Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
ELLY
Halfway up the courthouse steps Monday afternoon, it hits me that I’m about to marry Grammercy Graves.
Like…for real.
Not in the theoretical way I’ve been thinking about it since Friday night when he made his totally decent, but entirely crazy, proposal.
Not in the practical, problem-solving way we approached it last night, when we spent an hour on the phone working out logistics like insurance forms and paperwork for the courthouse, and when Mimi and I should plan on moving in.
Nope, this is the full-body, heart-in-my-throat, how-the-hell-is-this-really-my-life realization that in thirty to forty minutes, depending on how backed up the justice of the peace is after their lunch break, I’m going to become Mrs. Grammercy Graves.
My knees go wobbly, and I have to grab the marble railing to steady myself. The heat of the sun-warmed stone beneath my palm reminds me why I’m doing this.
For Mimi.
For her safety, her health, and the chance to finally lift our little family of two above the poverty line and keep us there, once and for all.
And also, because you’re a fangirling sex pervert who had a FILTHY dream about her crush/future husband/man she barely knows last night. Which is fine, I guess.
As long as he never figures out your Luvvy Puck, the horniest hockey fan on the internet.
“Not fair,” I whisper to myself. “There are way hornier ones out there.”
There are. No doubt. That’s the truth.
But it’s also the truth that I had a sex dream featuring Grammercy’s big hand over my mouth, muffling the sound of my orgasm so we wouldn’t wake the kids, while he gave me a railing better than anything I’ve ever experienced in real life.
And yes, in the dream, we had four kids. And a dog. And a cat. And two sweet brother gerbils named Gordie and Howe, after our favorite old-school hockey player.
It wasn’t just a sex dream.
It was a family porn dream .
No matter how many times I’ve told myself that I understand this is just a new friend offering a helping hand to a kid in need, some part of me wants more. It wants Grammercy’s love and time and attention and a real-life happily ever after.
It also wants to find out what he’s packing in those sexy suit pants he was wearing the other night…
Maybe I am the horniest hockey fan on the internet.
Last night wasn’t my first steamy dream featuring Grammercy Graves. Nope, the first was three whole years ago, back when he was playing for the Eugene Sasquatch, when he was just a nineteen-year-old kid trying to prove himself worthy of the NHL.
Mimi was barely three, and we’d spent the day at a doctor’s appointment, where she screamed through a round of shots they’d hoped would help with her pain and swelling.
Afterward, at the grocery store and still cranky from her shots, she’d had a meltdown for the ages because they were out of the chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs.
Once I’d finally gotten her into bed that night, I’d collapsed on our ancient couch with a cup of lukewarm tea and flipped through channels, looking for something to help me forget that I was a twenty-year-old single mom of a newly-diagnosed chronically ill kid, and had no clue how I was going to manage.
I almost scrolled past the hockey game on ESPN+.
I’ll watch a WHL game from time to time, but minor league games aren’t must-see TV for me.
But the team’s name—the Eugene Sasquatch—made me laugh.
Then, they flashed a pic of their mascot, Sebastian the Savage Squatch, on the screen, and I was hooked.
I came for the comedy and stayed for the kid from Louisiana, a boy from New Orleans who skated like he owned the ice and scored like every puck that hit the inside of the net was a gift from the gods.
The joy on his face when he played was infectious.
He wasn’t bad to look at off the ice, either…
I knew that for a fact because I’d instantly googled the man, confirming he was Grant Graves little brother and the kind of hometown boy I loved to root for.
Louisiana isn’t a hotbed for creating pro hockey players, so we’re extra proud of the ones we’ve got.
I told myself it was just NOLA pride that had me flipping through his headshots to pick out my favorite ones, but the truth was that the crush was instantaneous.
Sitting there in my pajamas, stress-eating leftover mac and cheese straight from the pot, I found myself whispering “Let’s go, NOLA Squatch!” every time he touched the puck.
Within a month, watching Grammercy play had become my escape.
I stalked the cable listings, making sure to record every Eugene game ESPN+ broadcast so I could watch them later.
As soon as Mimi was in bed, I’d plop down on the couch and get swept away in my fandom.
And yes, I ordered a Eugene Squatch Lover T-shirt as a silly birthday gift for myself that year, but I wasn’t a Squatch fan. Not really.
I was a Grammercy Graves fan, this beautiful Southern boy who was making magic happen on ice.
I followed his career in the minors for two years, and no one cheered louder when he was drafted to join the Badgers, his very first NHL team.
And now, that man from the TV screen is going to be my husband.
My actual, for real, but also kind of fake, but still legal husband .
“Stop trying to wrap your head around it,” I whisper to myself. “It’s never not going to be crazy. Just embrace the crazy and…go for it.”
With a bracing breath, I hurry up the last few steps and push through the courthouse doors. The lobby is all marble, old wood, and that particular deep south government building smell of floor cleaner and mothballs they use to keep the bayou rot away.
Very romantic.
But what is romantic is the man standing not far from the information desk, his hair still damp from his after-practice shower …
He put on a suit. For me. And he’s holding a bouquet so gorgeous, I’m already a little choked up even before he crosses the space to greet me.
“Afternoon, chère ,” he says, in that soft, husky rumble that does illegal things to my pulse. “Happy wedding day.” He holds out the bouquet, a cacophony of peonies in pink and peach, delicate roses, daisies, and sprigs of green that smell fantastic.
I cradle it like a newborn baby as I coo, “Oh, it’s perfect. I love it so much. It’s just majestic and beautiful and amazing.” I glance up, wincing as I realize how ill-prepared I am to live up to these standards. “I’m sorry. Your boutonniere is pathetic in comparison.”
“Stop it,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t even need one. But a bride has to have flowers, and I knew you’d be busy this morning getting ready for the move, so…”
“I was busy, but a groom deserves flowers, too. Even if they are a little…unconventional.” I reach into my purse, pulling out the boutonniere I whipped up with Mimi’s craft supplies.
It’s not anywhere close to professional quality—my daughter has all the artistic talent in our family—but it was made with care and appreciation.
“For you, sir.” I hold it up between us, stomach flipping as a touched grin stretches across his face.
“Wow, you made it?” he asks, the awe in his voice making me rush to assure him, “I did, but it’s not good. I promise. Mimi’s tissue flowers are way better. If I’d been thinking, I would have asked her to make me some last night.”
He shakes his head. “No way. I like that you made it. Makes it even more special. How do I put it on? I haven’t worn one of these things since senior prom in high school.”
“You just pin it, like this.” Propping my bouquet in the crook of my arm, I step in to slide the straight pin I attached to the flowers through his lapel.
As usual, he smells amazing—soap and a hint of cedar and sea air, with a bottom note of Grammercy, an intoxicating smell more addictive than anything I’ve smelled before.
Being this close to him isn’t any less exciting in broad daylight. If anything, he’s even more attractive, all dressed up and freshly showered and waiting here, just for me.
For Mimi , I try to remind myself, but it’s hard not to feel like the center of the universe when he’s staring down at me like this. Like my middling crafting skills have touched his heart, and he’d like to touch me in response.
Clearing my throat, I pat the tissue flowers into place and step back. “There. Now you’re fancy.”
He grins. “Not as fancy as you.” His gaze tracks down my frame, making me tingle as it drags back up. “You look good in a little sailor girl dress.”
“Thank you,” I say, very glad I kept digging until I found my figure-skimming navy dress with the white piping around the arms and waist. It has a vintage 1940s vibe I love and…
apparently, Grammercy does, too. “Should we head down to the licensing department?” I glance up at the clock on the marble wall in the big, open lobby.
“We’ve only got about thirty minutes before our appointment with the justice of the peace, right? ”
“Yeah, but we’ll have plenty of time for the license. They aren’t busy. I checked when I got here.” He nods over his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Dawn. She’s not a hockey fan, but she’s really excited about us getting married.”
I exhale a soft laugh as I follow him toward a set of marble stairs curving around to the lower floor. “Oh yeah? So, you’ve been flirting with the women in the licensing department, is that what you’re saying?”
He flashes me another one of those Grammercy grins, the ones that hit me like a sexy jolt of electrical current every time. “I’ve been known to grease the wheels of bureaucracy with a wink and a smile. Is that so wrong?”
I shake my head, returning his grin. “Nope. Not in my book. Not even a little bit. I’ll have to take you with me next time I hit the DMV.”
He laughs. “Done. Though I can’t imagine you have much trouble charming your way to the front of the line. I’d let you cut in front of me, that’s for sure.”
“Thanks,” I say, with a slightly flustered laugh.