Caged (Gold Hockey #11) - Elise Faber Page 0,76

“I love you—”

“You said that already,” Loni grumbled.

“Shh!” Toni whisper yelled.

Dani lifted a brow. “You seriously volunteered to include them in this?”

“They’re your family,” he said. “Our family, and I want us to—want you to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

“I have you,” she murmured. “Which means I already have it.”

Fuck, he loved her.

“Dani Eastbrooke, will you—”

“Yes, she will!” Loni burst in. “Now kiss her already so we can have more cheese.”

“Loni Eastbrook, you will be the death of me,” Belle began.

“God, seriously, I wonder if you were adopted,” Toni muttered. “You’re ruining a perfectly happy and romantic—”

Ethan tuned them out. “Will you marry me, sweetheart?”

She slipped out of the chair, knelt with him. “You sure you want to be part of that mess?” A nod over his shoulder, where the voices were rising in volume.

“I can’t wait to be part of that mess.”

Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. “Then, yes, baby. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Then with a conversation—no, an argument about the proper merits of really good cheese happening in the background, the voices increasing in volume, he slid the ring on her fourth finger.

And then he kissed her to the sound of a debate over ranch vs. blue cheese.

A glimpse of his happy ending.

And a damned perfect one at that.

Epilogue

Part Two

Fanny

She glanced down at the text from Dani, the picture of the gleaming diamond ring on her finger, and smiled.

Yeah, Dani was one of the good ones, and she deserved the good that Ethan brought into her life.

She typed out an enthusiastic response then set her cell on the counter and blinked rapidly. She’d had that once. The diamond ring, the loving fiancé, the wonderful, joyous hope of a future.

But it had all been taken away.

As she’d tried on wedding dresses.

“Fate can be a real bitch sometimes,” she muttered, going to the cabinet and retrieving a glass—a big glass—because she was most definitely happy for her friend, because she wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted everyone else to be miserable just because her happy ending hadn’t worked out.

Shit happened.

Unfortunately, a heap of that shit of life had landed on her shoulders.

She opened the fridge, pulled out the stopper on her bottle of wine, and then poured a generous splash into her glass.

And then remembering the diamond ring that had once sat on her own finger, she poured another long splash.

“Come on, Fan,” she murmured. “You’re going to change into pajamas, put on a face mask, and watch the Saw franchise until you forget all about failed romances and remember that you have a very fulfilling life.”

She paused, considered that.

Then nodded once, proud of her very sound plan.

Bringing her wine with her, since it was the first step of necessary oblivion, she made her way upstairs and into her bedroom, slipping into pajamas even though it was barely five in the evening.

“Plan, Douglas,” she muttered. “Stick with the plan.”

Right.

Wine. Check. Pajamas. Check. Mask. Next on the agenda.

She reached for the very expensive jar, washed her face, smeared on the cream, and then she belted on her robe, grabbed her glass, and headed back downstairs, plugging a food order into her cell for the fattiest, greasiest carb load she could find.

In forty-five minutes, she was going to be at a great place.

Nearing a heart attack.

But all the happier for it.

“Movie,” she whispered, cueing it up as she popped some popcorn—because if she was going for greasy and fatty, she needed that, too.

Pretty soon, she was on the couch, the slasher flick rolling, buttery fingers gripping her wine and feeling so much better for it. There was no thought of unhappy endings, no heartbreak and pain.

Just actors on a screen playing a part.

And a nice buzz floating through her brain.

She wouldn’t think about the past, about Brandon—

The doorbell rang, just in the nick of time.

She paused the movie before jumping up and hurrying down the hall, her memories chasing her like the hounds of hell. The food was early, thankfully, would take her mind further off everything that had happened.

Flicking the lock, she turned the handle, pulled open the door, expecting to see a delivery person with a bag in hand.

Instead, she saw . . .

She blinked.

Impossible.

The wine had gone to her head, because he could not be on her porch. She was hallucinating. The alcohol content of the pinot noir was higher than she’d expected. This was food, that was all—

“Brandon?” she whispered.

The figment of her imagination stepped forward, the shadows disappearing from his face.

“It’s me,