Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
But she’s persona non grata among all the Moose, and Shep’s promised me that as long as he’s with the team, every new guy’s going to get the message on Mollie. She’s going to have to get her kicks somewhere else.
Dalton doesn’t even notice her. His arm is tight around me and he’s grinning at Shepherd, holding up a hand for a high five from his best friend.
“Dalton?” I say, pulling his attention back to me. Once his eyes find me, I tell him, “Me too. Matt’s moving up to Milligan’s old spot, and I’m getting promoted to head sports reporter. Still at the local station,” I add, downplaying it.
But this is a big deal for me.
Greg could’ve interviewed outside the station, could’ve found someone older, more experienced, more male . . . but he didn’t. He said that wasn’t even a consideration they made. When Milligan said he was retiring, Matt applied for his post, and I was the only person they thought of for Matt’s place.
“Joy! That’s amazing!” He hugs me tight, celebrating my victory along with his own.
I don’t know why, but tears spring to my eyes. There’s just so much love and happiness, I can’t hold it all inside. I don’t want to hold it in.
Dalton’s dream is coming true. My dream is coming true.
And most importantly, we’re together. Us. Dalton and Joy, the best team ever.
“You know that means I’ll still be reporting on you, and I won’t go easy,” I warn.
He laughs, nodding. “I know you won’t. Tell it like it is.”
“You sure?” I question, giving him a skeptical look.
“I can take it,” he promises.
“Okay then, you asked for it . . . I love you, Dalton.”
A smile steals over his face, his eyes sparkling with happiness. “I love you, too, Joy.”
“Hey, lovebirds,” Shep calls. “Sorry to interrupt—not!—but I’m feeling a bit parched. Chop-chop, beer bitch.”
We glance over, and Shep’s eyes are lit with glee. He’s not the least bit sorry, but he is letting us know, in his own weirdly twisted way, that things are okay with the three of us.
“I got it,” I answer, wanting to let the teammates celebrate. “This time,” I add, reminding Shep that this won’t be a usual thing. One step away, I turn back. “And don’t ever call me a bitch, beer or otherwise.”
Dalton fights to hide a grin, enjoying me putting my brother in place.
“Didn’t call you a bitch to begin with,” Shep says, his arms open wide in puzzlement at the callout. “I called this asshole one,” he insists, throwing a thumb Dalton’s way.
“Aww, you can call me bitch anytime, sweetheart,” Dalton teases, blowing him a kiss.
And like that, they’re tussling good-naturedly, acting like they’re fighting when what they’re really doing is showing affection. Apparently, they can’t just hug it out and tell each other “I love you, man.” I watch them walk toward the group, a warm glow in my heart.
For a long time, way down deep, I thought I was unlovable. Little did I know I just needed to be loved by the right man. And that man is Dalton Days, the best hockey goalie in the league and the defender who somehow broke through all my defenses, even the ones I didn’t know I had.
“Happy looks good on you,” Hope says, sidling up to me at the bar as I place our order.
“Thanks,” I answer, blushing. “You too.”
She does look good. The Los Angeles sun has given her a golden glow, but mostly, I think she’s glowing from within.
“You know what this means, right?” she whispers, bumping my shoulder with her own.
I turn around, three beer bottles clenched in my hands, and spy Dalton and Shepherd across the room. “Yep,” I say. In my head, I send her a twin-lepathy message . . . last man standing.
Hope locks her eyes on our brother, a smirk tilting up one side of her lips as she answers in my head.
Last. Barlowe. Standing.