Chapter 2
Spruce’s Own Football Star Heart Throb
Here’s the thing about Tanner Strong, Spruce’s own football star heart throb: he always gets what he wants.
And is damned near impossible to stay mad at.
It was our first morning spent in our house that I learned that fact, seven and a half years ago, back when I could still smell the fresh plaster and wood in every freshly-painted room.
Forget the marshmallow nightstand with one working drawer; we barely had any furniture to speak of back then.
But I took command of the kitchen—the culinary-degree-bearing artist of pastries and tasties that I am—and set out to make waffles for breakfast.
Tanner, who just rose from the cozy fold-out couch (we didn’t have a bed yet), made the cutest face when he strutted into the kitchen and asked, “What’s with the iron? I thought we were doin’ pancakes, babe!”
“Waffles,” I insisted with sass as I gathered all the ingredients, opting to make the batter from scratch, of course, no boxed mixes. “I’m in my zone. Got a vision. I’ve dreamed of our first breakfast in this house for months and months while it was being built.”
“That’s awful funny.” He sauntered further into the kitchen. “‘Cause I had visions, too, for months and months. They involved a tall stack with melted butter and syrup oozin’ down the sides.”
“You can ooze all the butter and syrup you want over waffles, too,” I tossed right back, then poked him in the ribs with my long, wooden spoon, getting a giggle out of this full-grown man. “Out of the kitchen. I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”
“Oh, you can’t get rid of me that easily.
” Before I knew it, he trapped me in his arms with a vicious tickle attack I was in no way prepared for.
“Pancake Monster Hug!” I had no idea what the hell kind of monster that was, but I dropped the spoon on the floor and exploded into teary-eyed cackling.
“Pancake Monster is hungry for tickles!” Then we found ourselves on the floor, and things grew tenderer.
He stroked my hair, smiling. “Funny, how we each want something different, but both are made from the same stuff.”
“You can make your own dang pancakes, Mr. Strong,” I spat at him through a breathless laugh.
“That’s Tucker-Strong now,” he corrected me.
“But I’m gonna make these gourmet-as-fuck waffles just the way I’ve envisioned them, and our dining room table is gonna look pretty enough for a magazine cover.”
“Dunno how to break it to ya, but we don’t have a table yet.”
“Kitchen counter. Down on these clean-ass floors. Wherever we want.”
He kissed the tip of my nose suddenly, causing me to recoil in confusion. “You look so cute when you’re mad. Mind if I make you mad more often?”
I scowled playfully at him. “Pancake Monster better let me up off this floor before I serve his waffles on top of his head.”
He grinned at that, then became a prince at once, rising up and lifting me to my feet like I weighed nothing. He always used to do that, boasting his football strength in such sweet, modest ways, like his muscles are an accident and his power was all for me.
“Guess I’ll leave you to your magic,” he decided with a smirk, kissed me again, this time properly on the lips.
“I’ll put on some music for atmosphere. Is that part of your waffle vision?
Music? And does it include us dancin’ afterwards …
naked?” He winked at me, reached down to give my tushie a squeeze and a slap, then sauntered off to the living room to blast his latest band he was obsessed with, a new band every week back then.
When a familiar song came on that he’d played a thousand times, I smiled to myself, humming along as I continued to make my special batter.
Tanner was in the living room doing this totally ridiculous dance in a pair of tighty-whities I’m ashamed to say was actually sexy, even if I couldn’t stop laughing.
And wouldn’t you know it, I was so distracted, it wasn’t until the first batch was halfway done that I realized I accidentally made pancakes instead of waffles.
That man always gets his way.
Just as true now as then.
And not because he forces it. But because somehow, with that irresistible Tanner Strong charm he’s so known for, he makes you want what he wants, too.
Admittedly, those pancakes were to fucking die for.
I’m still thinking about them when we return home after the dinner.
Marcus and Joshua are wound up on sugary pastries and cake—which I happened to bake and bring over, adding an irony to the situation—and the two can’t be put to bed to save our lives.
“Just let them,” I sigh as I walk past the four-legged marshmallow and into the bathroom to wash my face. I sweat a lot when I drink.
Tanner is at the doorway. “Babe.”
I reach for a washcloth and knock one of them off the shelf and into the open toilet. “Lovely.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Gravity?” I go for another washcloth and twist on the faucet so hard, it squeals for five seconds. I really need to get that looked at. “Or planning a big wedding vow ceremony I wasn’t even aware we were having?”
“It just flew outta my mouth.”
“And now what kind of monster would I be if I called it off? I’d be the big bad wolf blowin’ our house down.
” I splash water over my face and hair, unwilling to even look at him.
“My parents want to include us at the fundraiser now, what a surprise. Jacky-Ann has probably told all of her friends. And you already have your football kids believing I’m a good-luck mascot ‘cause ‘their coach needs his man in the bleachers’, and now I can only imagine how they’ll be after hearing this.
You know how word gets around this town. ”
“There’s so much we haven’t figured out yet. Why’d we jump the gun last night?” He nods at the toilet. “That washcloth mine? I sure hope Joshua remembered to flush. That boy …”
“I just want to know why.” I turn away from the mirror and face him, which sobers him right up. “Why’d you do that? What are you trying to do to me, exactly?”
For a moment, I just know he’s about to pull a Tanner and say something funny again, likely about how sexy he thinks I am with water dripping down my face and hair, or how my anger turns him on—always deflecting with humor and sex, his golden skill since I’ve known him.
But his eyes go soft and he says, “I had to do something.”
I stare back at him, at a loss.
Right then, Joshua appears outside the bathroom. “What’s a vowing ceremony?”
Marcus shows up just as quickly, putting a hand on his little brother’s shoulder. “It’s like a wedding. But again.”
“Will there be chocolate cake and dancing?”
“And ice cream,” confirms Marcus, steering his now eager-eyed brother away—but not before giving us a glance. “Sorry, Dads. I’ll get him to bed.”
“Nah, it’s barely …” Tanner starts, then glances at his wrist for some reason, realizes a wristwatch hasn’t been there since 2005, then shrugs.
“Somethin’ o’clock on a Friday night. The summer ain’t over for you guys yet.
Heck, play your video games on the big screen in the living room if you want. ”
“Really?”
“Of course, buddy, go to town.” Marcus and Joshua are gone faster than either of us can blink.
Then with a lighthearted sigh, Tanner turns back to me—and as if coming out of a dream, I watch his face sink into our slightly less playful reality.
“I’m gonna show you, Billy. Someway. Somehow.
” He takes the washcloth from my hands and gently dabs the side of my cheek.
“I’m gonna remind your cute, stubborn ass why we fell in love. ”
Marcus comes right back—with my phone in his hand. “It’s Grandma.”
“Billy? Billy?” twangs Nadine’s overly-excited voice.
She’s on speaker, too, apparently. “I can’t turn my brain off and am drivin’ Paul wild.
I’m just over the moon and probably some stars, too!
Called Grandma, gettin’ her to come in for the big ordeal.
I just had to call and ask, would you cater your own event alone, or can I get Mr. Tucci onboard from my restaurant?
Y’know, Malcolm’s father, my head chef? We have got to plan all of this out now.
Will you meet me for coffee in the mornin’?
Or now? Is it too late? Skip the coffee, it’s late anyway, just chat with me! ”
I stare at Tanner over the phone that still rests in Marcus’s outstretched hand. Tanner stares back at me, and I don’t know if it’s apology I see in his eyes, hope, or something else entirely I’m not sure even has a name.
I don’t know if I can do this.
I’m just plain tired.
I have no hope.
But the worst part?
A piece of me wants to have hope.
That must be the sole reason the next words spill out from my still-dripping face. “I’ll come over, Nadine. We can discuss catering ‘til a bottle of Rosé’s empty between us.”
“Now you’re talkin’ my language!” she sings out, delighted.
As I hang up and let Marcus head on back to his brother to play games on the big TV, I stare my husband down, preparing to play one of our own.
“Let the charades begin,” I say, slap my dripping wet washcloth onto his palm, and head off to the gallows.