Time of Possession (Seattle Lumberjacks #5) (32 page)

“Bongo’s right. Bongo’s right. Bongo’s
always right.” Bongo preened and ruffled his feathers. Risky
groaned and lay down, head between his paws.

Brett dialed again with a shaking hand. On
the fifth ring, it went to voice mail. Estie’s soft, sultry voice
came across the cellular waves. Brett gripped the phone as he
listened to her.

Hi, you’ve reached Estie. Leave a message,
and I’ll call you back.

Simple. Nothing special, but his heart raced
and his breath caught, as if she were reciting a love poem or
engaging in pillow talk.

Clearing his throat, he left a message.
“Estie, it’s Brett. I love you. I miss you. I can’t live without
you. You’re the sun that shines in my heart, the sparkle in my
morning, and the meaning to my day. I want to make this work. Call
me. Please.”

Damned if he didn’t sound like the pathetic
lovesick fool he was.

Brett wandered around with his phone for
hours. Jumping at every call, checking the charge on the phone
every few minutes, and verifying the bars and the volume level.

He tried to maintain a positive attitude,
but it was tough—fucking damn tough. She didn’t want to talk to
him, despite Tyler’s claims that Brett was the guy. Apparently
Brett wasn’t the guy.

Brett sighed and lay back on his couch. He
started the video of last year’s San Fran team, analyzing the
weaknesses and strengths of the guys who would be his teammates
next season. He tried to concentrate, but his mind kept flipping to
Estie, to his phone call, and wondering why she didn’t at least
tell him to fuck off if nothing else. He’d understand that. If
that’s what she wanted, he’d respect it.

At midnight, his doorbell rang. Risky
started barking, Bongo started bitching, and Blackjack glared at
everyone for upsetting his quiet evening. Brett had been ass-deep
in the beginning of a nightmare, one of those recurring ones that’d
faded into the background when he’d been with Estie. For so long
they’d been few and far between and lost their power. Lately,
they’d been gaining momentum again, and he hated it.

He made a mental note to find a good PTSD
counselor, but first he needed to bitch out the person at his
door.

He glanced at his watch and frowned, worry
replacing his annoyance over a few bad dreams. Midnight? Who the
hell knocked on someone’s door at midnight unless it was an
emergency? Unless Harris had come back for round two. Now that
wouldn’t surprise him one bit.

Brett tamped down his panic and channeled
his inner soldier, the one that stood strong when the entire world
blew up around him. Whatever waited on the other side of the door
couldn’t compare to what he’d been through in the Middle East.

Still, Brett wasn’t an idiot. He cautiously
opened the door and peered out. Dozer and Marilyn sat on his front
porch gazing up at him, tails thumping. With a shaking hand, Brett
removed the rolled-up paper tied to Dozer’s collar and the envelope
tied on to Marilyn’s. He glanced around but didn’t see anyone
else.

Brett unrolled the parchment paper and read
the message written in Estie’s handwriting.

I miss you. I can’t imagine my life without
you in it.

His heart beat right out of his chest, right
up into his throat.

He tore into the envelope. Inside was a
Super Bowl ring. His ring. The one he’d earned. A small note was
rolled inside it. “This is yours, and maybe we can discuss another
ring of even greater importance.” Somehow she’d gotten his ring
from the team and brought it here.

A grin spread across his face. “Are you
proposing?” He called out into the darkness.

A figure moved from behind and tree and
approached him until she stood under the porch light several feet
from him in tight jeans and a black sweater covered in dog hair.
“If that’s what it takes.”

“I love you, Estie.” Brett bounded down the
steps and dropped to one knee in front of her. He grabbed her hand;
it was sweaty just like his. “I love you. I’ll always love you. I
pledge my love to you and you alone. Will you marry me?”

“Yes, as long as you share all your dark
places with me.”

“I will, I promise. I’ll tell you
everything, and together we’ll fight through it.”

Estie dropped to her knees in front of him
and threw her arms around him. “In that case, my answer is a big
yes.”

“Love you. Love you. Love you.” Bongo
screeched from inside the house.

Estie drew back and smiled at Brett. “Love
you instead of fuck you? Now that’s an improvement.”

“I’ve been working on him.” Brett grinned.
He lifted her up and spun her around until they both collapsed in a
dizzy heap in his front yard, dogs dancing around them and jumping
on top of them, wet tongues and sloppy kisses all around.

Brett’s life would never be the same, and he
wouldn’t have it any other way.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

An advocate of happy endings, Jami Davenport
writes sexy romantic comedies, sports hero romances, and equestrian
fiction. Jami lives on a small farm near Puget Sound with her Green
Beret-turned-plumber husband, a Newfoundland cross with a tennis
ball fetish, a prince disguised as an orange tabby cat, and an
opinionated Hanoverian mare.

Jami works in information technology for her
day job and is a former high school business teacher and dressage
rider. In her spare time, she maintains her small farm and
socializes whenever the opportunity presents itself. An avid
boater, Jami has spent countless hours in the San Juan Islands, a
common setting in her books. In her opinion, it is the most
beautiful place on earth.

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