End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

“‘DEAR GRACIE,

I don’t think I’ll read this entry to you.

I think I’ll wait until your patience runs out and you read the journal from front to back or until we’re old and gray and have kids like Kow running around our heels and driving us crazy.

The deal with Amelia’s wedding…

We’d just sung “Fuck Her Gently” and your mom was upset because Amelia had run off crying and I sneaked outside with a bottle of tequila. I never thought you’d follow me, certainly not with lime slices and salt in hand.

The tequila is why you don’t remember what happened. If my life hadn’t changed, it’d probably be a blur for me too.

Man, you were under the table after three shots that night.

Anyway, we got drunk and you splashed into the lake. One thing led to another and we’re making love on the shore. It was like all my wet dreams coming together in one fantasy, except it was reality.

You passed out after you came (yeah, two orgasms. TWO. Never let it be said I have tequila dick.) Anyway, I carried you back to the lodge and that was when Kow, as usual, had to go and wreck shit.

He was drunker than a skunk and I cuffed him to the bathtub in his room so he couldn’t get into any mischief while I was gone. I returned but you burst into tears minutes after I got into bed—’”

I break off from reading to scoff at that. “I didn’t cry.”

“You have barely any recollection of that night,” Liam retorts easily, staring at me from the bed while I pace in front of it, reading his journal. This time because Liam said he’d never read it out loud. “So who’s going to paint a more accurate picture, huh?”

I sniff.

“Just read it, would you?” he mumbles. “Your ass needs to be sitting on my dick. If I’d known it would interfere with us fucking, I’d never have given you the—”

“Because you’re being a jerk, I won’t sit on your dick. I’ll sit on your face instead.”

“Bébé, if you think that’s a punishment, you’re wrong.”

My lips curve but my smile fades. “Oh, my God. We fucked on the lakeshore, didn’t we?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Do you know how many times I got off to that ‘fantasy?’ And all along, it was a memory that tequila erased?” I shriek. “Fucking tequila!”

“Trust me, I was just as mad that you forgot what happened. It’s why I don’t drink that much anymore. Still, you touched yourself and thought about that?”

I blow out a strained breath. “More times than I can count. Now, don’t distract me.” Before he can follow through with the promise in his eyes, I continue with my reading:

“‘So, I’m lying there, listening to you talking about how you’ll never get married, trying to figure out why that would make you cry, and I remember asking, “Why won’t you get married, Gracie?”

I thought you’d say because you hate the dresses or something, hate men, hate the bourgeois device that is marriage, but you didn’t.

You broke my fucking heart.

“Because no one wants to marry me. I’m too much of a bitch to be a wife. I bet I’ll die alone. You left me alone.”

You practically slurred those words, but I knew what you were saying and it blew my mind even as I turned you into my arms and held you close.

How sharp your tongue is, is one of my favorite things about you—’”

“To this day,” he preaches, “it is.”

“Even when I’m sucking your cock?”

He chortles. “Especially then.”

I snort.

“‘You never let me get too big for my britches.

You’re always the one speaking with calm and rational common sense.

The truth hurts, but with you, it’s always founded in love.

You speak love.

When you started crying, I swear to fuck, I didn’t know what was going on. I’d never seen you like that before. Not even when Roman died. You just locked up. Refused to talk about him. You’ve always been a hard nut to crack, Gracie. You loved that dog. You loved him like crazy. But you’d never tell from how you were after he died.

Anyway, it got me thinking.

And reacting.

I knew I was taking advantage of the situation, and hell, it wasn’t like a legally binding contract! I wouldn’t have forced you to marry me before we hit thirty-five.

But I definitely played on the situation. I figure that’s because I was as drunk as you.

In vino veritas, though, because I’ve wanted you for so long.

That’s why I said, “Gracie, you don’t have to worry about dying alone. If you’re not married by the time we’re both thirty-five, we’ll get hitched.”

You squinted at me, but I figured you approved when you threw yourself into my arms and hugged me, slurring, “I, Gracie Agnieska Bukowski, do promise that if Liam Francis Donnghal and I aren’t married before we reach thirty-five, we’ll take each other off the market.

After I repeated the vow, you mumbled, “Let’s do it, Liam. Let’s be each other’s end game.”

That’s when you passed out.

Then, the next day, you nearly broke my fool heart because you remembered nothing. Nothing.

I’ll never know what made you agree seeing as you don’t even know why you did it, but afterward, I was determined to let you lead your life, to find your path… until you hit thirty-five.

That was when all bets were off because I was going to hold you to that promise. After that night, I had all the confirmation I needed that we were perfect together.

But of course, nothing can ever go as planned where we’re concerned.

We’ve saved five years of playing around one another, Gracie.

I’m glad we got our heads out of our asses because life is too short and I want to spend every minute of it with you.

35, the number I play and always will—’”

I gape at him. “Oh. My. God! YOU SNEAKY ASSHOLE!”

He’s too busy grinning at me, proud as a peacock at the level of sneak it took to maneuver this behind the scenes, to realize that I’m about to jump on him.

When I do, he tackles me beneath him, but I shove at his shoulder. “I wondered what the hell you were doing with all those 35s. I thought you were going crazy!”

He winks. “Just for you.”

I huff then press the journal into his chest and, snootily, inform him, “I haven’t finished.”

“God, can’t you just—”

“Nope.” Loudly, I continue:

“‘35 flowers to make you smile.

35 Cameos (more incoming) to make you happy.

35 manga comics to make you laugh.

35 Liam mugs to make you think of me when you drink coffee.

35 songs on a mixtape I’ll give you the night we get married. (Songs that I’m bribing Hudson to play in the car on repeat. You’ve been slow to notice that one.)

35, the number we’ll lead our lives by, by getting together sooner rather than later.

But don’t worry, I don’t expect 35 kids. :-P’”

That has me cackling. “Bet your damn ass we won’t be having 35 kids,” I mutter, but I’m grinning. And it’s the kind of grin that you don’t know when it’ll ever end.

It feels like it could last forever.

Which is fitting.

Because when I read the last three words, even I know what they mean.

“‘Pour toujours,

Liam’”

I sigh. “Forever?”

His gaze is softer now. “Forever.”

I toss the journal onto the bed so I can slide my arms around his neck. “I love the sound of that. You’ve been dating me all these years and I didn’t even know it…”

“What matters is you know now.”

Voice sultry, I coo, “You need to be on your back, hmm?”

“Take a seat, mon p’tit cabbage.”