Page 119 of One Last Shot

She pulls me down and gives me a quick kiss, then turns back to Stella. “This is what you want too?” Petra asks her, because of course she does. She’s never not thinking about what’s best for Stella.

“More than anything,” Stella says and launches herself at Petra. They wrap their arms around each other, and I fold them both into mine. I take a moment to send a heartbroken prayer of thanks up to my brother and sister-in-law. I will never not feel guilty that their death gave me Stella and led me back to Petra. I will also never stop trying to prove myself worthy of this life.

Stella pulls away first and then hands Petra the ring box. My wife gazes down at it like she’s paralyzed over what to do next.

“Do you like it?” I ask. Stella and I had picked it out together.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Are you ready to be wearing my ring?” I ask. “I won’t be offended if you want to wait.”

She looks up at me with so much love in her eyes. “I appreciate that you asked, and didn’t assume. And yes, I’m ready. I don’t want to wait anymore—for anything. I’m ready to accept all these blessings—you,” she says to me, then looks over at Stella and taps her on the nose, “and you, and this amazing life we get to live together.”

I pluck the ring out of the box and slip it on her finger.

EPILOGUE

PETRA

Fifteen Months Later

St. John, US Virgin Islands

“I got it!” Jackson gasps as she comes running through the open doors of the house to the pool out back.

Sierra, Lauren, and I look up from the lounge chairs we’re relaxing on under umbrellas. For the past twenty minutes we’ve been the judges for our significant others’ diving competition, where each dive has gotten more ridiculous because they’re nothing if not competitive.

“Got what?” Sierra asks, then groans as she pushes herself up to a full sitting position. She folds her legs under her so she’s sitting crisscross with her adorable baby belly resting on her thighs. The girl is glowing, her skin radiant and her long blond hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head; she looks like she’s going to have this baby any minute, even though she’s not due for another two and a half months.

Jackson pulls a rolled-up magazine out from behind her back and walks around the pool to bring it over to us. I’m splayed across the cover in a white pantsuit with the black letters of the Vogue masthead above me. I’m sitting with my knees spread out, the heels of nude Louboutins pegged over the rungs of a black stool. One of my hands is resting on the stool between my legs and the other on my hip as I lean forward. The low-cut blazer shows a tasteful amount of cleavage, and my dark curls fan out over my shoulders. My lips match the red soles of my shoes.

Even though I’ve seen the photo before, and knew this was coming, it still takes me by surprise. “How ...?”

“I only had to go to two stores to find it,” Jackson says excitedly.

“Three,” Nate coughs out from behind her, “but who’s counting?”

She rolls her eyes before turning toward him. “Obviously not you.”

Nate’s got two six-packs in his hands and heads toward the built-in cooler of the outdoor bar area on the opposite side of the pool.

Jackson sits down on the foot of my lounge chair, her ankles crossed and knees pressed together. Her white empire waist dress falls around her baby bump. Jackson’s only a month behind Sierra, but she barely looks pregnant. She was so sick for the first four months of her pregnancy that she actually lost weight, and now she just has the perfect little belly—enough that you can tell she’s pregnant, but you’d never guess she’s so far along.

“What’s that say over the photo?” Lauren asks. She sets her margarita on the table beside her lounge chair and leans over toward Sierra so she can see the magazine better.

“Unstoppable Power, Meet Sex Appeal,” Jackson says.

I roll my eyes. “I begged them not to go with that,” I tell my friends. I hate the way it makes it seem like the two things are exclusive, like it’s an anomaly to be powerfulandhave sex appeal.

When water drips over my head, I look up in time to see Sasha’s lips descending toward my forehead.

“It’s out,” he says, a bit of awe in his voice, as he rains wet kisses across my hairline. We knew the magazine was releasing this weekend, but I’d honestly hoped to avoid it, and the spotlight, given that we would be away on our vacation.

I reach up and run my fingers through his longer locks. Every member of his team refused to cut their hair this entire season, and even though they lost in the semifinals over a month ago, he still hasn’t cut it. Half the time he’s got it up in a man bun, which isn’t a look I thought I liked until I saw it on him.

Jackson makes a dramatic show of flipping to the article, then clears her throat.

“Petra Ivanova has a face that you justknowyou’ve seen somewhere, even if you can’t quite place her. But these days, the number of people who aren’t sure how they know her is dwindling. With an Emmy award-winning talk show under her belt, the former Olympic skier, model, and event planner opened up to Vogue about some of the challenges her newfound fame has brought. ‘I really value my privacy, and privacy for my family,’ Ivanova tells me when we meet for coffee on the terrace of the penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park that she shares with her husband, hockey player Alex Ivanov, and their seven-year-old daughter. ‘I know that with my career and my husband’s career, it’s not realistic to believe we can remain out of the public eye, but we used to at least be able to walk down the street without being recognized.’”

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