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  Her own parents would have just told her—had just told her—to pick another song.

  So the hole after losing Brandon had been big and threefold. It hadn’t felt right to keep in contact when he was trying to build a life with Angela. And, if she was being truthful, it would have been too painful to talk with them, knowing that Brandon was a subject they couldn’t broach.

  Or at least, couldn’t broach without it hurting too damned much.

  “My mom,” he said again, not moving toward her, but still holding up the little black book, “wrote in this. I think she meant for you to have it.”

  “Brandon,” Fanny began. “I can’t. That belongs to you.” She swallowed. “You should keep it, especially—”

  “I want you to take it. You should—”

  “All good, Fanny?”

  Jumping, she glanced over to see that Dani had walked up, suspicion drawing the lines of her face into sharp relief.

  “I’m good,” she said and straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin, her tone going almost brusquely professional. “This is Brandon, my ex. It turns out he’s Kaydon’s agent and is working for Prestige Media Group.”

  Dani’s brows climbed up her face. “Hi, Brandon.” Her tone was icy.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dani. I’d like to apologize for my behavior last night.” His gaze came to Fanny’s, voice gentling and eliminating all that brusque professional distance in a heartbeat. “To you, as well. I was out of line showing up like that.”

  She nodded. “It’s okay.”

  Dani huffed and narrowed her eyes, none of the shy woman who’d she’d been before Ethan. There was fire in her that was no longer banked, and it was fucking fabulous to see. “It’s not okay,” she snapped. “You don’t just show up being all combative. You call first, and if Fanny wants to see you, then you come.” More eye narrowing, this time accompanied by some poking in the chest—Brandon’s chest. “And you definitely leave the asshole attitude at home.”

  Fanny clasped her friend’s hand, tugged her back, fighting a smile.

  Because this was her shy, uncomfortable in social situations friend. This was Dani who was so damned quiet and jumpy until Ethan, until . . . herself. Because her transformation wasn’t all because of another person. It was from Dani herself. She’d fought hard to get beyond her insecurities, had embraced the wealth of strength inside her heart and soul.

  Ethan had just been the whipped cream and cherry—or perhaps, the push to take that first step.

  “I promise I will leave the asshole at home,” Brandon said, and though his tone was even, his eyes had mirth creeping in on their edges.

  It didn’t escape Fanny’s notice that he hadn’t promised to stay away or call first.

  Just to leave the asshole at home.

  Hmm.

  “Good.” Dani turned to Fanny. “Can I talk to you privately?”

  “I—” Her gaze flicked to Brandon’s.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “I need to go speak to Kay, anyway.” He sucked in a breath, released it. “I’ll . . . see you around sometime.”

  He turned away, and Dani drew her to the side. “Seriously, are you okay? Why is he here, and . . .” She began peppering Fanny with questions.

  Questions which she deflected.

  With promises to confess all soon.

  Thankfully, that was enough to satisfy her friend for the moment, so the topic turned to the charity raffle and everything that was going to go into it. There were a lot of moving parts, and it would be a good event, but it was also big and complicated, so by the time she said goodbye to Dani and sat down to take off her skates, a fair amount of time had passed.

  Enough time, she realized as she unzipped her skating bag, for Brandon to have performed a little bit of mischief.

  The notebook was tucked inside.

  The man was nowhere to be seen.

  But the mischief was better than the asshole.

  And Fanny had learned to take her victories where she could find them.

  Chapter Six

  Brandon

  A knock on the door signaled the harbinger of darkness.

  Well, either that or just his doctor.

  Dr. Lyon was his new oncologist. He might have stayed with his previous one, even after having moved a couple of states away, but Dr. Philips had retired and had recommended Dr. Lyon, whose practice was conveniently located only a couple of miles away from Prestige’s office.

  Dr. Lyon was a petite brunette with a penchant for chunky necklaces and slacks paired with brightly patterned blouses.

  After the perfunctory knock, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her with one hand, the other clasping a tablet. She glanced up, smiled. “It’s nice to see you again, Brandon. How have you been feeling? Any changes?”

  Always, his gut clenched when beginning this line of inquiry, even though he’d been feeling fine, even though nothing had changed, at least nothing that he could pinpoint anyway.

  And that, the fear that something might be growing, but he couldn’t feel it, never went away.

  “No,” he said. “No headaches or dizziness or nausea.”

  “Any more memories coming back?” They’d discussed the final return during their initial consultation when Brandon had first moved to California.

  He shook his head.

  “Anything lost?” she asked then pressed her lips flat. “Or rather, has anyone around you mentioned anything you can’t remember?”

  “No.”

  His memory hadn’t been like that. The cancer itself had caused seizures and headaches, but it was always the treatment, the surgery that had been even more devastating, scooping out parts of him . . . or damaging them, anyway, leaving those pieces to heal so fucking slowly.

  “Good. Good.” She sank onto the edge of her desk and set the tablet in a holder, nodding at a large monitor on the wall as she plugged in a cord. “Your MRI has been viewed by the radiologist—”

  His stomach twisted.

  “—and everything is clear. There’s absolutely nothing on the scans that indicate any return of cancer in your brain or anywhere else in your body.”

  He released a breath and was finally able to spare a thought for wondering why she’d asked him into her office. Usually, he just received a phone call with his results, and while part of him had been hoping it was just because this was his first checkup with Dr. Lyon, deep down he’d been worried they had found something.

  And what that might mean.

  “You have ten years of clear scans. Ten years free of cancer.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it lightly. “In my medical opinion, I would consider you cured.” Straightening, she smiled slightly as she pulled her hand back. “I wanted to make sure you understood that. You’re healthy and young. You can have a full life.” Her voice softened. “In case the specter of the cancer returning has been hanging over you.”

  How could it not?

  But he appreciated what she was doing. What she was saying.

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s no reason for you to think the cancer will come back,” she went on. “We’ll continue with our yearly scans, because I think that will give you some further peace of mind”—she paused and glanced at him, so he nodded—“but I want you going out there and living your life without worrying about it. That worry will be my job. Let me shoulder that burden. You just . . . live.”

  He swallowed hard, his eyes shining.

  Maybe it was presumptuous of her, because he didn’t ever think the worry would one hundred percent go away, but it lightened something inside of him to hear those words, loosened some tension he hadn’t even registered carrying.

  Because it had been there for so long.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She squeezed his hand and straightened again. “You reach out to me at any time with any concerns, any changes no matter how small,” she said. “But push me and this office and the scans out of your mind.” She la
ughed. “Pretend I’m the boring mismatched sock, the one you forget about but never throw away.”

  He chuckled.

  She grinned. “There, but forgotten is what I prefer. Or at least that’s what I tell my single self.” A wink.

  Now he was laughing. In a doctor’s office. Something he hadn’t thought was possible, and Dr. Lyon joined in, too, her tinkling laughter drifting through the air, punctuating the conversation as she made sure he didn’t have any other concerns or matters to discuss. Then she made her way to the door, smiling and waving before slipping out into the hall, and Brandon thought that if he wasn’t hopelessly in love with Fanny, single Dr. Lyon would have been exactly the type of woman he could fall for.

  But he was in love with Fanny.

  Since that moment on the ice, her laughter coating his skin, her smile lighting up his soul nearly two decades before.

  And now, he was deemed cured.

  Now he had something he could give her, some reassurances where there hadn’t been any before.

  Now he could promise to be there and mean it, to not forget her, to be there for her exactly as she deserved.

  Now he could finally give her everything.

  He was grinning as he strode out of that doctor’s office.

  Hope.

  That was what Dr. Lyon had given him.

  And it felt damned good.

  He tossed and turned, even despite going back to the office after his appointment and working on several contract offers, staying well past nine when the cleaning crew had come in.

  The sound of the vacuum running had chased him from behind his desk, knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate.

  Not so much because of the noise.

  But because the bubble of his concentration had been broken, and his thoughts had begun swirling about what the doctor had told him, and around Fanny and if he should tell her (how could he not tell her?). Wondering if it might make a difference because he understood that she needed to protect herself from being hurt again, and if he did tell her, how he could ask her to take a risk.

  He wasn’t the one who’d been devastated.

  Sure he’d been sick, but he’d found love and happiness.

  And Fanny . . . had been forgotten.

  Sighing, he tossed back the blankets and went out the sliding glass door in his bedroom. It led to the back yard, darkened and full of shadows, the moonlight diffused by the thick covering of fog. The air was cool enough to have goose bumps prickling on his skin, but he didn’t put on any clothes or shoes as he moved across the porch and leaned on the railing, staring up at the sky.

  The fog curled and shifted as it trailed over him, giving occasional glimpses of the black sky, the twinkling stars, the nearly-full moon.

  He had a decision to make.

  No. He was kidding himself by thinking that. He’d made the decision already, the moment he’d first seen Fanny again, had watched her work her magic on the ice.

  He wanted to rekindle things with her.

  He wanted to build a life with Fanny.

  He wanted to give her the white dress, the fantasy of happily ever after.

  But what if she didn’t want that? She’d told him that she’d forgiven him, made it perfectly clear that he was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. Except, that was before Dr. Lyon had said he was cured. That would change things, right? That would make a difference and—

  Maybe it wouldn’t matter.

  Because while Dr. Lyon had said she didn’t think the cancer would come back, she also couldn’t promise him with one hundred percent certainty that it wouldn’t.

  And maybe that wouldn’t be enough for Fanny.

  Rage whipped through him suddenly with a severity that sucked the breath out of him as his hands clenched into fists, as every muscle in his body went taut. “So what?” he snapped, well aware that he was talking to himself or the shadows or the fucking moon hiding behind the fog. “You’re just going to give up? You’re not going to fight for her?”

  That was bullshit.

  He’d almost died. Twice. He’d been through six rounds of chemo. Radiation. Had two major surgeries and the physical therapy.

  And now was the moment he was going to give up?

  “Seriously?” he muttered, banging his fist on the railing. “Now?”

  Fuck that.

  “Fuck that,” he said out loud.

  He had to fight for her. He’d survived. He remembered. He loved her.

  Fuck, that had to be enough.

  It had to.

  His heart was pounding from confirming the decision, his hands still clenched, his muscles still tight, but just thinking that he was going to fight for her, just making that promise to fight for her had rightness settling over him like it was a second skin.

  He’d never once given up on anything. Surviving. Getting healthy again. Finishing his degree. Starting his business. Even his marriage.

  Angela had been the one to file the papers.

  Not because he had been clueless to their problems or the fact that they’d grown apart and were heading in separate directions.

  But because he didn’t give up, and without remembering Fanny, he would have continued fighting for her. If he had remembered when he’d been with Angela, that would have brought a whole set of different complications. But he hadn’t, so he didn’t need to think himself in circles worrying about it. The point was, he’d fought for Angela and while he still loved his ex-wife (albeit that love was strictly platonic now and had been for years), that love paled in comparison to what he felt for Fanny.

  The first woman to own his heart and soul.

  The woman who still held it today.

  How could he give up on her?

  “I can’t,” he said, head tilted up to the sky.

  It was as simple as that.

  No matter the hurdles they still had to overcome.

  He wouldn’t give up on Fanny, wouldn’t give up on their future, wouldn’t give up on trying to build something unbreakable between them, on filling in the holes his illness had carved, on erasing the sadness in her eyes, her soul, her heart.

  A few steps brought him back inside, a few more to his closet where he tugged on a pair of jeans and a shirt, pulled on socks and shoes before walking from the bedroom.

  Past the pink and purple frame.

  Down the stairs and to the garage.

  He needed to see her car in her driveway, needed to make sure that she was home and safe.

  He needed to see her house, even if he couldn’t see her.

  Because he wouldn’t bang on her door, wouldn’t barge into her house. He was going to win her over as she deserved—slowly and gently and with plenty of love and care. As promised, he’d leave the asshole at home.

  He’d just get a glimpse of her car, her house, maybe even Fanny herself.

  Then he’d come back home and plan.

  Chapter Seven

  Fanny

  “What do you think of this one?” Scarlett asked, spinning in a circle, the emerald skirt flaring out.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Fanny said, standing up from the chair she’d been waiting in and rubbing the material between thumb and forefinger. It was silky and cool and the perfect color to match the creaminess of Scarlett’s skin, to highlight the deep red of her hair. “You’re going to knock him dead.”

  Scar winced. “Let’s not use that turn of phrase.”

  “Why not?” she asked, reaching up and straightening the straps. “You’re beautiful in it,” she said, glancing into the mirror and meeting her friend’s eyes.

  “Thank you.” Scar reached up and covered Fanny’s hand. “But no knocking them dead. We don’t need to tempt fate, not when it comes to me and my thundercloud of trouble. You give voice to it, and it might happen, and”—she made a face—“I might not get laid.”

  Fanny laughed, smoothing the material of the straps before stepping back. “Well, we definitely don’t want to get in the way of you and several de
licious orgasms.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  She mimed zipping her lips shut. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Not sure it’s a secret,” Scar murmured, reaching down and checking the price tag, a frown dragging her red brows together. “Disaster follows in my wake, even without me trying.”

  “It wasn’t your fault that the stick rack collapsed.”

  They were shopping for Scar’s date, partly because Scar had a date and partly because Scar had needed a little retail therapy after an eventful day at the rink. They’d been shooting some publicity photos for the website and social media when trouble had struck.

  At least, that was what Scar believed.

  Brit had assured Fanny that Scarlett hadn’t been anywhere near the equipment when the rack had fallen apart, scattering sticks every which way and making everyone in the vicinity jump, but Scar was convinced it was her bad juju and that it boded poorly for her date and maybe her future with the Gold.

  Nonsense.

  Because not only was Scar great at her job, but any man would be lucky to be dating her friend.

  So when Fanny had gotten off the ice and seen her friend with a forced smile, she’d endeavored to find out what had happened, then to make it her mission to make her feel better.

  A new dress was the first part of that.

  Next would be shoes and undies.

  And yes, she understood that it was ridiculous for her to call them undies. But c’est la vie and all that.

  The point was that she was going to help Scar feel good, take her mind off the so-called bad juju and trouble that followed in her wake, and then she’d point her in the direction of her date and hope that she got some orgasms.

  Oh, and maybe some fun and good conversation and a man who saw Scar for the lovely person she was.

  That, too.

  “It was my fault,” Scar muttered. “I bumped into it when I first went into the room to get everything set up this morning and it—”

  “And it decided to randomly fall apart hours later?” Fanny asked. “After many other people used it throughout the day?”