Bonus Scene: Faking The Goal - Ashwood Falls Book 3

Bonus Chapter - Piper

     "It's Sage," I say, swiping to answer the FaceTime call. "Hey, what's—"

     "Is that smoke behind you?" Sage's face fills the screen, eyebrows raised. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of what looks like Patrice's living room—baby toys everywhere and Trace visible in the background holding Brooklyn upside down while she giggles.

     "What? No." I angle the phone away from the grill where Ryder's steak is currently producing what could generously be called 'char.' "We're just grilling."

     "Uh-huh." Sage's expression screams skepticism. "And how's that going?"

     "Great. Fantastic. Ryder's a firefighter, so obviously he knows all about—" I glance at the grill where flames are now licking enthusiastically at the meat. "—controlled burns?"

     "Piper!" Ryder lunges for the grill, spatula in hand. "I told you to watch it while I got the marinade."

     "You said nothing about actual flames and I am watching it… burn," I protest, holding the phone at arm's length so Sage can witness my innocence.

     Sage cackles. "I'm hanging up before I watch you two burn down the woods. Use the fire extinguisher if needed."

     "We don't need—" But she's already gone, her laughter echoing in my memory.

     Ryder's managing to salvage something from the grill, though the steak now looks more like a charcoal sculpture than dinner. He plates it with the kind of determined optimism usually reserved for people pretending their soufflé didn't collapse.

     "It's fine," he says.

     "It's black." I eye it suspiciously.

     "It's Cajun-style."

     "We don't do Cajun."

     "We do now." He gestures at the steak like he's presenting a Michelin-star dish. "Improvisational Cajun. Very trendy."

     I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but it escapes anyway—a snort-giggle hybrid that makes him narrow his eyes at me.

     "You think this is funny?" he asks.

     "I think you fight fires for a living and just cremated a steak."

     "I was getting the marinade—"

     "Which we apparently needed after the steak was already on the grill."

     "It needed flavor."

     "It needs a resurrection."

     He sets the plate down on the porch railing next to the grill with exaggerated care, then turns to me with an expression I've learned means trouble. The good kind.

     "You know what?" He takes a step toward me. "You're right."

     "I usually am."

     "The steak is definitely beyond saving."

     "Tragic, really."

     "Which means," he continues, backing me up against the porch railing with slow, deliberate steps, "we need to order pizza."

     "That's your solution?" My pulse kicks up as he gets close enough that I can smell smoke and pine and that soap he uses. "Pizza?"

     "Unless you have a better idea." His hands land on the railing on either side of me, caging me in. Not trapping—Ryder would never—but definitely surrounding me.

     "I might." The words come out breathier than intended.

     "Yeah?" His mouth quirks. "What's that?"

     I reach up, thread my fingers through his hair—still damp from the shower he took after work—and pull him down until our lips are almost touching. "We could skip dinner entirely."

     He groans. Or laughs. Possibly both. "You didn't eat lunch."

     "How do you know that?"

     "Because you texted me at two to ask if grilled cheese counted as a meal, and I know you well enough to know you didn't actually make it."

     Damn him for paying attention. "Cheese is protein."

     "Not when you don't eat it." He kisses my forehead, which would be patronizing except his mouth keeps traveling—temple, cheekbone, the corner of my jaw where my pulse is doing embarrassing things. "Order pizza. Then we can revisit your better idea."

     "What if I want to revisit it now?"

     His laugh vibrates against my neck where he's currently doing something with his teeth that makes my knees unreliable. "You're trouble."

     "You like trouble."

     "I really do." He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark and locked on mine like I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at. My stomach flips. Nine months and he still looks at me like this. "Pizza first. Then I'll show you exactly how much I like trouble."

     I grab my phone with shaking hands, pull up the pizza place in town, and order our usual—half Hawaiian for him because he's a monster, half everything for me because I have taste. Extra garlic knots because priorities.

     The woman taking the order sounds amused when I tell her it's urgent.

     "Forty-five minutes," I tell Ryder, setting my phone on the railing.

     "Not long enough," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes heat crawl up my neck and settle lower.

     "Not long enough for what?"

     The smile he gives me could melt the snow off the roof. "For what I want to do to you."

     My face goes hot. Other parts too. "Ryder Lockwood, are you trying to seduce me on our back porch?"

     "Is it working?"

     "Maybe."

     "Maybe?" He slides his hands from the railing to my waist, thumbs tracing circles against my hip bones through my sweater. "Need me to try harder?"

     "I mean, if you're offering..."

     He kisses me then, slow and deep and thorough, the kind of kiss that makes me forget we're outside where theoretically anyone could see us. Not that anyone would—we're surrounded by woods and the nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away and probably Morris the moose—but still.

     His hands slip under my sweater, palms warm against my ribs, and I arch into his touch because subtlety has never been my strong suit.

     "Inside," I manage against his mouth.

     "Good idea."

     We stumble through the door in a tangle of limbs and laughter, Ryder kicking it shut behind us while I'm already working on the buttons of his flannel. He helps, shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere in the general direction of the couch.

     "Bedroom?" he asks, even as I'm pulling his t-shirt over his head.

     "Too far."

     "Couch then."

     "Works for me."

     We fall onto the couch in a heap that would make a terrible Instagram story—all elbows and graceless momentum and me landing on top of him with an undignified oof that makes us both laugh.

     He rolls us, and suddenly I'm underneath him, and the weight of him pressing me into the cushions does things to my self-control that should probably concern me.

     "Hi," he says, grinning down at me.

     "Hi yourself."

     He kisses me quiet, which is probably his goal. His hands find the hem of my sweater and I lift my arms so he can pull it off. The sports bra underneath gets the same treatment, and then his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, lower.

     My phone dings from the railing outside.

     "Ignore it," Ryder murmurs against my skin.

     "I am ignoring it."

     "You looked at the door."

     "Reflex."

     He lifts his head, eyebrow raised. "Should I be offended that your phone is more interesting than this?"

     "Your ego can handle it." But I thread my fingers through his hair, pull him back down. "Besides, it's probably just Sage sending me a gif of a burning building."

     "She has terrible timing."

     "She has excellent comedic timing." I kiss him before he can argue, and whatever he was going to say gets lost in the tangle of tongues and teeth and breath.

     His hands work at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips to help, and he slides them off along with my underwear in one smooth motion that would be impressive if I wasn't too busy trying to remember how breathing works.

     Cool air hits bare skin and I shiver.

     "Cold?" he asks.

     "Not anymore." Not with the way he's looking at me, like I'm something worth savoring.

     He strips off his own jeans, and the view is unfair. Nine months of this and I'm still not used to the casual way he moves through the world—comfortable in his skin in a way I've never quite managed.

     "Still thinking about your phone?" he asks, fingers tracing patterns on my inner thigh that make my brain short-circuit.

     "What phone?"

     "That's what I thought."

     He takes his time, because Ryder always takes his time, trailing kisses down my neck, my collarbone, lower. His mouth closes around my nipple and I arch off the couch with a gasp. When I try to rush him, he pins my wrists above my head with one hand.

     "Patience, Grizzly Girl."

     "I'm not a patient person."

     "I've noticed." His free hand slides between my thighs, fingers teasing, exploring. He finds me wet and ready, and the low groan he makes vibrates against my breast. "But you're going to learn."

     "Ryder—" Whatever smart remark I had dissolves when he slides one finger inside me, then two, working me with slow, deliberate strokes that make my hips buck against his hand.

     "Yeah?"

     Words are hard. Coherent sentences are impossible. "Stop. Talking."

     He laughs against my skin, but then his thumb finds my core and talking becomes the last thing either of us wants to do. A spring digs into my shoulder blade. One of the cushions has disappeared entirely—probably on the floor. Don't care. Can't care. Too busy trying not to come apart already from just his fingers.

     It’s just me and Ryder and the way his fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes me see stars.

     "Look at me," he says, and I do.

     Nine months and he still looks at me like I'm worth more than the NHL. Like I'm the choice he'd make every time. His fingers never stop moving, building pressure that coils tighter and tighter.

     "I need you," I manage. "Now."

     "You have me." But he withdraws his hand—I actually whimper at the loss—and positions himself between my thighs. "Stay with me."

     "I'm here."

     "Good."

     He pushes inside me slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch and fullness makes us both groan. Nine months and it still feels like this—like coming home and falling off a cliff at the same time.

     "Okay?" he asks, holding still even though I can feel him trembling with the effort.

     "More than okay." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Move.      Please move."

     He does, setting a rhythm that starts slow and deep, then builds to something harder, faster, more desperate. I match him thrust for thrust, chasing that edge we're both racing toward. His mouth finds mine, swallowing my moans as his hand slides between us to work my nub in time with his movements.

     The rhythm builds until I'm clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. Everything inside me winds tighter and tighter until I shatter, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through me in waves.

     He follows seconds later, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and comes with my name on his lips like it's the only word that matters.

     We stay like that, catching our breath, my heart hammering against his chest. The couch creaks ominously beneath us. Great. Adding 'broke boyfriend's furniture during sex' to my list of Alaskan achievements right after 'survived moose encounter' and 'learned to start a fire without burning down a cabin.'

     Finally, he lifts his head and grins at me. "Pizza should be here soon."

     I blink at him. "That's what you're thinking about right now?"

     "I'm thinking about a lot of things." He kisses my nose. "But also pizza, because you still haven't eaten and I'm not letting you survive on coffee and spite."

     "That's a perfectly valid diet."

     "Says the woman who asked if cheese counted as a meal."

     "Hypothetically asked."

     "Sure." He carefully extracts himself and finds his jeans. "Come on. Let's make ourselves presentable before we scandalize the pizza delivery guy."

     "Again," I say, reaching for my clothes.

     "That was one time, and you promised never to bring it up."

     "I promised no such thing." I pull on my sweater—inside out, but whatever—and locate my jeans near the lamp. Impressive aim, honestly.

     My phone buzzes from outside. Then buzzes again.

     Ryder retrieves it, glances at the screen, and grins. "Sage wants to know if we survived the Great Steak Fire of 2026."

     "Tell her we're fine and she's not invited for dinner anymore."

     "She'll just show up anyway."

     "Yeah, probably." I grab the phone, swipe to see three more texts from Sage, two from a friend asking when we're visiting, and one notification that my latest post hit ten thousand likes.

     I close the app without responding to any of them.

     Ryder notices. "You okay?"

     "Yeah." I toss the phone onto the couch. 

     He crosses to me, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. 

     The doorbell rings. Ryder answers it while I locate my other sock—how did it end up on the bookshelf?—and by the time I'm presentable, he's back with pizza and that smile he gets when he's pleased with himself.

     We eat straight from the box on the broken couch. No plates, no pretense, just greasy pizza and comfortable silence.

     "Your followers would hate this," I say, gesturing at the destroyed pizza box between us.

     "Good thing I don't have followers."

     "You have me."

     "Yeah." He leans over, kisses my temple. "I really do."

     The next morning, when we're tangled together in his bed—our bed, I'm getting better at thinking it—my phone sits abandoned on the nightstand. No notifications checked. No content planned. 

Morris the moose wanders past the window, probably judging our life choices and currently snorting past.

     "What are you thinking about?" he asks, voice still gravelly from sleep.

     "How long we can avoid Sage today."

     "Not long." He pulls me closer. "She's relentless."

     "She learned from the best."

     "Are you calling yourself relentless?"

     "I prefer 'determined.'"

     "You're something, all right." He kisses my shoulder, my neck, the spot behind my ear that makes me shiver and then pulls me tight against his chest.                   "Something perfect."

     "Ryder Lockwood, are you getting sappy on me?"

     "Maybe."

     "I think the steak smoke last night got to your brain."

     "Probably." But he doesn't stop holding me, and I don't stop him, and somewhere between the terrible jokes and the comfortable silence, I drift off.

When I wake up, sunlight cuts through the window and Ryder's already awake, staring at me with that look he gets sometimes—soft around the edges, like he's memorizing details.

     "How long have you been watching me sleep?" I ask, voice rough. "Because that's either romantic or serial killer behavior, and I need clarification."

     "About five minutes."

     "Romantic it is."

     He grins. "Good morning to you too."

     "Is it though? Because I'm pretty sure we burned dinner and destroyed your couch."

     "Our couch," he corrects. "And it was already broken."

     "I'm taking credit for finishing it off." I stretch, wincing when something in my back pops. "What time is it?"

     "Early. You don't have to get up."

     "What if I want to?"

     "Then I'm making you actual breakfast. Not cheese. Not coffee and spite." He kisses me, tasting like morning breath and absolutely zero regrets about the steak incident. "Real food."

     "Bossy."

     "Concerned."

     "Same thing."

     He laughs, rolls out of bed, and I watch him move around the room finding clothes. My phone stays dark on the nightstand where I left it last night. Three hundred thousand followers and nobody gets to see this version of us—the messy hair, the easy silence, the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

     Good.

     The thought of going dark for a whole night would've sent me into a panic spiral this time last year. Now? I didn't even think about it until this moment.

     "You coming?" Ryder asks from the doorway.

     "Yeah." I grab his discarded flannel shirt from the floor and pull it on. It smells like the smoke from last night and him. "But if you burn the eggs, you’re never cooking again."

     "I'm not going to burn the eggs."

     "Famous last words of the guy who cremated a steak."

     "That was different."

     "How?"

     "You were supposed to be watching it for me."

     "I was on the phone with Sage."

     "Exactly. Distracted." He pulls me close, flannel and all. "Everything about you is distracting."

     When he kisses me, my phone doesn't even cross my mind.

     Last year, that would've been impossible.

     Now? It's the easiest thing in the world.