A Perfect Compromise. Anna Sugden

      She wanted that so much—to have a final hug, one more kiss—but it was hard enough to let him go. Delaying would only make it tougher. “I think we should say goodbye now. Make a clean break.”

      J.B. looked surprised. “Are you sure?”

      No. “It’s difficult enough here, in private. It’ll be impossible in the crowded lobby.” Her voice wobbled on the last word.

      He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “Okay. Sure.”

      J.B. pressed one last, hard kiss to her mouth and then walked out the door.

      By the time Sapphie returned to their room, Issy had regained some composure. Obviously not enough, judging by her friend’s concerned look and tight hug. Issy was grateful that Sapphie didn’t ask any questions while they packed, but chattered cheerfully about how much she’d enjoyed the holiday.

      As they checked out, Issy tried not to watch for J.B. She told herself he wouldn’t be there, yet she couldn’t help one last glance as they boarded the shuttle bus.

      Her heart skipped when she saw a familiar silhouette in the shadows of the lobby. He stood there until the bus turned the corner and she couldn’t see him anymore.

      “You’ll be all right,” Sapphie murmured, squeezing her hand.

      Issy let out a heavy breath. Yes, she would.

      The line to get through security stretched out in front of the airport. She and Sapphie joined the end and began the torturous process of inching toward the passport-control booth.

      Once they were finally through security, she and Sapphie got sandwiches and soft drinks at one of the airport cafés. After all the fabulous resort food, the stale roll was hard to swallow—literally. Issy made herself eat so she could take some ibuprofen to ease her throbbing temples.

      Sapphie tossed her sandwich in the trash and looked around the crowded, noisy, waiting area. “Newark Airport is looking more appealing by the second. Do you think it’ll work if I click my sandals and say ‘There’s no place like home’?”

      “Probably not, since you don’t actually have a ‘home.’”

      “Good point, darn it.”

      “Try ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ instead,” Issy suggested. “Beaming us back to Jersey sounds pretty good right now.”

      Before her friend could respond, the speakers crackled and their flight was announced for boarding. As they walked out to the plane, the waves of heat from the tarmac combined with the smell of aviation fuel made Issy feel queasy.

      Once in their seats Issy adjusted the winged headrest, leaned against it and closed her eyes. She welcomed the soothing stream of cool air from the vent above her head. The noise of people finding their seat was soon replaced by flight attendants slamming closed the overhead lockers and the drone of the safety announcement. The vibration of the engines firing up exacerbated her sickness.

      Issy drank some more water, then tried to fall asleep. But despite the tiredness that washed over her in waves, she couldn’t drop off.

      After takeoff, her nausea eased a little. But it returned full-force when the meal service started. The smell of coffee made her stomach roll.

      Oh, no. She was going to be sick.

      Issy jumped up and dashed for the toilets. She barely got the door closed before she threw up.

      Welcome back to reality, Isabelle Brandine.

CHAPTER FIVE

      “GOOD TO SEE our Millionaire Ice Boy still gets his hands dirty.”

      From wading in the Caribbean to wading in cow crap in three weeks: the two sides of J.B.’s life.

      He didn’t give his oldest brother the satisfaction of a verbal response but continued mucking out the stalls in their parents’ barn. Shame the shovel of manure slipped, slewing its contents over Marc Andre’s jeans and boots.

      “You ass,” his brother spluttered, jumping back. “I just got cleaned up to go into town.”

      “I’m sorry, but what do you expect from a lowly ‘ice boy’?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m out of practice at shoveling crap.”

      “Perhaps I should get Dad to send you over to my place to do chores, too.”

      His father would love that. “Nah. Not much call for this skill in my day job.”

      “Maybe not, but it might improve your aim, kid.”

      “I’d say my aim’s pretty damn good.” He grinned and reached for the hose. “Want me to wash you down?”

      Marc Andre laughed and stepped out of the line of fire. “By the time you’re done I’ll need to change everything, even my underwear, and I don’t have time.”

      “Wouldn’t be the first time someone walked around town covered in Eau de Cow Dung. No one will bat an eyelid.”

      “True. But sometimes even us yokels need to spruce up.” Marc Andre punched his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, bro. Been too long.”

      “I know.” Guilt twinged his chest. The last time J.B. had come to the farm was back in December when he’d flown out a day early for the team’s swing through Western Canada.

      Though he knew he should make more of an effort to get home, it wasn’t easy to find the time. Unlike the guys who played sixteen games of football and were done by the end of January, J.B.’s season was eighty-two games over seven months. If he was lucky, that was followed by a postseason that took him through to June.

      And it wasn’t like he took the summer off. Technically, J.B. had three months before he had to report for training camp. But in reality, if he didn’t start his workout schedule in the next couple of weeks, he wouldn’t be in peak physical condition come September.

      He’d tried in the past to draw the comparison with farming, where there was little downtime in the calendar, but it had gone over his folks’ heads.

      “This was a tough year for visits, with me being selected for the All-Stars and then our Cup run.”

      “We understand. Well, Dad doesn’t, but the rest of us get it. Who’d have thought a Larocque would be burning up the NHL?” His brother rubbed a hand over his jaw. “It’s a good thing, because you suck as a farmer.”

      “Yeah. So, how come you’re going into town during the day, midweek?”

      “I’ve got a meeting with the bank. Now Amelie and I know for sure that baby number four is due in the new year I want to simplify my finances.”

      “Congratulations.” That would make seven nieces and nephews. Another reason J.B. felt like he’d been born into the wrong family. Much as he loved the rug rats, for sure he wasn’t ready for one of his own. There was plenty of hockey left to play and life to enjoy, before he settled down and burdened himself with those responsibilities.

      “If you weren’t so freaking stubborn, you wouldn’t have any mortgages or loans. Neither would Pierre Luc.”

      “I’m not taking your money.” Marc Andre’s expression was fierce. “You’ll need it to live off when you’re retired. You sure as hell can’t make a living off the land.”

      J.B. leaned on the shovel to stop himself from using it to knock some sense into his brother. This was an old argument that always ended the same. While he respected independence and appreciated that his family weren’t spongers, they were too damn proud. “By the time I’m done, I’ll have more than enough for several lifetimes.”

      “You never know. You could get injured or traded. The team could be sold or go belly-up. And once you’re done, you’ll still be young,