My orgasm hits me like a freight train, tearing through my body, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake. Connor follows soon after, his body tensing as he spills into me.
“That was quite the homecoming,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“I missed you.”
He reaches for a towel, wrapping it around me with tenderness before grabbing one for himself. “How was Vegas?”
My stomach drops. “I had fun with my girls, but I’m glad to be back and even more excited to marry you.”
Connor nods as he opens the bathroom door, letting the steam escape. “I should probably warn you—”
“Let’s get dressed first,” I interrupt. “I’m freezing.”
Connor pulls on a pair of sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. Even after all these years, his broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband make my mouth dry.
He catches me staring, and his answering smile warms me from the inside out. “Come ‘ere, ma belle,” he says softly, holding out his hand.
I take it, letting him pull me against his chest. His fingers trace my cheekbone.
“Tu sais ce que je me rappelle? You know what I remember?” he asks, his voice low.
“What?”
“That hockey game where we met. When my puck almost hit you?”
I laugh softly. “Malcolm was so mad when you insisted on taking us for dinner.”
Malcolm had been my boyfriend for barely a week, and we hadn’t even kissed yet. We were supposed to after the hockey game.
“And even madder when you left with me instead,” he says, pride evident in his voice. “Best decision I ever made was choosing Winter Bay over Montreal, là. Everyone said I was crazy, but j’le savais.”
“Knew what?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“That you were worth it, ma belle. Always have been.” He presses his forehead against mine. “Everything is better with you, oui?”
I swallow hard. This is why I said yes. This is what I’d be throwing away.
Ten minutes later, we’re heading down the stairs, my braids still damp, but at least I’m clothed in one of Connor’s sweatshirts that smells like him. His hand rests on the small of my back. I’m just about to ask what he was going to warn me about when the front door swings open.
I freeze.
Vivienne Beauregard, Connor’s mother, sweeps in like a winter storm. Her silver-streaked dark hair is loose about her shoulders. Behind her follows a tall, willowy blonde woman who looks vaguely familiar.
“Ah! C’est Meesha!” Vivienne’s perfectly painted lips curve into what might generously be called a smile. Her French-Canadian accent is thicker than Connor’s, each word enunciated.
My stomach clenches, but I stretch my lips into a bright smile. Years of nursing had perfected my ability to look composed while panicking inside.
“Hello, Vivienne,” I manage, my voice honeyed with a warmth I don’t feel.
Acutely aware of my bare legs and lack of underwear, I tug at the hem of the jersey, wishing it were three inches longer.
Connor rubs my back. “Maman, j’pensais pas que tu r’viendrais si tôt,” he says, slipping into French.
The blonde woman closes the door, her eyes flickering between Connor and me. She has high cheekbones, clear skin, and dressed in an ankle-length winter jacket. The woman offers a small smile as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze briefly dropping to the floor before meeting mine with what looks like discomfort.
“Le restaurant était trop plein,” Vivienne says, removing her gloves one finger at a time. “This is Frédérique. You know her already, I think? From before?” Vivienne gestures to the other woman.
My mind races. Frédérique... the name clicks into place.
