Coop
Honey.
Calle tasted like honey—sweet and earthy albeit with a hint of mint. But he had the barest moment to think of that before her lips parted and heat exploded through his body. He swept his tongue into her mouth, coaxing hers to dance with his.
Frankly, it didn’t take much coaxing.
Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, and she pulled him toward her. Fuck, just the feel of her breasts plastered against his chest had him going hard. He slid his hand down her back to her ass, tugged her closer, and she jumped into his arms, legs going around his waist, mouth pressing more firmly against his and sending him from hard to granite.
All the while, they kissed like the world was ending or as though they were each other’s favorite drug and they were desperate to get their next fix.
Then her hips tilted, and Coop stopped thinking.
Instead, he felt.
The soft globes of her ass in his hands. The smell of her filling his nose. The heat of her pussy grinding against his cock.
Fuck, he needed to be naked.
Fuck, he needed her to be naked.
Her head jerked back, and she sucked in air, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. He let his mouth drop to her jaw, nipping the soft, honey-sweet skin there, dragging his tongue down her throat, tracing it along the collar of her almost-prudish dress shirt. She always wore them to the games, and he’d lost count of the number of times he’d imagined unbuttoning the column of white circular fastenings, of spreading the boring cotton wide and getting his mouth on all of that pale, silky skin.
Her legs tightened and he took a step forward, setting her on the edge of her desk, before bending further and opening the top button with a flick of his fingers.
She moaned, hands moving toward his hair, winding tight.
He dropped his head.
Just a quick taste.
His mouth hit her throat, and he groaned, the scent of her stronger here and more intoxicating than the catnip she’d been mentioning earlier. He kissed her there, laved his tongue gently over the slight indention, but he couldn’t reach much more than a small triangle of skin.
Okay, just one more button.
He reached up to open it, but then Calle tugged his head back up and slanted her mouth across his.
Fuck, the woman could kiss.
Not shy, not hesitant. Just lips and tongue and teeth . . . and a whole lot of enthusiasm. Coop’s head spun and his cock was aching, especially when her thighs tightened around his waist and he got to feel the heat of her pussy grinding against him again.
Thanking the universe for small miracles—namely that the dress pants they both wore were thin and didn’t dim much of the sensation—he ran his hand back up to the buttons, flicking one . . . then two . . . then fuck it all, three open.
They both groaned when he cupped her breast over her bra.
But he wanted skin. He needed skin.
He slipped his hand under her shirt and was rewarded with silk, with a breast that fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, its pebbled nipple making him shift his grip and lightly pinch it between thumb and forefinger.
“Coop!” she gasped, arching into his hold.
He slanted his lips against hers again, swallowing her moans as he continued to tease her nipple, to massage her breast. His pulse thundered in his veins. His head spun. He wasn’t getting enough air and yet he couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t find the strength to break away from the fucking goddess in front of him.
And she seemed to feel the same.
She tugged his head back when he broke away to suck in a breath, her thighs so tight around him he was lucky to still have feeling in his lower extremities, let alone blood flow to his dick, arching up to offer her breast to his hand, pressing her pussy more firmly against him.
He kissed her, kept kissing her.
And now he was ten seconds away from fucking her on her desk.
One more button.
Another.
Reaching behind to flick open her bra.
Releasing her mouth, bending to take one nipple then the other into his mouth, drawing deeply. He undid the last button—this one being the one on her pants—and slipped his hand beneath the waistband, beneath the scrap of material underneath, into the damp folds between her thighs.
She spread her legs as much as she was able.
But it was enough.
His fingers dipped down and found—
Hot. Wet.
For him.
“Fuck, Coop,” she groaned, hips jerking. He circled the hard bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, finding a rhythm that quickly had her writhing on her desk, head thrown back, brown hair spread out like a cape behind her. “More,” she gasped. “Just a little harder on my clit. I’m so close . . . Yes. I’m going to—”
He heard the knock before she did.
Thankfully, he managed to reach up and cover her mouth with his palm, to stifle the groan as she came against his hand, her nipple against his tongue, her pussy soaking wet against his fingers.
So. Fucking. Beautiful.
She slumped back, face completely relaxed, cheeks flushed, eyes sliding closed for one glorious moment.
Then the knock came again.
And those eyes flashed open.
Horror washed over her face. Chased by panic. Followed again by horror.
Coop was two steps ahead of her. Well, what he was feeling definitely wasn’t horror or panic, but he knew that being discovered splayed out half-naked on her desk wasn’t what Calle would want . . . even if he’d just given her what seemed to be a long-overdue orgasm.
Hence, the two steps.
He’d slipped his hand free, buttoned her slacks, and was working on her shirt when she finally processed what was happening.
She sat up, shoved him away, fingers frantic on the buttons, making such a mess of the discs that he knocked her hands away and did them up himself. That she let him, told him almost as much as her pale face and wild eyes did.
He’d miscalculated.
He shouldn’t have kissed her.
He certainly shouldn’t have undone the buttons.
Fuck.
But he didn’t have the ability to go back in time. He could only move forward, so Coop nudged her around to the back of the desk, opened the tablet, and then reached into his pocket to pull out his earbuds.
He’d just handed one to her and pulled up the video she showed him earlier when he heard the click of the lock disengaging just before Bernard poked his head in.
Coach looked surprised to see them, his eyes tracking from the earbuds in Coop and Calle’s hands to the iPad on the desk.
Silence.
“Door was locked,” he said, gruffly.
“What?” Calle asked, and it was bewildered . . . no doubt from the orgasm and near desk-fucking, but luckily it also fit this situation.
“Coach was just showing me some tape,” Coop interjected.
Bernard’s eyes went down and up again. “Didn’t hear the knock?”
“No, sorry,” Coop said. “Had the earbuds in.”
“Ah.”
Another long searching look. “The bus is scheduled to leave in ten.”
Coop stood, leaving the earbud on Calle’s desk and hoping she’d grab them both and find a way to get them back to him because otherwise it would be a long-ass flight with all of Max’s nattering about the latest—and best in the history of all bests—fantasy show on television.
But he thought it would be even weirder to ask for it back from Calle while Bernard was still there, and he’d lied enough.
“I’d better hurry and go grab my stuff,” he announced to no one in particular.
His eyes caught Calle’s just before he left, and the look in them cemented the sinking sensation in his gut. He might have explained the situation, might have managed to not make Bernard suspicious—or minimally so, anyway—but she was terrified and already retreating.
Already pulling back and out of grasp.
Just like before.
Fuck.
Coop had really screwed the pooch on this one.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, hugging her and tugging her down the hall, carefully skirting the locker room where a bunch of naked dudes—and at least until a few minutes ago, one naked dudette—
And had he really just said dudette?
Because seriously, California had corrupted him. No self-respecting Georgian said dude, let alone the female equivalent. Also, side note to ask one of the native Californians on staff, was dude a gender-neutral term? It seemed like it should be and—
His mother squeezed his arm, thankfully tugging him out of the mental rabbit hole he’d wandered down. “Is that Brit Plantain?” she asked, wonder in her words.
“Yeah, Mom,” he said, leading her over to his teammate.
“She’s my favorite player,” his mom whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back, not even giving her his usual shtick about his rights as her son to be in that role. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his dad was smiling, already realizing what Coop had done.
His mom had been devastated the last time his parents had visited the team—bringing enough delicious Southern food to feed an army, thankfully on a cheat day from Nutritionist Rebecca’s diet plan—only to miss Brit. The goalie had been visiting a local school that day and hadn’t been to the arena, and then the timing for a post-game meet-up hadn’t worked because of his parents’ return flight.
When Coop had heard his parents were going to catch his game here in Anaheim before heading to San Diego to visit his sister, he knew he’d remedy that.
His mom’s feet started to drag when she recognized the direction he was taking her. “Coop, stop. I can’t meet her now. My hair”—she reached up and patted her perfectly coiffed locks—“my shirt”—a sharp shake of her head. “No. She wouldn’t care about that.” Wide eyes swiveled to Coop’s. “What if I mess up her post-game routine and—”
Brit was already chatting with Mandy while doing her usual stretching routine, one that involved a wall and a series of exercises to keep her bum shoulder intact. She also never shied away from a chat with a fan, and he’d already cleared this meet-up with her.
She knew he was bringing his mom over.
After more than a few seasons in the league, she was also really good at reading social situations.
And she used her powers for good.
For the most part.
Today, thankfully, her gaze drifted over and dipped, probably taking in his mom’s attempts to halt his forward progress. She turned back to Mandy, said something, and then pushed off the wall and headed toward them.
His mom froze, and Coop heard her inhale sharply.
Then Brit was there.
“Hey,” Coop said. “This is my mom, Doreen.”
Brit smiled widely—the same one that had garnered her more than a few endorsements over the years. “You made that delicious mac and cheese!” she exclaimed, reaching out and shaking his mom’s hand. “Thankfully, Stefan saved me some before the hoard devoured it all. It’s so nice to meet you!”
His mom’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out.
Thankfully, Brit was nonplussed. She tucked her arm into his mom’s and turned to face Coop’s dad.
“Hi,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “I’m Daniel. Thanks for saving my son’s butt on the breakaway.”
Brit’s lips twitched. “Technically, it was my hubby’s fault that puck slipped out, but I’ll take it out of his paycheck later,” she said with a wink. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Now, Coop tells me your daughter recently moved to San Diego. Have you gone down to visit her already?”
“We’re actually driving down tonight,” his mom answered, having relaxed enough to actually form words.
Then the conversation was off, Brit and his mom chatting like old friends, discussing the drive and things to do and then Coop’s sister and her plans for her new job in California.
“We may have to move out here now that two of our kids have switched coasts,” his mom said. “The weather’s beautiful and . . .”
They discussed the beaches and how SoCal was lucky enough to have an ocean that was warm enough to not hurt one’s feet when they walked the waves—which was Brit’s preference and definitely not the case up in the Bay Area. Mandy popped in briefly with a Sharpie—smart, considerate, and sweet were the top three terms to describe their trainer out of the PT suite; in it, she was often called evil, tormenting, and unsympathetic—but either way, she brought the pen and then his mom got her jersey signed by none other than Brit Plantain.
Coop could have sent her a signed one at any point during the last few seasons, but it wouldn’t have been the same, and he wouldn’t have gotten to see the look on his mom’s face.
Joy.
He’d brought her joy.
His dad nodded approvingly then Brit drew him into the conversation as well. He watched his father slip his arm around his mom’s waist and draw her into his side, felt a pulse at knowing he didn’t have that yet.
That being a partner who fit as perfectly into his life as his parents did into each other’s.
And at the rate he was going, it was unlikely he ever would.
Stifling a sigh, he tried to focus back on the conversation, but then he looked up and saw Calle.
One glance was all it took for his heart rate to spike, for a sliver of heat to shoot down his spine, but then she came closer, in an intense conversation with Bernard, the both of them apparently unaware of the collection of Armstrongs jamming the hall. Calle was close enough for Coop to smell the floral scent of her shampoo—or maybe that was just him hallucinating because he’d dreamed about her the night before. Either way, she and Bernard halted, their conversation breaking off.
This is where you talk.
Except, his brain wasn’t working. Calle was there and the tips of his fingers burned remembering the wet heat of her, his cock twitched wanting a repeat, and his heart twisted upon seeing the look on her face.
Panic chased by a mask of indifference.
Fucking hell.
He silently sucked in a breath and just as silently, released it. Enough. Head down. Eyes forward.
“Hey, Coach. These are my parents,” he said. “Daniel and Doreen. Mom, Dad, these are my coaches—Bernard and Calle.”
Pleasantries were exchanged, well, pleasantries were exchanged between most of them because Bernard wasn’t exactly known for being particularly pleasant. But he was at least on good behavior, and Calle was her usual charming self as they chatted for a few minutes before they said their goodbyes, moving on down the hall and continuing with the serious conversation.
Coop’s eyes followed.
He couldn’t help it.
Calle was just . . . he’d had a taste of the forbidden and was ruined.
Not to be. Not to be. Not to—
His dad punched his arm. Not lightly either. Frowning, Coop spun back around—okay, so maybe he hadn’t realized he’d turned so far from the group or tuned so far out of the conversation when he’d watched her walk away.
“What?” he asked.
His dad studied his face. Then sighed and said quietly, “Careful with that one, son.”
“I’m always careful, Dad,” Coop said just as quietly. “We work together. I wouldn’t jeopardize—”
His dad shook his head. “Not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
He opened his mouth to answer Coop, but then his mom gasped. “Oh no, Brit! I couldn’t. I just couldn’t possibly accept something so—” He turned his head to see that Brit was giving his mom a stick and a glove, both game-used by the looks of it.
They argued for a few seconds before Brit managed to get his mom to accept the gift, but then, as Coop and Brit had known she would, his mom had given in, tears drifting down her cheeks as she threw her arms around Brit.
“I know I tease Coop about you being my favorite player, but aside from my son, you truly are. I remember watching you in your first NHL game and just being so blown away by how calm and composed you were.” She sniffed and pulled back. “And then you led my baby to winning a Cup, and he got his dream.” She sniffed again, but this time tears dripped down her cheeks. “Oh, Lord. I’m not normally this much of an emotional mess—”
“Yes, you are,” Coop teased.
She glared, but her mouth was curving. “I have been known to cry at dog food commercials.”
Brit cocked her head to the side, expression questioning.
“The puppies just look so h-happy—”
His dad tutted, pulling the stick and glove out of his wife’s hands and shoving them at Coop, before tugging her against his chest and holding her tight.
She let him, snuggling in, and Coop turned to Brit, who was smiling.
“Dog food commercials?” she asked lightly.
He nodded. “Every time.”
She chuckled.
“Thanks for doing that,” he said softly. “You made her year.”
“She’s a riot.”
“She’s something,” he agreed.
“I’ll have you know,” his mom said, tears dried. “I used to be all tough and scary, but then this man”—she poked at her husband—“just relentlessly, pulled all of my tough girl armor away, and now I’m a big softie who cries at dog food commercials.”
“I know what that’s like,” Brit said, expression softening.
Coop’s mom smiled. “I’m glad you do, honey.” A beat. “Just don’t let the guys know, or I’d imagine they’d give you hell for it.”
“They could try,” Brit said in a sing-song voice, “but then I’d torture them with more pop music in the locker room and all vengeance would be enacted.”
Coop snorted.
His mom grinned.
His dad kissed her on the top of her head. “I liked the tough girl,” he said, quietly, though Coop still heard. “But I love the cries-at-dog-food woman with all my heart.”
His mom murmured something back and then as they often found themselves, Coop’s parents, slid into their own world, lost in each other, their love for each other palpable.
Apparently, Brit saw it, too, because she sighed and when he glanced over at her face, it was to see a gentle expression there, her eyes damp with tears.
“Your parents are pretty cool, Coop,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
“I’m going to go find Stefan,” she announced, then spent a few moments saying goodbye before disappearing down the hall.
“I’m glad she found a good man,” his mom said as he led them out of the bowels of the arena and walked them to their car. “She deserves to have someone who makes her happy.”
He voiced his agreement, but all he could think as they drove away was what about him finding someone who made him happy?
Unfortunately, Coop had the feeling that there was only one woman on the planet who could do that.
And he couldn’t have her.
His phone buzzed a couple hours later as he rode the team bus to the airport.
It was a message from his dad.
I meant careful because you need to tread carefully. That heart of hers is fragile. Anyone with half a brain can see it.
Couldn’t go there. Coop absolutely could not go there.
But still . . . the text made him wonder if it might actually be possible.
At least for a moment, because then he tucked all of that longing safely away. No. He couldn’t do that to Calle.
She needed protection. Not risk.
The remainder of the trip was a disaster.
Not because of his parents’ visit or that the team had played horribly during the game.
In fact, the hole that Calle had identified had been plugged, and no one had over-committed to the play or missed their coverage. They’d easily trounced the Ducks, and the team was heading home on a high note. Plus, his mom had been beyond thrilled and her time with Brit had gone better than he could have hoped.
His relationship with Calle on the other hand?
Not so much.
And when had he started calling it a relationship?
Probably right about the time he’d seen her eyes tear up when she’d heard her baby’s heartbeat. Or maybe when his tongue had been in her mouth, his fingers sliding through the damp folds of her pussy.
He shifted, adjusting the thin material of his slacks and deliberately turned his mind away from the memory of that kiss, of her coming against his fingers all hot and wet before he popped a fucking hard-on while riding in the team’s plane. With his luck, Max or Blue would notice, and then the guys wouldn’t just be teasing him about the inside of his car, but his teenage-boy-like qualities.
Sighing, he shoved his earbuds in—luckily for him, Calle had dropped them into his lap when she’d walked by his seat on the plane down to Anaheim as she’d headed toward the back where the coaches clustered.
It had made the short flight much more palatable.
Not that he didn’t like his teammates, but it was nearly one, and they were once again packed into a plane, knowing that even after they landed, they still had another bus ride back to the rink and their cars before they all drove home. And no matter how luxurious the team’s private plane and buses were, traveling was still Coop’s least favorite part. He just wanted to be at the arena, and further that, he just wanted to be on the ice, blades strapped to his feet, stick in his hands.
Hockey had always been his happy place.
Thankfully, having it as his career hadn’t changed that.
There was absolutely nothing like hearing the crowd chant his name, of feeling that cool, crisp air hit his skin as he made his way onto the rink, of the electric sensation when he scored a goal or got to celebrate a teammate’s.
It was hockey. It was his lifeblood.
It was everything.
A whiff of flowers hit his nose, and Coop’s eyes flew up. He saw that Calle was moving past his seat, walking down the aisle toward the rear of the plane.
Her eyes, those pretty milk chocolate depths, were averted, and he knew in his gut that it was deliberate. It was late, the second travel night in as many days. Everyone was tired and ready to get back home, to have a full two days off, including him.
But Calle had always sent a smile in his direction when their paths crossed, tired or not.
That ten minutes in her office had been the single best sexual experience of his life, even though he hadn’t come, even though it had been far too short, even though it had been interrupted.
Because she was incredible.
He’d thought so for a long time, even before she’d come to the Gold, when he’d watched the women win gold, when he’d seen her cheering on her teammates from the bench, seeing the way they’d all come over to her when they’d won, including her in the victory even though she’d been propped up on crutches.
He’d watched her with an American flag over her shoulders, her two teammates having taken her crutches and setting them to the side, propping her up and bringing her onto the ice so she could accept her medal.
Captivated.
He’d been at home, the league on a scheduled break, watching the game and . . . utterly captivated by Calle on TV.
Then fast-forward a few years, and they were both at the same organization.
And he was still as captivated.
He allowed himself one more glance to see she’d made it to her seat and had slung her backpack into the chair next to her. She had heavy circles beneath her eyes, and her skin was pale, almost gray.
Coop knew she was feeling sick again.
Shit.
As though she felt the weight of his stare, her eyes shot up to meet his. Then held, the moment stretching, her swallowing hard, concern and panic trailing across her face. What? Did she think he was going to come back there and confront her? After he’d gone through the effort of creating the ruse to put off Bernard?
He tried to communicate that through his eyes, but when all she did was break their connection and look down at her hands, Coop knew she didn’t understand he wasn’t going to push something, wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize her career.
Sighing, he shifted so he was facing forward, glancing down at his phone and cueing up his audiobook.
Another thing the guys would give him a hard time for.
His love of historical fiction romance novels.
On audio.
With dual narration.
Good lord, he was a moron.
But there was something about getting lost in a book that was so different from his present or past life, so completely different from anything he had ever experienced, that when Coop had unwittingly ordered and then started listening to one—instead of the thrillers he’d stuck with for most of his adult life—he’d been absolutely hooked.
Seemingly random societal rules, lots of clothing to fantasize removing from a woman—cough, Calle—horses and letters and—
His family would give him so much shit—both his biological and hockey ones.
But he’d always been a bit of a romantic. He enjoyed finding out the things the women in his life might want but would never ask for and then giving them freely. He sent flowers. He bought treats. He . . . wooed.
Oh, but thank fuck no one on the team could read his mind in that moment.
Wooed?
That would garner way more shit-giving than the car or popping a boner like a fifteen-year-old-kid.
Although . . .
His dad loved his mom, had won her over by pure dint of character and perseverance, and the paired-up guys on the team also loved their women. They freely sent gifts. They did PDA and phone calls and pet names. Hell, even Stefan had managed to renegotiate his and Brit’s contracts to allow them to have a relationship and, not so long ago, Coop had watched PR-Rebecca yank a giant stuffed bear proclaiming Kevin’s love of her brownies to the world on the equally over-sized heart it held down the hallway at the practice facility. And he’d heard loads about Mike and his quote-unquote Love Doctor abilities as to how he’d worn down his Sara with romance and stubbornness. Then later how he’d helped Blane with Mandy and Max with Angie. Not to mention, their trainer, Gabe, who’d won shy, Nutritionist-Rebecca’s heart with his own special brand of persistence mixed with thoughtfulness.
So, he wasn’t alone.
And also, now that he was thinking of all those scenarios and measuring them against one another, Coop wasn’t sure if it was romance that had won out or stubbornness.
His lips twitched as he considered each in turn.
Stubbornness.
Yup, hands down. When it counted, his friends knew how to push and cajole and out-persist the women in their lives.
The rest of the time, they just sat back and enjoyed the ride.
Coop had always felt a little out of place, not because his teammates excluded him, but rather because he was one of the few single guys, and being around all of that paired-off happiness at team events was sometimes like a gut-punch.
He wasn’t a bachelor by choice, necessarily.
He’d been in a long-term relationship with a woman before he’d been traded to the Gold, but they’d made the mutual decision that they weren’t compatible enough to justify Hannah uprooting her life and moving away from her job and family to come to San Francisco.
So, they’d gone their separate ways in drama-free fashion, and Coop had been single.
Then he’d found out that Calle was going to be on the coaching staff.
He’d perked up, been excited to meet her.
Then he’d actually met her.
And suddenly, playing the field in SF hadn’t seemed all that appealing. Yes, he’d gone out with the few single guys a couple of times, but the club scene hadn’t ever really been his thing, and, honestly, no one had really been able to measure up to Calle. It wasn’t like he’d fallen head over heels for her or fallen in love at first sight, but rather that image of her on TV had melded with her awesomeness in real life—not to mention the fact that she was beautiful and sexy and had a great smile—and . . . his standards had shifted. No other woman could compare or compete with this vision in his head, the vision in his mind was of a woman that was very much like Calle.
Except a Calle that wasn’t his coach.
And he hadn’t known how to go about finding her.
So, he’d kept his head down, his skates on the ice, his body in the training room, and his head in the game, hoping that this non-coach Calle would fall into his lap.
But that hadn’t happened.
But Coach Calle kind of had.
Calle had.
The words of the audiobook drifted through his ears, but damn if Coop absorbed any of them.
Because all he could think was that Calle had fallen into his lap.
He knew about the baby. He’d gone to the doctor with her. They’d talked and shared and—
He wanted her.
Wonderful and kind, smart and talented, funny and fiery Calle.
But . . . he also didn’t want to ruin either of their careers. Or overcomplicate her life when she was already dealing with an unexpected baby and the fallout from her ex.
What then?
The plane began taxiing down the runway, picking up speed before it lifted off the ground and took to the air. But as the plane flew through the darkened night sky, leveling off at thirty-thousand feet and heading for home, he realized he only had two options and that he needed to choose one of those two before he got back to San Francisco.
Did he back off? Bury everything he was feeling and ignore the chemistry between them? Move on with his life and try to find a woman who made his heart feel like Calle did?
Or . . . did he try to figure out a way to win Calle over? And further that, did he try to find a way to win her over while keeping both of their jobs secure?
He knew what he wanted.
But was what he wanted smart or safe or in either of their best interests?
And did she want him?
Well, she certainly kissed like she wanted him. She definitely shared the emotion of the moment at the ultrasound. She clearly enjoyed bantering and teasing him.
That was want.
Those were ties that had already woven them together.
Coop shifted in his seat, glancing back down the aisle. Calle was asleep in her chair, mask over her eyes, travel pillow tucked around her neck, head slumped slightly to the side. Her chest rose and fell in steady intervals, and her palm rested lightly on her abdomen. Her face was relaxed, though even in the dim illumination of the cabin’s night lighting, he could still see she was pale.
A pulse of protectiveness wove through him.
And longing.
To walk down the aisle and slip into the seat next to her, to coax her to lie down in his lap and stroke his fingers through her hair until she fell back asleep, to cover that hand on her stomach with his own, to pretend the baby he’d seen on the ultrasound screen, the rapid whoosh-whoosh of its heartbeat still sounding in his ears belonged in some way to him.
Calle didn’t need him, didn’t need his help, nor his protection.
But that only made him want to give it more. In fact, he didn’t know if he could exist in a world where he wasn’t looking out for her, where he wasn’t trying to discover all the little things he could do to make her smile, where he didn’t have the right to hold her in his arms, to kiss and stroke and . . . love.
Which kind of made up Coop’s mind for him, didn’t it?
Calle was his.
She’d been his in some way or another since he’d seen her on TV, since he’d met her in real life.
Now, he needed to weave those connections tight.
To weave himself into them right alongside her.
He turned forward, eyes locking with Bernard’s for a split second before he let his break away.
Yeah, he had work to do. He needed to woo her, to romance her, to make himself indispensable, and all along the way to weave them both tightly together so nothing could separate them.
Not her fear.
Not their jobs.
Not the baby.
Coop didn’t want anything to separate them.
Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to him during the short, quiet plane ride home that oftentimes wanting something didn’t mean a damned thing.
He was certainly going to find out that was the case with Calle.