Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 37324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
A slow smile curved his mouth, the kind that always made my knees weak. “Say it again.”
I laughed softly, the sound shaky and full of relief. “I love you.”
His lips claimed mine in a slow, reverent kiss that was threaded with a promise that stole my breath in a different way. When he finally drew back, his thumb traced my cheek.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now your dad doesn’t have to worry anymore.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling through the lump in my throat. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Maybe not,” he admitted, brushing his mouth over mine again. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life proving he doesn’t need to.”
The words sent a flutter through my chest so strong it nearly hurt. But in the very best way possible, since there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice.
19
SAXON
The press conference was a shit show from the second I walked into the media room. It buzzed with anticipation, cameras flashing as the Nighthawks finalized the announcement. The team’s new PR hire—a cheerful, very pregnant woman with a rock the size of a golf ball on her finger—smiled as she stepped up to the podium. Rumors died in real time.
The press were packed in like sardines, and even with the cameras flashing and lights beating down like a damn interrogation room, all I could think about was Ivy.
I sat at a table in front of them all, my fingers twitching on my knee. I hated this shit. The forced smiles. The public relations dance. My jaw flexed as reporters raised their hands, eager to spin the next headline. One of them finally got called.
“So, Powell,” the guy began, leaning in with a smirk, “just to clarify—the woman in that photo wasn’t your type?”
My jaw ticked. “No.”
There was an audible pause, as if everyone was holding their breath waiting for me to expound. I didn’t.
Another voice finally cut in. “Then what is your type?”
I didn’t hesitate. “My fiancée. Ivy Fisher. She’s my type.”
The room exploded. Cameras clicking like a stampede, voices overlapping, questions flying, but I was already pushing back from the table.
I stood and walked out without another word.
Behind me, I heard a younger female reporter call out, laughing, “What about you, Raiden? Do you have a type?”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I just kept moving with purpose, focused on getting to my girl.
Lennox stood off to the side next to Coach Grady, his arms crossed over his chest. He peeled away with a smirk and fell into step beside me.
“Fiancée?” he echoed, the amusement clear in his tone.
I nodded.
He arched a brow. “She know that?”
“She does now.”
Lennox let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “You are something else, man.”
“You’re one to talk,” I deadpanned.
“True,” he agreed with a grin before turning on his heel and heading back to deal with the press.
The video had gone viral before I even reached the salon.
Fifteen minutes and half a dozen text notifications later, I pulled into the small parking lot, ignoring the barrage of pings from my teammates, my agent, and a few friends. Everyone had something to say about my “bold fucking move.”
I only cared about Ivy’s reaction.
The bell jingled as I walked through the door, and heads turned.
Every woman in the place stared at me like I’d just walked out of a dirty dream. But I only had eyes for one of them.
Ivy was near the reception counter, and the second she saw me, she crossed her arms and glared at me with indignation. Although there was no real bite to it.
She was cute as hell. But telling her that wouldn’t do me any favors in this situation, so I kept my mouth shut.
Her foot tapped the floor. “Don’t you think you should’ve asked me to marry you before announcing to the world that we’re engaged?”
“Nope.” I shook my head, walking straight toward her.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Why not?”
I stepped closer, taking in the way her eyes flashed, how her cheeks were flushed from happiness. Or something hotter. I was in favor of the latter.
“This way, you can’t say no.”
She gaped at me. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” I interrupted, pulling a small velvet box from my coat pocket. “And I did.”
She blinked at the jewelry box like she’d never seen one before.
I flipped it open, and the diamond caught the light just as her breath caught in her throat. I took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. Not asking. Just doing. Because she was mine, and we both knew it.
The stone was classy, but the corners of my lips tipped up smugly because the ring was definitely not subtle. It was big enough to make a clear as fuck statement. No one would miss that iceberg sparkling on her finger.
I stared her down. “And now everyone knows you’re off the fucking market.”