesha takes a deep breath, but I can see she’s spiraling. This wedding means everything to us. And now, on top of the situation with Frédérique and my mother...

“First your ex moves in, and now the wedding planner quits? It’s like the universe is telling us something.”

“You don’t mean that.”

She doesn’t answer, just moves toward the foyer.

I pull her back into my arms, holding her close against my chest. Her body is rigid at first, but gradually softens as I stroke the curve where her spine meets her shoulders.

“Listen to me, Meesha Williams. Nothing is going to stop us from getting married, comprends-tu? You understand me?” I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. “I’ve loved you since I was eighteen years old. That’s never going to change.”

Her eyes, still bright with unshed tears, search mine. “Connor...”

“Non, écoute-moi. Listen to me. You are everything to me. Tout pour moi. Everything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Fréd. I should have.”

A tear escapes, trailing down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb, imagining us standing in our new kitchen on Sunday mornings, flour on her nose as she attempts those croissants she’s determined to master, me sneaking up behind her to steal a taste. Our future, so close I can almost touch it.

“We’ll figure out the wedding planner situation together. I promise.”

She wraps her arms around my waist and buries her face against my chest. I hold her tightly, feeling her take several deep breaths against me.

What always amazes me about Meesha is how differently we handle anger. While I nurse grudges for years—like I still do with Coach Leblanc for that playoffs benching and my dad for divorcing maman—Meesha’s forgiveness flows like water.

Seven years ago, after she’d seen misleading photos of me with a hockey groupie, she’d been livid. I’d prepared for days of cold silence—the Beauregard way. But that same night, she’d appeared at my door.

“I know you wouldn’t,” she’d said simply. “I let my insecurities win.”

As we’d lain in bed afterward, I’d promised never to take her capacity for forgiveness for granted and I would always offer her the same grace.

And I’d meant it. When she’d accidentally stained my vintage Habs jersey, I’d kissed away her apologies and told her it added character. When she refused to move in with me after I bought this house, I’d respected her decision to honor her parents’ traditional values.

Small moments of choosing love over pride was how we’d weathered life’s disappointments together. Forgiveness isn’t just grand gestures but daily choices to see beyond the misstep of the person you love.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into my shirt. “It’s just been a lot. Vegas was—” She stops abruptly.

“Vegas was what?” I ask, pulling back to look at her.

“Exhausting,” she finishes, not quite meeting my eyes. “And coming home to find your ex here...”

I pull her back against my chest, feeling her shuddering breath. I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of coconut oil she uses on her braids.

“We should get dressed, and I need to pack some things.”

She pulls back. “Pack? What do you mean?”

“I’ll move to that empty rental on Lakeview Drive. The tenants recently moved.”

“What? Connor, no—”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “Having Fréd here is unfair to you. I’ll stay at the rental until the wedding and after that we’ll move into our brand new house.”

A year ago, we’d set about designing and constructing our house. Construction wrapped up a month ago and we had put off decorating until after the wedding.

Meesha throws her arms around my neck, pulling me down to her. “I love you so much,” she whispers against my lips.

“Je t’aime aussi,” I murmur before capturing her mouth with mine.

The kiss deepens, her body melting against me as my hands slide down to grip her ass cheeks. I can taste the promise of our future on her lips—all the mornings and nights to come, all the fights we’ll resolve, all the joys we’ll share in the home we’ve built together.

And I know with absolute certainty nothing in this world could make me let her go.