Epilogue
GENNIE
One Month Later
The clinking of silverware, the rich scent of garlic, toasted focaccia, and the bright chorus of familiar laughter fill the atmosphere of our favorite Italian diner.
Around our large round table sits the entire crew: Seraphina, Cory, Romy, Alex, Mischa, and Jett for a long overdue girls’ lunch, and the energy at the table is exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
Some of the girls are picking at fresh pasta, others are sipping on crisp white wine, and everyone is talking over one another in a beautiful, chaotic way only true friends can understand.
“I swear, I go out of town to work a handful of times, and you broads go and get with your boss, get pregnant, get married, and hook up with the hottest man who paid a hundred grand to go on a date with you,” Jett teases, her eyes sparkling with humor as she gestures across the table before leaning back, twirling a piece of bread in the air with a dramatic sigh.
A wave of laughter ripples through the group.
“Well, Jett, you and I can just be single together,” Mischa adds with a casual shrug, taking a sip of her white wine.
More giggles erupt, warm and infectious.
I take sip of my wine, smiling softly at my friends, feeling a sense of peace settling deep in my bones.
My life looked completely different not long ago.
The lingering edges of my past are gone, replaced by a deep, unshakable confidence and a love so fierce I still have to pinch myself several times a day to make sure I’m not living in a fairytale dream.
My eyes drift toward the glass doors at the front of the diner, an electric pull tugging at my chest a second before the brass bell chimes. I sense his eyes on me before I even see him.
Gavin pushes through the crowd, looking devastatingly handsome in his signature tailored three-piece suit.
Shoulders broad to carry any of my worries, commanding with his presence as he cuts through the throng of restaurant tables with effortlessness.
And as always, his dark, intense gray eyes have only one target: me.
The moment his gaze captures mine, the corners of his hard mouth soften into a low, possessive warmth that he reserves exclusively for me. Behind him, the room fills with the rest of the crew, turning the area into an absolute showcase of handsome, powerful billionaire men.
Rafe is behind Gavin, his sharp eyes finding Seraphina’s, the boss turned-lover heat force radiating off him with each step.
Next comes Dom, crossing over to slide his arms behind Cory.
Their marriage of convenience blossomed into an epic love story straight out of a romance novel, and seeing the way he looks at her makes my heart melt.
Then there’s Vik, striding directly toward Romy—a man who quite literally worships the ground she walks on.
Without missing a beat, he leans down, his hand going straight to her beautifully pregnant belly, resting there with a gentleness as he presses a deep kiss to her lips.
Right behind him is Dante, Alex’s husband, whose sheer alpha aura could rival every man in the near vicinity.
He instantly tracks Alex with nothing but love and pride.
And bringing up the rear is the lone ranger himself: Nolan.
“Honey, you won’t be single for long,” Jett murmurs, leaning closer to Mischa, hiding her smile beneath her drink, using a tone only our side of the area can hear. Us girls let out another round of laughter, capturing the attention of the men making their way toward us.
“Yeah, right. I’ve known him most of my life, and he treats me like a little sister,” Mischa scoffs, rolling her eyes, but the small blush creeping up her neck gives her away.
“Sure, whatever you say,” Jett replies with a wicked wink. Then she taps her fork against her glass to grab the table’s attention. “By the way, ladies, I’m heading to Texas next and scored some killer hockey tickets. Any takers?”
Gavin reaches our side of the booth, and the conversation around me ceases to exist. He doesn’t care about the busy restaurant, the eyes on us, or the chatter of the group.
He steps right into my space. His large palm reaches to firmly cup the nape of my neck, and he tilts my head back and leans down, delivering one hell of a kiss—mouth, lips, and tongue.
It’s slow, it’s intimate, and it’s enough to make my head spin along with send my pulse racing into overdrive.
“It’s time to go home, baby girl,” he rumbles, his voice low, rough, and dripping with sexual intent. His eyes burn into mine with a promise that I know he’ll make good on.
“Is that so?” A playful thrill curls low in my belly. I look up at him with a sly smile touching my lips.
“You have a brand-new book to read to me.” His wink is slow, seductive tugging of his lips that carves his hard features into a sexy smirk.
“Is that so?” A purr escapes me as his thumb lightly strokes the sensitive skin along the slope of my neck.
“It is.” At his tone, my nipples tighten beneath my top, and a shiver runs down my spine. Desire thrums hot and heavy between my thighs, and when I clench them together, he notices. The entire diner fades away until it’s just me and the man who owns every piece of my heart.
“Then I guess we should go.” Gavin likes this idea, very much, judging by the way he tells everyone a quick goodbye. I do the same thing and slip my hand into his as he leads us out of the restaurant to head home.
I hope you enjoyed Gavin and Gennie’s story and will consider leaving a review.
Coming Next is The Enforcer’s Obsession, Jett and Rowdy’s story
Prologue
Jett
One Week Earlier
The reflection staring back at me from the steam-fogged mirror is familiar, though slightly worse for wear after all the traveling, I’ve been doing and will be doing in the coming weeks ahead.
My signature dark bob is flipped over in a dramatic side part to add volume without having to rewash, blow dry, and style it.
The winged eyeliner and mascara that usually takes me less than a few minutes to apply is now requiring careful precision in order to salvage my second attempt.
It’s official, my days and nights are completely flipped and today is not my day.
Even with the early morning light filtering through the small window in my bathroom.
“Ugh, this is a disaster,” I mumble leaning in trying to resurrect not only my makeup but my hair with a whole lot of texturizing spray. Adding insult to injury I catch the golden hoop earring I’d just put in with my fingers, nearly yanking it out, and causing me to let out a harsh breath.
This is me, Juliette Monroe, better known as Jett, to friends, family, and in the digital arena.
My skill set as a content creator and social media manger known for polishing up and coming artists, rebranding businesses, and taking broken public images and creating a spin until they’re trending for all the right reasons.
On the tiled countertop, my laptop sits precariously balanced between my bottles of skin care and coffee mug. The sound is on, and a local sports podcast is playing a recent interview. This is what I do, I study my job, backward and forward, coming up with a plan and how to spin a narrative.
“Joining us today is the enforcer for the Houston Lonestars and honestly, he’s been in the spotlight of the gossip magazines than on the ice.
Rowdy ‘Bouch’ Bouchard, everybody. Rowdy thanks for coming in.
” A popular host that gets national coverage, good, bad or indifferent says way too enthusiastically for this time of the morning.
“Yeah, Sure. It’s what I do,” a deep, raspy voice replies.
Rowdy Bouchard, the man whose image is currently a disaster, and priority number one.
The interview is a standard fanfare. He answered questions about being a Houston Lonestar, saying all the right things the host wanted to here, but I can hear the resistance, and clipped indifference in his tone when asked something he doesn’t want to touch on.
I dip my brush into my eyeshadow palette, tapping it on the lid, and sweeping it along my lash line.
My goal this week is to find a way to put a spin on this guy on every social media platform imaginable.
Hockey players, athletes’ period aren’t my usual clients, which means I have a lot of work ahead of me.
Rowdy isn’t his nickname. It’s his name and should also come with a damn warning label.
His last season with Houston, he racked up more penalty minutes than points, dropped the gloves every time an opposing player crossed the line with one of his teammates, and earned a reputation for turning cheap shots into full-blown fights.
He’s the guy who steps in when someone takes a run at the team’s stars, finished every hit with enough force to make an opponent think twice, and never backs down.
Needless to he was on the brink of a suspension, and the managers of the Lonestars patience was wearing thin, the surgery he needed after an injury came at the right time.
It should have taken the limelight off him, he should have been laying low, rehabilitating himself.
Instead, he’s been galivanting all over the globe, being seen with one celebrity after the other, and some of those celebrities didn’t mind the pictures that surfaced with white substances on a mirror.
“You had shoulder surgery after the season ended,” the host says, leaning into the microphone.
“The recovery has been, shall we say, scrutinized. Social media is having a field day with videos and pictures of you leaving the club last weekend. Some reporters are every claiming you aren’t focusing on rehabilitation for the upcoming season. Rowdy, what’s the real story?”
I pause, tossing my eye shadow palette into the sink, grabbing my mascara, opening the tube, and pushing the spoolie in and out to get a good amount on it. I look from my reflection to the clip, the one that hired me for damage control.
“The surgery is done,” Rowdy’s voice is calm, almost bored, totally unfazed by the media storm. “I’m doing the work. Physical therapy, every day. This injury isn’t going to keep me down, I’m putting in the work, in this for the long game.”
“Yeah, maybe ‘putting in the work’ in a completely different kind of physical therapy,” I murmur, carefully applying the first coat to the top lashes.
His tagged photos are littered with blurred shots of him stumbling out of VIP lounges.
His idea of rehab clearly involves late nights out, bottle service, and very few early mornings.
“Putting in the work,” I snort, examining my lashes in the mirror.
“Right. The work of giving me a migraine before eight in the morning.”
I’d turn this off if I could, but this is part of my job, studying the raw material, because while the social aspect it tells a story, it doesn’t include all sides.
I move to my other eye, swiping the black mascara while blinking, and pulling it up.
The video feed pauses on a high resolution; full body shot from a recent team media day at the Lonestars facility.
“Damn,” the image fills the entire screen, and I freeze.
He was caught walking through the arena tunnel, completely candid, and even through a screen, the man is undeniably good looking.
Tall, massive shoulders, and built with the lean powerful shape of a man who takes care of himself.
My eyes scan the screen, taking in the details like a marketer assessing a product or a woman assessing a threat.
Thick, dark hair falls in an effortless flow of waves around a face carved from sharp angles.
A strong jawline that looks like it’s built to take a hit, a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a dusting of stubble that only makes him look more rugged.
He’s objectively devastatingly handsome, his are the real threat.
Dark, steady, and intensely focused, the seem to take in everything through the lense of the camera without giving a single thing away.
Even dressed down, there’ something undeniably commanding about him that a filter could fake.
A fitted navy-short sleeve polo stretches tight across his chest, buttons left open at the throat to reveal just enough skin to make a woman wander what’s beneath.
His khaki slacks sit low on his hips, emphasizing his long legs and athletic build.
He’s a content creator’s and a public relations manager’s worst nightmare.
I can see the immediate appeal—raw, unchecked intensity is pure clickbait.
I’ve spent my entire life around men as good looking as him, and even more so with my career.
And one thing is certain, my boundary line is clear: I never, ever mix business with pleasure.
And Rowdy Bouchard is a high stake, career-defining deal that can take me to the next level.
“So, what’s the next step, getting cleared by the league?” The interview audio continues to play in the background.
“Yeah. Cleared, then get back on the ice. I’m here to play hockey, not answer questions.” I reach out and slam the laptop lid shut, cutting off his voice.
“Well, you’re to need more than a physical therapist and a miracle to fix your image before opening night, Bouch.
” I say to my reflection giving myself one last look.
My eyeline is smudged, giving me more of a smokey effect than wing tipped thanks to my unsteady hand.
My short dark hair is tousled, framing my face just right.
The layered gold chains sit flat against my white top, and I toss my black leather jacket over my shoulders to finish the outfit.
I look like a woman going to battle, all I need to do is somehow fix the narrative and do it fast.
I grab my phone, open the calendar app, my meeting is scheduled face-to-face with the Lonestars’ favorite bad boy at the training facility a week from now.
This isn’t a disaster I can fix from behind the screen, it’s going to take a solid game plan and in order to do that I need to head to my meeting with his coach first.
Rowdy Bouchard is about to learn that he isn’t the only one who knows how to control a crowd. And I’m only getting started.