Easton might have been the love of my teenage life, but I’d find the right man, one who made time for me and the kids rather than disappearing for a week at a time on a road trip, one who wasn’t surrounded by women who’d do anything to hook up with a hockey player, one who didn’t live in the limelight and take advantage of the fame.

I wanted a quiet life. I didn’t want to be in the spotlight, nor did I want my kids subjected to life under a microscope. I made a mental note to have a discussion with Easton about his public life versus our private life and what we’d do to protect the kids.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, suddenly weary. I had a predatory female on the right side of me and, on the other side, two kids who hero-worshipped a man they didn’t know was their father. Here I was, struggling against an insane attraction to Easton that collided with my unreasonable jealousy toward my kids’ growing attachment to him. Even worse, thoughts of him invaded my mind all day and night long. When sleep finally claimed me, my subconscious didn’t give me a break, either, and conjured up erotic dreams of things I wanted to do to him—hot, dirty things, the dirtier the better.

I was a hot mess and miring myself deeper in the muck every minute of every day.

Easton’s insanely generous check sat in my bank account barely touched. I was afraid to spend it for fear it’d go more quickly than planned. Next week, I’d register for classes at a local college, thereby cementing my commitment to living in this area for the next few years. Later, I’d go Christmas shopping and probably spend too much money making this first Christmas without Mark a good one for the kids.

I wasn’t sure I’d succeed, but I’d do my best.

Mark had loved Christmas. Every year we’d picked out a tree and decorated it as a family. This year, I’d continue some of Mark’s family traditions and add a few of my own. We’d create new memories and honor the old ones, and we’d find our new normal.

I’d adjust to Easton’s presence in my life, as I both hoped and feared he was here to stay—because of the children, of course.

It’d been years since I’d seen hockey played live, and live hockey was so much better than hockey on television. I gave up trying to follow the game and resigned myself to my obsession with Easton. My hungry eyes ate him up, watching his every move when he was on the ice and on the bench. I marveled at the power in his legs and the speed with which he skated from one end of the ice to the other, not to mention the skill he exhibited handling the puck. He’d been good back in his teens, but he was far beyond good now. He was exceptional in an arena filled with exceptional athletes at the top of their game.