Page 13 of Playing for Keeps

Gunnar bumps his turn signal and pulls into the mall parking lot. The gleaming entrance to Nordstrom shines bright before us, with the sunlight glinting off the windows. “Emerson. They’re dying to smother you. You married their Gunny.”

“Gunny?” I unbuckle when he puts the car in park. “They call you Gunny?”

He nods. “Gun. Gun-ster. G-Stag. Fart-ass. They’ll want to give you a nickname, too.”

I try to open the door, but he flies out of his side and races around to open my door for me with a grin. I accept his hand and climb down from the vehicle. “I don’t really do nicknames,” I explain.

He cackles. “Sorry, Salty. You’re a hockey wife now. It comes with the territory.”

CHAPTER 8

GUNNAR

“Salty?”Her facial expression is adorable.

I nod and gesture for her to head up the escalator, tugging my hat low so nobody notices me. “Salty. It suits you.”

She laughs, and I melt a little. I’ve tried very hard to make it clear to her that I’m not going to pressure her into anything physical, but I’m super on board if she ever gets the urge. Because cheese and rice, this woman is every fantasy I ever had. She’s rounded and soft, with long hair I want to bury my fingers in.

Emerson seems dead set on getting a new dress, and I’m happy to oblige, even if I feel like a bit of a slime ball imagining taking it off that delicious body of hers. She always wears black, which I think is part of the musician schtick, but once we’re in the women’s section, she walks toward a rack of bright green and blue dresses that seem really, really pretty.

“You should get them both,” I whisper as she holds up a style in multiple colors. Her cheeks are pink, and she shakes her head, putting the blue one back and folding the green over her arm. Here, let me hold it for you.” I take the dress and follow behind her as she looks around. It’s only a matter of time beforesomeone shows up to help us out, and I’m excited to insist the store give us the full personal shopper treatment.

“Hey, um, I wanted to check in with you about time frame for us,” I tell her, glancing around to see if any of my alteration ladies are nearby. So far, I’ve been able to stay pretty incognito on this outing. But it’s only a matter of time before I’m spotted, and it becomes impossible to browse casually.

Emerson peers up at me from behind a row of sunflower-patterned outfits that don't seem to suit her style at all. She sniffs and puts the florals back on the rack. “Brian mentioned something about six months,” she says, pausing to glance around. “It’ll take me that long to find a dress that fits.”

I put a hand on her shoulder and look around, spotting an employee over by a wall of pink and red gowns. I beckon for her to follow me over there as I say, “I want you to stay as long as you want. But if you want to bail in six months, that’s more than fair. We can just get divorced, I guess.”

She purses her lips. “Why would we do that?” When I blink in confusion, she clarifies, “I mean, what reason will we give the press? You can’t fake-cheat on me because of your image. And I’m not cheating on you. I mean, look at you.”

I wink at her. “I’d never cheat on your fine ass, gorgeous.” She swats at my arm. I shrug. “We can just have irreconcilable differences. You probably need to get back to New York for your music career. I’m never leaving the Fury if I can help it.”

My heart squeezes at the thought of her returning to the city where her parents treat her like shit and yell at her in public. However, I also don’t want to be part of a plan that prevents her from achieving her dreams as a musician. I listen to her play every day when I get home, and she doesn’t know I’m there. She’s absolutely incredible. She should be on every stage in the country, making grown men cry with her beautiful music.

I’m pulled from these thoughts by the arrival of Kamila, my favorite seamstress. “Mr. Stag!” She claps her dark sepia hands. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your disguise. And who do we have here?”

I drape an arm around Emerson’s shoulders. “Kamila, this is my wife, Emerson.” I grin down at my confused bride. “This is the woman who will make sure you find the perfect dress and that it fits like a glove.”

Within minutes, I’m relegated to an armchair outside a fancy suite of fitting rooms while Emerson is whisked away. I see Kamila’s minions rushing in and out of the space with their arms full of fabric and I fuck around on my phone so I don’t salivate at the thought of Emerson standing around in her underwear, trying on all those dresses.

Eventually, Kamila pokes her head around the corner. “Would you like to see our front runner for tomorrow?”

I hop out of the seat like it’s sinking and rush through the door she holds open. “Definitely. What’s tomorrow?”

This question rings in the air as I freeze, spying Emerson standing on a platform in a red dress so sexy I immediately grow hard and have to adjust my posture. The material is shiny, and the top fits her body so I can see every curve, including the one bare shoulder and two sexy calves peeping out below the flowy skirt. I claw at my throat, trying to find words. My voice comes out in a rasp. “That is fucking beautiful, Emerson.”

She smiles shyly, turning and looking at her backside in the mirror, which means I see that heart shape reflected back at me in triplicate. It’s all I can do not to rush forward and squeeze it. I’m sweating, impossibly turned on by the sight of my accidental bride. Kamila hands me a bottle of water, and I take it silently, chugging it down.

Emerson turns a few more times. “You don’t think it’s too casual for tomorrow?”

I take a step back and scratch at the back of my neck, trying to remember what I said we’d do tomorrow apart from a family meal. “Babe, I’m so sorry. I cannot remember what we’re doing tomorrow.”

She frowns. “Your family…brunch…”

My eyes fly wide, and I stare at Kamila. “You thought you needed this…” I gesture at her. “For my family?” Shaking my head, I fly forward and grab Emerson’s hands, dropping the water bottle in the recycling bin on my way toward her. “Emerson, everyone will be wearing sweats. Soccer will be on the TV. People will wrestle.” Her eyes flutter, and she seems to be on the verge of tears, laughter, or both. “Babe, this is a super casual family, I promise. But I want you to have that dress because I’m pretty sure it was made for you.”

Kamila smiles and nods her head as if that settles the whole thing. I’m shooed back out of the room before Emerson can argue, and she appears a few minutes later back in her black everyday wear, with Kamila in tow, holding a garment bag. “Mr. Stag, we will have the others delivered after we complete the alterations. Is there any timeline for the dresses?”

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