Breathe with Me (Playing for Keeps #5)

Chapter 1 I Don’t Get On My Knees for No—Whoops, I’m On My Knees Cara

Three and a half years ago: The night we met

“FUCK MY MOUTH AND TELL me to swallow, this is way too much food.”

I press a hand to my forehead, panic crawling up my throat as I watch the caterer lug in box after box of hot food.

One thing about Cara Nicole Hunter? I’m extremely persuasive.

I know what you’re thinking: Cara, babe, we knew this.

I guess the real question is, How am I so persuasive?

Honest answer? It’s a God-given talent.

What does that mean for me? It means I get a lot of things in life, mainly my way.

Really, how much more could I ask for? The three-legged stray cat who showed up at our door one rainy evening when I was eight?

Slept on my pillow for six years after I let the first tear slip free when my dad said no because Grandpa was allergic.

(He was never going to live forever anyway.) The field trip my history class took to the aquarium on my sixteenth birthday?

As I so kindly informed my teacher, no sixteen-year-old should have to spend such a monumental, historic day stuck in a classroom.

And that seven-year-old, two-door convertible I had to have at twenty, but was five thousand dollars over budget?

Drove off in it with a thousand extra bucks in my pocket after nothing more than the bat of my lashes, the bite of my lower lip, and a whispered please.

Things consistently go my way, and yet when the last box of food is placed on the counter of the too-small kitchen in the quaint rec hall, I’m reminded that four months ago, when I met with Debbie, event coordinator for the Vancouver Vipers—or was it Vixens?

—it was not my way or the highway. I insisted Debbie only needed half of what she wanted, and she insisted she needed all of it.

I stood my ground, but she stood hers harder, grinning like she knew something I didn’t.

There was nothing I could do but watch in slack-jawed silence as she left, every thought in my big, beautiful brain reduced to a single what the fuck.

My entire world had been shaken beyond belief, and I simply didn’t know how to go on existing.

That’s the excuse I gave my best friend, Olivia, when I politely requested a temple rub, tacos, and a pitcher of margaritas later that night.

Nevertheless, I persevered, because another thing about Cara Nicole Hunter?

I always rise above. But if I lose the Vancouver Vixens or whatever-the-fuck because I’ve let them blow 75 percent of their budget on food that surely will not all be consumed tonight, I may perish.

I’ve been busting my gorgeous, round ass since I graduated from the University of Vancouver two years ago, and I’m finally really getting Fête it’s gotta be his dimples.”

“Could it be he has a charming personality?” I suggest with a teasing brow as I head toward the food tables.

Shazia makes a face. “Charming personality? No, he’s got that look. You know, the one you always say deserves to be slapped off a face.”

“Ah. The fuckboy look. I know it well.” Peeking beneath the lids of the warming pans, I inhale the smells and sigh.

Debbie chooses this moment to walk in, her arm looped through her husband’s, and I point at her.

“I am not to blame when all this food isn’t eaten.

” I throw my arms in the air. “And it’s New Year’s Day, Debbie.

What if your guests are starting the new year committed to some cultlike diet, and they don’t want to eat any of this? ”

She smirks, working the buttons of her coat as she murmurs something about being so sure we don’t have to worry about that, and I gasp when I get a look at the dazzling red number she’s sheathed in.

“Debbie! Look at you!” I pull the coat from her hands, fluffing her loose silver curls when she removes her knitted toque.

“Albert.” I nudge her husband, his wide eyes flitting between me and his wife, because he saw me storming through here earlier today while I was setting up, and I guess I, like, scared him or whatever. “Have you seen your wife?”

“Have I… She’s-she’s…” He takes a breath, smooths a hand over his tie, and winks at Debbie. “Gorgeous. As always.”

“You trying to get it tonight?” I tilt my head toward Debbie and wink. “Debbie’s always DTF.”

“What’s DTF?”

“Down to fuck. Right, Deb? Get a couple drinks in you and you’ll be dancing on the table tonight.”

Debbie snorts, swatting me. “This is a fundraiser for children in the foster system, Ms. Hunter.”

“Exactly.” I hit her with a pointed look. “Remember that when you’re six drinks deep and trying to drag Albert into the coat closet.”

Another laugh, but it fades as she twirls, her eyes twinkling as she takes in the space, a shimmering winter wonderland without the damp chill of January on the West Coast. “It’s stunning, Cara.

You’ve done an incredible job, but I had no doubt you would.

” Small women-owned businesses turn me on, she’d said four months ago when I’d asked her if she was really taking a chance on my little event-planning business.

She’d followed it up by asking me if I’d like to get a drink with her, and four hours later I met Albert when he had to collect her from the bar because I’d convinced her to do J?ger bombs.

I’ve mentioned I’m persuasive, right?

“Your continued faith in me is much appreciated.” My eyes slide to the food table, and I can feel my expression twist with agony.

“It’s not too much food,” she insists, the words drenched in amusement.

“You’re right.” I sniff, throwing my shoulders back.

“Because I’m gonna stay behind tonight and shove every last bit of it in my mouth if I have to, and when I’m sick tomorrow, you’ll have to come over and tend to me.

” Another sniffle. “I like toasted marshmallow lattes with a heart in the foam because it makes me feel special, and if you feel like braiding my hair and feeding me compliments, that would be nice too.”

An eye roll, and Debbie mutters something about me being nearly as theatrical as somebody named Carter Beckett. Do I immediately like him because we’re alike, or do I hate him because nobody outshines Cara Nicole Hunter? Only time will tell.

As people begin to filter in, I disappear into the back, but not before drinking in the look of wonder on their faces as they take in the décor.

It never fails to remind me that I’ve chosen the right path, chased the right dreams, put in the damn work to get where I am.

I said that things come easy to me, but never has that meant that I’m not busting my ass along the way for the life I want to live.

I spend the next hour preparing the live auction, and when it’s ready to go twenty minutes early, I finally give myself a minute to breathe.

Inside my purse, I find a package each of Skittles and M&M’s and tear them open, dumping some into my palm.

I swallow the handful with a gleeful hum, returning Shazia’s look of disgust with a wink while washing the snack down with a glass of red wine.

“I know.” I sigh, swirling the wine in my glass as I read the label on the bottle. “A 2008 merlot? Meant to be savored, not chugged. I’m a menace.”

“It’s the mixed Skittles and M&M’s that makes you a monster, Cara. Don’t even play.”

Holding her stare, I shove another handful in, licking my lips when I swallow. “I don’t play games, Shazia.”

Sighing, she pours herself a glass of water and fans her flushed face as she drinks it. “You should play games with one of the guys out there. They’re hot as fuckballs.”

I count it a personal achievement every time Shazia says fuckballs. “How hot can a pickleball player be?”

“Hockey player,” Shazia corrects.

Listen, I don’t sport. Everyone knows I don’t sport.

Sure, every ten-ish days Olivia drags me to a hot yoga class, but I spend most of it whining that my body isn’t supposed to bend like that unless I’m being railed, followed by starfishing on the mat.

Then I convince Olivia to stop for burgers and milkshakes on the way home—because, balance—and I worm my way into a cuddle session on the couch after making her admit she loves me.