Page 53 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

One year later...

Fiona

The house looks perfect. Garlands of evergreen—entwined with twinkling white lights—grace the doorways, window frames and

the big fireplace mantel. Ivory pillar candles are set up in clusters, paired with clove-dotted oranges and sprigs of holly.

In the corner by one of the big windows that overlook the street stands a twelve-foot tree. I kind of love the fact that even

Ethan has to pull out the stepladder to decorate the top of it.

But he does the job with a smile on his face. He hangs little football helmets covered in glitter, deep red crystal cherries,

die-cast commercial jet planes, even a blown-glass ornament shaped like the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Fi sure likes her themes,” Gray observes, helping out too.

Ethan grins, his concentration on hanging a tiny mic. There’s a flush on his cheeks that I know is from happiness. This year,

our tree tells the story of us, and he knows the significance of each item I’ve picked.

“What’s with this one?” Ivy asks, holding up an ornament shaped like a stack of pancakes.

Ethan glances at it and catches my eye. His brows rise with humor even as his gaze goes hot. My cheeks flush warm in response.

We’ve had plenty of pancakes at midnight since our first attempt. After all, a girl needs to keep up her strength.

“Inside-joke ornament,” Anna guesses, her nose wrinkling. “Quick, put it on the tree and move on before they feel compelled

to explain.”

At her side, Drew kisses the top of her head before saying, “I’m pretty sure Dex would have to be threatened with grievous

bodily harm before he talked.”

I hand Drew a mug of hot cider before giving one to Anna. She isn’t drinking any alcohol: three guesses why. I give them both

a big, sweet smile. “I’m happy to tell you all about those pancakes—”

“No!” the room shouts as a collective whole. Well, all but Ethan, who snickers as he hops off the stepladder and comes to

me.

He wraps me in his arms, bringing my back against his hard chest. His breath stirs my hair. “You’re so bad, Cherry.”

I relax against him. “Suckers. As if I would talk about our midnight lurve .”

His chuckle is a rumble I feel through my body. With a quick, affectionate kiss to my cheek, he walks off to collect the stepladder

and put it away.

“How’s the shop going, Fi?” Anna asks.

Last April, I’d picked up my first client in New Orleans, Ethan’s teammate Rolondo Smith.

Rolondo had me redecorate his condo and then his beach house in Florida.

When he found out I’d planned to open my own business, he offered to back me financially.

And while Ethan had insisted that he wanted to help me with funds, I finally made him realize that I needed to do this without my boyfriend’s help.

In October, I opened a furniture-design shop on Royal Street.

“Really well,” I tell Anna now. “I’m at the point where I need to hire an assistant.”

“More like two,” Ethan says. “So my girl can spend more time in her workshop.”

I love that he knows how cathartic it is for me to spend time working on my pieces, and how much attention he pays to my work.

“This is true,” I say to Anna. “Definitely two assistants.”

I’m still working with Jackson and Hal, selling furniture to their New York clients, who pay top dollar. To say business is

booming is an understatement.

When Ivy goes to check on Leo, who is napping in the bedroom, Drew and Ethan help me set the table. Anna and Gray fuss in

the kitchen. Apparently, they’re picking up an argument they started this morning about brining versus basting the turkey.

Gray had argued with a complicated mathematical defense, complete with statistics and water-retention ratios, that had our

eyes glazing over. Though he’d gotten his way in choosing the method of cooking—mainly because no one could stand hearing

him talk nerd any longer—he and Anna are back at it again. Because Anna still thinks brining is better.

Ethan ends the argument by pointing out that the damn bird is done and could we please just eat it now?

“You’ll see,” Gray promises as he carries out a golden-brown turkey worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. “Simple butter basting

produces a superior-tasting bird.”

“A dry bird,” Anna retorts.

Despite their bickering, we’re all looking forward to our meal as we sit down at the table—one of the first pieces created in my new workshop.

Made of reclaimed cypress wood, it’s wide and long enough to seat twelve.

With six of us here, we have room to spread out, which is good since the table is laden with food.

Football players eat. A lot. But I’m not complaining. Especially when I have Ethan’s big, strong body to play with on a daily

basis.

I watch him as he leans over to light the candles. He’s dressed in jeans and a dusky blue button-down that hugs his broad

chest. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the colorful tats on his forearms. Those arms can toss around tractor

tires without breaking a sweat and hold me as gently as if I’m made of blown glass.

A beard—not as full as it used to be but no less sexy—shadows his jaw. His hair is growing out too, still super short on the

sides and sticking up in thick, dark brown spikes at the top.

He’s so damn hot, he leaves me breathless every time I look at him. I honestly don’t know how I didn’t jump on him at that

first Christmas party.

Catching my gaze, he winks and sits at my side. One hand slips under the table to settle warmly on my knee while the other

lifts his wineglass high.

At his salute, we all pick up our glasses. “So then,” he says. “Merry Christmas.”

Even though it’s technically Christmas Eve, we all toast.

Gray sets his glass down. “Shouldn’t Fi be saying, ‘And God bless us, every one’?”

“Are you implying I’m Tiny Tim in this scenario, dickface?”

“Dickface?” Gray gives an expression of mock outrage. “If I didn’t happen to have an awesome dick, I might be offended.”

“So you’re saying you’re on board with your face resembling your dick?” Drew asks with a laugh.

“I’m saying that if my face has to resemble a dick, it might as well be the stunning sight that is my own,” Gray retorts with

a waggle of his brows.

I lean in. “If you want to talk about stunning dicks—”

“No!” everyone shouts again.

I shrug and hide my smile as I take a sip of wine.

“I’m so glad sausage is on the menu,” Ethan deadpans before slicing into his banger.

Drew and Gray wince, but Anna, Ivy and I laugh.

Happiness is infectious and fills me with warmth. I’m no longer that restless girl I’d been for so long. I’d finally found

my place. I give Ethan’s shoulder a kiss, and he winks at me as if he knows exactly how I feel.

Much later, it’s just me and Ethan, kneeling on our big bed, the golden glow of lamplight casting shadows over his bold features.

With infinite tenderness, he cradles the sides of my neck as he slowly peppers my face with kisses. His soft lips and prickly

beard send little tickles along my skin, and I sigh, leaning into his touch.

His voice is a low rumble. “So your stance on beards is...?”

I smile, remembering how he first got me to kiss him. “Total fangirl. You might even call me a groupie.”

He grins against the corner of my mouth before giving my upper lip a little suck. “And football players?”

“I’m completely gone on one in particular.”

He hums in approval. “Good thing. He loves you, heart and soul.”

This time, I capture his lips and kiss him with enough heat that his chest hitches. I smile at that. “I love you too.”

Warm breath gusts along my mouth as he speaks again. “Tell me,” he murmurs, still mapping my face with kisses, “what’s your

stance on marriage?”

My heart stops, and I utter a small gasp. Ethan pulls away just enough to meet my eyes. He looks at me with that solemn, steady

gaze I’ve come to love so much—the one that sees my soul and wants to keep it in his care.

Tears clog my throat, make my voice thick, but my lips quiver with a smile. “Is this your way of getting me to marry you?” I tease, even as my heart pounds against my ribs.

His thumbs stroke my cheeks as his quiet eyes stare into mine. “Will you?”

I laugh, the sound getting caught on a gurgle of happy tears. “Yes, Ethan Dexter. Hell fucking yes.” I launch myself into

his arms.

Laughing, he falls back on the bed, taking me with him. “Hold up,” he says as I cover his face with kisses. “You didn’t let

me give you the ring.”

“The ring! I forgot about that. Gimme, gimme.”

He laughs again. “Then give me some room to get it.”

As soon as I lean back, he grins and reaches into his pocket to pull out the ring.

It’s a large, round, pink diamond in a rose gold bezel setting. Simple, elegant, yet wonderfully girly. He slips it on my

finger, and I’m in instant love.

“You made this, didn’t you?” I ask, my gaze going to his and then back to my ring.

“Not made,” he says a little gruffly. “But designed it, yeah. How did you know?”

“Because I know you.” Ethan would plan everything out, down to the exact way the ring should look.

“Do you like it?” He’s frowning at the ring as though checking for flaws in the design.

I cup his cheek and lean against his solid warmth. “It is utterly perfect. Just like you.”

He blushes at that. I kiss him some more until he forgets to be embarrassed and gets caught up in kissing me back. He’s completely

mine now. He put a ring on it, and I’m going to do the same.

“Let’s do it in San Francisco,” I say, resting my chin on his chest and admiring the way the pink diamond glitters in the

low light.

He nods as if this makes perfect sense. “At the scene of the crime.”

I tickle his ribs, and he grabs my hand to nip my fingers.

“Be warned,” I tell him. “I might get the urge to take off my dress and jump in the pool. But if I do, I’m taking you with

me this time.”

His smile holds the promise of forever. “Sounds like a plan, Cherry.”

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