“Stop. Please.”

I press my lips together. Silence reigns for a long moment before Brody speaks again. “I watched your press conference.”

“Yeah? I watched yours too.”

He huffs. It’s followed by another length of silence. “It was …” Brody trails off before trying again. “I didn’t deserve what you said, but it was beautiful.”

“I meant every word.”

“I know you did, baby. I know.” That he understood what I was saying lightens the heavy weight from my shoulders. I slump back against my pillows, and when Brody speaks again his voice is rueful. “I should’ve known.”

“Known what?”

“You looked so calm up there. So strong. You didn’t let them mess with you. Not a single bit. I thought leaving would protect you. I know it hasn’t. But you never needed me to.”

“What are you saying?” Does he think I don’t need him? The thought sets off a shiver of fear. I pull the covers up, burrowing into their warmth. “That you think I don’t need you? Because I do. It’s so dark and cold without you.”

Brody chuckles. “That’s because it’s just gone midnight there in Australia, and it’s winter, right?”

“Really? You’re going to—”

“Going to what?” Brody prompts.

“Nothing.” I decide to ask him straight out. “Are we done? Is that why you’re calling, to tell me we’re over?”

“God, no!” he bursts out. “Jordan, baby, I’m calling because there’s something I need to ask you.”

“What?”

Another long pause follows before he speaks, his voice low and soft. “Wait for me.”

I close my eyes. “Wait for you?” I whisper.

“I know I let you down, but I’m trying to make it right. I’m getting help. I’m doing everything I can to fix the mess I made, but I’ve realized I can only do so much without you. Jordan … we all need that one person who sees us. The one who gives it to us straight and tells us how it is. We need that one person who isn’t afraid to get in our face and scream back. That one person who won’t ever hesitate to call you on your shit because they love you. That one person who’ll be there for you no matter what. You’re that person.” He draws in a shaky breath. This is hard for him. I can hear it. And it breaks me apart and puts me back together all at the same time because I believe him. I believe in him. “You’re it for me, Jordan. My end game. So yes, I’m asking you to wait for me. Can you do that?”

“I’ll wait for you, Brody Abraham Madden.” I swallow the thick lump caught in my throat knowing that wait is going to hurt. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

Jordan

Five years later…

Houston, Texas

The alarm goes off with an ear-piercing shriek. Is it morning already? For the love of god, I only just went to sleep. I shift my head a fraction on the pillow and it starts pounding like a bass drum. A pathetic whimper leaves my throat. I’m not even hungover, I’m just damn tired.

“Make the shrieking stop,” I mumble.

A heavy arm reaches over the top of me. It’s followed by the sound of a loud slap and a crash. The shrieking stops. Peace reigns. I moan my thanks.

“I love you so much,” I say to my heavenly pillow as I burrow my head beneath it.

“Of course you do,” my pillow replies with a deep male voice.

Interesting. I nudge the fluffy cushion with my nose and encounter armpit, the hair beneath it tickling my skin. I scrunch my nose as I roll to my back and an arm follows me, settling across my chest. The warm, calloused hand attached to the end of it gives my breast an experimental squeeze over my tank top. “The question is,” the voice comes again, “just how much?”

Despite my stubborn determination to get another ten minutes, my nipple betrays me, peaking at the touch. A thumb brushes over it and the pleased groan of aroused male reaches my ears. Heat begins a steady throb between my thighs.

“Daddy!”

It’s Brody’s turn to whimper. His hand shifts down to settle on my ribcage with reluctance. “Pretend we’re asleep,” he mutters to me.

“I am asleep,” is my muffled reply as I grab my real pillow and shove it over my face.

“Daddy!” The screech is getting closer, as is the sound of feet pitter-pattering across the thick timber flooring and into our room. “It’s game day!”

We both remain studiously still. Brody jostles beside me, and I know it’s Hadley shoving at him. She’s the more demanding of our two girls.

“Wake up!” she shouts.

I swallow the chuckle when he gives up without a fight. My bed dips beside me as he shifts up on an elbow. “I’m awake, sweetheart.”

“I’m not sweetheart. I’m Haddie.”

“You’re my sweet Hadley.”

“I’m not sweet. Sweet is for girls.”

I shake my head. Uncle Nicky has been getting in her ear.

“You are a girl,” he argues.

Another shout comes from near the bedroom door.

“Avery, do not throw—” Brody begins as I’m lifting my head from underneath the pillow, just in time for a football to smack me up the side of my face. “—that.”

“Game day!” Avery yells.

The alarm begins to shriek again as I fall back on the bed, holding a hand to my cheekbone. Great. It’s going to swell and bruise, and I’m going to look like ass for Brody’s big day.

“Baby, you okay?”

I open my eyes to mere slits, finding my husband hovering above me with concern furrowing his brow.

“Fine,” I mutter as he reaches across me to turn the alarm off for a second time.

I’m used to it. It’s just another morning in the Madden household. Chaotic. Crazy. Exhausting. That’s what happens when you end up with twins. They’re three years old, and still Avery won’t sleep through the night. Why is it she wakes up at all hours screaming for me (no one else will do), but it’s her daddy she seeks out during the day? It’s unfair how he gets such a lovely, unbroken sleep, waking up all refreshed while I resemble the living dead. All I want is one night of uninterrupted bliss and when the possibility of one looms bright on the horizon, Brody takes advantage. His hands and tongue are too skilled to ignore, try as I might. In no time at all he gets me hot and bothered and suddenly I’m all, ‘who needs sleep anyway?’

“Sorry, Mommy.”

I turn my head. Avery is standing on my side of the bed, her curls a tangled mess and her weapon now tucked safely beneath her arm.

“No throwing the ball in the house,” I instruct for the millionth time. “Who gave you that anyway?” I ask, my cheek throbbing. “Where’s your soccer ball?”

Haddie bounces onto the bed, half landing on her daddy. A loud “oomphf” escapes him. “Daddy kicked it over the back fence,” she informs me.

My brow arches and my lips pinch as I turn to look at him. “Oh he did, did he?”

“But I’m not ’sposed to tell you that.”

Brody shrugs, eyes wide with feigned innocence as Avery climbs on the bed alongside Hadley. “I didn’t mean to. I can’t help it if I can kick a soccer ball further than you.”

“Is that so?” I look from him to the girls. They’re not identical, and for that I’m pathetically grateful. Hadley’s hair is long and smooth like mine, the color a rich honey. Avery’s hair is white-blond chaos. Both girls have their daddy’s brown eyes and also his deep affinity for football. After having the twins, I signed a new contract with the Houston Dash and while Brody brings them to watch my home games, it’s gridiron that gets them excited and jumping in their seats. “Well your daddy was telling me just last night that he was going to make you banana pancakes for breakfast this morning!”

They both clap and squeal while my husband groans. It sets our two mini dachshunds barking from somewhere downstairs. I hear the tick-tack of their claws on the floor, and I know they’re scrambling for the stairs. They know we’re awake now and that means food.