Chapter 1
Sabrina
The first time I kissed Dexter Whitby was on the day of our wedding.
When Dex convinced me to marry him in order to benefit from his health insurance, we agreed the arrangement was a means to an end. How else would I receive the post-surgery treatments ensuring my return to health and to the sport we both love?
Which is to say, despite the glaring differences in our athletic journeys, we’ve remained best friends through the years.
He’s a first-round draft pick and captain of Columbus’s NHL team, the Mavericks. I always knew he would be a superstar centerman in the big leagues. Dex deserves all the recognition he’s getting. I’m so proud of everything he’s accomplished.
I, on the other hand, have been working as a manager of a coffee shop in the suburb where we grew up. The job is a necessary supplement to the meager income I earn as a goalie for the Buffalo Blazers, a professional team in the Women’s Hockey Federation.
Correction: I was a goalie.
Until the accident.
On a hot and sticky September evening, my car was T-boned by a teenager joyriding with friends.
At twenty-six, I was still under my parents’ health insurance. Even so, the bills piled up. My parents hired an injury lawyer to recoup medical expenses, but that’s led nowhere.
Meanwhile, my birthday loomed. At twenty-seven, I age out of my parents’ insurance plan.
Enter Dexter to the rescue. My oldest friend. The best guy I know. And, as of November first, my husband.
“Husband,” I whisper to myself, trying out the word. “Husba—”
The knock on the window of the driver’s side makes me jump.
“Are you coming in? What’s wrong?” Dexter’s voice sounds weirdly nervous. He’s such a worrywart.
“You’re home?” I sound confused and distracted—because I am. He was supposed to be at practice for a few more hours.
We agreed I would call him during the last leg of my six-hour drive from Buffalo to Columbus. I didn’t call, because . . .
Why didn’t I call him?
Not because I forgot. Rather because I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would mean to leave everything I knew and force Dexter into this arranged marriage.
I needed to shore up some composure. Sitting on his driveway to calm myself seemed like a good idea when I was driving down the highway with my erratic pulse and my sweaty hands.
Today, a month after we applied for spousal benefits, I am officially moving in.
With my husband.
“I canceled my meeting with the skills coach,” he says, blue-violet eyes crinkling at the corners. Dex’s beard hides nothing of his soft lips and dazzling smile.
“Pull into the garage,” he instructs when one of the four garage doors open.
I roll inside, my newly purchased ten-year-old hatchback looking like the underdressed guest at a classy dinner party. On one side is a super-decked-out SUV that Dex uses to transport an equally decked-out boat. On the other side is a sleek sports car polished to a shine.
“That’s it? That’s all you brought?” Dex is referring to my pathetic cargo of two suitcases and one hockey bag as he checks my back seat and the trunk I popped open.
“A house as big as yours should already come with a bed.”
“Four, in fact,” he confirms, hauling out my stuff.
It’s my first time here. He gave up his downtown condominium for this place during the darkest time of my recovery. I remember little from those hazy days and painful nights. Vaguely, I recall Dex saying the house purchase was an “investment opportunity.”
“Urban farmhouse” is what the realtor’s website called it when I finally had the energy to look it up. I found the term confusing until I studied the pictures.
“Farmhouse” signals a sprawling mansion with wood beams on cathedral-high ceilings and no neighbors for a mile on all sides.
The “urban” part is code for half an hour from downtown Columbus and worth over two million dollars.
From the garage, we enter the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen. Everywhere my gawking eyes land, modern lines are accentuated by natural wood and faded stone. This is an interior designer’s wet dream. Luxury and coziness merge in perfect harmony.
Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the pink and purple tones of winter dusk creep over a snow-sprinkled landscape. This is where I’m going to live for a whole freaking year?
“Holy shit, this is the ultimate after house on those before and after shows,” I prattle.
“Thanks, I think?” He shuts the garage door and places my stuff at the entrance of a hallway.
Removing my shoes, I relish the heated floors. My eyes are drawn to a massive gas fireplace surrounded by oversized couches with fluffy pillows. The hearth is bigger than most campsites. In front of that fireplace is exactly where I plan to park myself every chance I get.
“Can I grab you a vitaminwater? Or something else?” he asks, opening a fridge with a door that blends into the kitchen cabinets.
Before I can answer, the patio outside snags my attention. Although calling it a patio is like calling a private jet a means of transportation. The dining area, entertainment center, and outdoor kitchen rival a five-star resort.
This is truly my dream house.
“If I’d known you were this loaded, I’d have married you sooner!” I tease.
He snorts before handing me a bottle with a label I don’t recognize. I hope it’s pumped with whatever supplements he takes to be more muscular every time I see him.
“If that’s all it was gonna take, I would have flashed my cash sooner,” he jokes back.
“Cheers to your cash, Dex!” I say before gulping the most delicious water I’ve ever had.
Turns out rich people have better versions of everything.
“Cheers to you, Baby Brie. I’m so fucking glad you’re here,” he says with open arms. The simple sincerity of his words brings with it a wave of gratitude.
He only ever calls me “Baby Brie” when we’re alone. The private nickname reminds me that Dex’s wealth is the least amazing thing about him.
It’s his authentic kindness and unwavering friendship that truly matter. Overwhelmed with emotion, I wrap my arms around his waist, melting into his bear hug and inhaling deeply. His aroma is as familiar to me as home.
But something is very different.
Disturbingly unprecedented.
Terrifyingly new.
My best friend’s burly chest lifts with each breath and his hands encompass my entire back. Offering a gentle peck on the crown of my head, he’s as sweet and platonic as always.
The problem isn’t Dex.
The problem is me.
My fingers, to be exact. They move from his muscular neck along his broad shoulders and back again, eager to explore the hills and valleys of Dexter Whitby’s masculine anatomy.
Wait, what? How dare I reduce him to masculine anatomy?
I shouldn’t be thinking about his anatomy at all!
He’s so much more than a hot hockey superstar.
Oh shit, did I just call my best friend hot?
I meant generous and kind, funny and thoughtful. An honest-to-goodness lifesaver. By marrying me, he’s enabling my recovery from a spinal disk replacement and the repair of an ear avulsion. That’s a fancy way of saying a large glass shard ripped the skin and cartilage at the back of my ear.
I step back guiltily and suddenly find the floor pattern fascinating. I can’t look him in the eye and breathe at the same time.
Dex steps away, and I finally exhale.
It’s the kiss. That damn kiss at the courthouse changed everything for me.
My parents are aware of the arrangement and served as witnesses to our ceremony. “Kiss the bride!” my mother had heckled. It doesn’t matter how awkward a situation is, you can always depend on Mom to clown around.
However, when Dex kissed me, it was the farthest thing from a joke.
I was so shocked by the softness of his lips, I gasped, opening enough for our tongues to touch, turning the ceremonial kiss into something more.
The pleasure of his tongue’s slow yet firm strokes astounded me.
Warm hands cradled my face to tilt my head back.
He delved deeply, heightening my senses and awakening my hunger.
The sensual pressure of his lips weakened my knees, so I had to grab his shirt to keep myself standing.
When his thumb touched the scar behind my ear, the subtle graze intensified the most erotic kiss of my life.
I moaned and softened in a way that makes me blush, even now.
Then came the moment I realized that I had made a stupid and reckless mistake. If you’re going to kiss the most important person in your life for the first time, it shouldn’t be on your freaking wedding day!
Why didn’t anyone tell me that kissing my husband was going to ruin everything?
I clear my throat and ask, too chirpily, “Got any work for me today?”
Part of the arrangement is that I’ll be functioning as his personal assistant in exchange for room, board, and, well, a chance to return to a normal existence after my world fell apart. I’m eager to earn at least a portion of the benefits I’m getting out of our arrangement.
Apparently, moving to this “urban farmhouse”—am I ever going to use that term without quotation marks?—comes with more responsibilities than owning a downtown condo.
My focus, at least in the next month or so, will be furnishing and organizing his new home.
Dex is also the captain of a team amid a playoff-worthy season.
Leading a young, dynamic group like the Mavericks, Dex will be expected to throw a few parties for his teammates during the year we’re living together.
My job will be to support him in all of his responsibilities, including celebrating the team’s successes.
“The only work you’re doing tonight is stuffing your face with dinner,” he declares confidently. “I made our favorite mac and cheese.”
I clasp my hands in anticipation. “With smoked sausage?”
Before mac and cheese purists unleash their scorn, let me say: don’t knock it till you try it. We got the recipe from a barbecue place we discovered during a summer vacation in Memphis years ago.
Smoked sausages are life-changing.
“Obviously, yes,” he confirms.
“Where can I freshen up?” I ask, walking toward my bags. “Can’t wait to stuff my face with your smoked sausage.”
I stutter-step, because what the hell did I just blather?
He’s a good friend, though, so Dex clears his throat and pretends I don’t sound like a complete pervert.
I blame the kiss.