Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Page 12

  “But shouldn’t I follow the same rule? Doesn’t it apply to me? Don’t do the thing that hurt us before, right? You won’t get involved with a friend, so maybe I shouldn’t ever get married again.”

  He is goading me, and I hate that I don’t have a better reply than “C’mon. That’s not what I mean.”

  “Kind of is though. And if you believe that, now would be a good time to tell me, since I’m asking Bryn to marry me next week.”

  “Holy shit, man.” In spite of the heavy talk, a grin takes over my face, and I yank him in for a quick hug. “That is awesome. I’m so stoked for you.”

  His smile is magic—he looks like the happiest guy around, and that’s saying something, since I’m surrounded by pleased-as-punch fellas. “Thanks. I wish I could speed up time so it was next week now, but I’m also going to enjoy the hell out of every moment with her. Every moment of Fitz and Dean’s day today.” He takes a beat, drawing a breath. “Do you see what I mean though?”

  I look away, at the trees, at the paths winding through the park, at the crowds starting to gather for Fitz’s wedding. At the moments surrounding me. At all my friends, taking chances in their own way. At Fitz, who put his heart on the line for Dean so he could make a life here with the guy he loves. At Oliver, who risked seventeen years of friendship to tell Summer he loved her. And at Logan, a father and a once-married man who was burned, but who’s going for a second chance—a second chance at the altar.

  Maybe I’ve had it all wrong.

  “I do see what you mean,” I say quietly.

  Logan slugs my shoulder. “You guys clearly dig each other. And I know you don’t want to get on the merry-go-round of love again. I respect that.” He meets my gaze, leveling an intensely honest stare at me, something he’s been doing a lot of today. “But I wonder if maybe you already have one foot on that carousel?”

  My mind slips back to last weekend and how it was with her.

  To how I felt with her in the elevator of my building. In my doorway. In my bed.

  Well, horny for starters.

  But was I happy too?

  As I ask myself, I catch a glint of sunlight on red hair, lifting softly in the breeze. Strong legs. A bright, confident smile.

  The woman I slept with last week walks toward me.

  That’s when I fully weigh Logan’s questions, and when they don’t feel heavy any longer.

  Was I happy?

  Is that even a question?

  I was happy every single second I spent with her.

  Every moment—the sex and the talking—was a balm to my soul.

  It’s making me wonder if it’s time to finally reevaluate if the risk is worth it.

  My friends are taking all sorts of risks. They’re diving headfirst into the waters of love.

  Because the reward could be worth it.

  Perhaps it’s time to let go of my mantra. To let go of my resistance. And to let go of the past.

  “Yeah . . . I’m pretty sure I’m already on the carousel and getting dizzy,” I admit at last to Logan as Teagan comes closer.

  “Then maybe talk to her,” he says, then walks away.

  He doesn’t need to tell me a fifteenth time.

  14

  Ransom

  I smile as she nears me, and I couldn’t stop the grin if I tried. She’s gorgeous, but there’s so much more to her than looks. I’m keenly aware of the fact that I want to spend the night with her again, but I’m just as eager to spend the next several hours together.

  I want Teagan by my side as our friends get married. I want to talk to her, dance with her, toast with her.

  “Hey, North,” she says when she reaches me.

  “Hey, King,” I say, as I survey the beauty in front of me, in her green summery dress that shows off the skin of her shoulders—shoulders I want to kiss.

  That reveals legs I want to run my hands down.

  And that clings to the body I want beside me.

  That’s only the tip of the iceberg.

  There’s a helluva lot more to this woman I have a date with in a few days, and I’m going to need to figure out what to do with this growing storm of emotions in my chest. It’s not simply desire any longer.

  There’s more at play. The more that drove me to pick up the phone and talk to her the other night. The more that had me asking her to spend some time with me today.

  That’s why I say, “You look good, Teagan.”

  Teagan.

  Not King.

  Time to dispense with the bro-dude talk. Enough of the last names. That’s for the guys. I don’t want to be one of the guys with her.

  “So do you. . . Ransom,” she says, meeting me on this new terrain, saying my name with a little sweetness, a little suggestiveness.

  I step closer and drop a kiss onto her cheek, brushing my lips across her skin.

  A gust of breath escapes her lips, then a soft, lingering ohhh.

  “Hey,” I say when I step back, woozy from the strawberry scent of her. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Likewise.” She sounds the slightest bit shy, then she shucks that off as she says, “I was looking forward to this all day.”

  “To the wedding?” Because she can’t mean anything else. Can she?

  “Yes, to the wedding. I love weddings. But also,” she says, taking a beat, her eyes flashing with a hint of nerves that she blinks away, “to seeing you.”

  My heart hammers at words I didn’t let myself hope for. My skin warms at her admission.

  This woman makes me feel so damn good—in my body and right in my heart.

  Those words she said should scare me.

  They ought to terrify me.

  But when I’m with Teagan, I’m everything Logan said I was, everything I haven’t truly been since Edie—I’m happy.

  I drag a hand through my hair. It’s decision time.

  Do I still want to toe all my lines?

  Heed all my mantras?

  Or will I kick them to the side?

  I swallow past the roughness in my throat and take a step closer to what I want. “Want to go on a date with me? To see our guys get hitched?”

  Her smile lights the sky. “You bet I do,” she says, and we walk the rest of the way together.

  I return to what she said a few seconds ago as we stroll past a tree with white blossoms. “Tell me why you love weddings.”

  Her response is breezy. “Why does anyone love weddings?”

  I shoot her a give me more look. “I don’t know why anyone else loves them. But I want to know why you do,” I say, and I’m driven by the need to know her more, to understand her. “That’s why I asked.”

  I expect her to say the dress, or the vows, or the way they make her feel.

  She turns her face to me, taking a beat, the cogs in her brain whirring, I can tell. “I love rituals. I kind of can’t get enough of them.”

  “Why is that?” I’m intrigued by her answer. Once upon a time, she was simply a funny girl, and I liked that about her. She was free and easy, a hoot to play games with. In this last week, she’s peeled back new layers, shown me other sides, and those sides draw me in just as much as her humor does.

  “I think we need them desperately as a society. The before, the after, the way rituals mark a new phase in our lives. Weddings, of course, do that. They’re not only a declaration in words but in deeds too. You’re leaving one stage behind and stepping into a new future. I think celebrations to mark those changes are so necessary for our hearts”—she slides a hand briefly over her chest then taps her temple—“and our heads.”

  I noodle on that as we near the other guests, letting her observations sink in. “I expected you to say something else. But that makes beautiful sense. I get it. I get it completely.”

  She meets my gaze, her blue eyes etched with intensity. “Right? I think we need the acknowledgment to see us through both good times and bad.”

  “To guide us through the insanity around us.” I wave toward th
e city behind me to indicate the topsy-turvy madness of the world today.

  “Yes. Life is only uncertain. Life is only unpredictable.”

  Hell, she’s the expert. She knows this better than any of us, losing her family the way she did.

  She goes on as we reach the friends and relatives here for Fitz and Dean. “Birthdays, celebrations, weddings, graduations, funerals. All of it helps us to process the unpredictable unknowns around us.”

  Unknowns.

  That’s exactly what Logan was getting at earlier. I think about my own fears—the great, big unknown that is everything that might happen if I step over the line with Teagan.

  What it would do to our friendship.

  What it would do to our friends.

  What it would do to me.

  I don’t have those answers. No one does—until they invent time travel, I suppose. But maybe I’m ready to face that uncertainty because the woman I want to spend the next several hours with—and a whole lot longer—is so damn brave.

  Braver than I am.

  Knowing that, feeling that, makes my heart beat a little faster for her.

  This is the moment. I take a step closer, reach for her hand, and hold it as the grooms walk to the justice of the peace.

  She squeezes my fingers back, and like that, we watch our friends get married.

  As they say their vows, I understand why Teagan loves rituals. There’s something intensely powerful about witnessing this moment.

  Plus, it’s pretty fucking cool to see one of the toughest defensemen in the NHL, a guy who has my back on the ice in every damn game, pledging to be with one person for the rest of his life.

  It’s a before and an after.

  And most of all, it’s a choice.

  When they say I do, a kernel of something bitter that had staked a claim inside me since Edie left cracks further, halves down the middle, and maybe, finally, it crumbles to nothing.

  Or perhaps it’s that I’ve finally decided it’s time to let go of that line I was holding.

  To say goodbye to the past and not look back.

  Maybe that’s my private ritual. One I didn’t even know I needed until I watched this public one.

  This vibrant and powerful celebration of love.

  15

  Ransom

  Normally, when it comes to weddings, I’m a take-it-or-leave-it kind of person.

  Weddings are . . . fine.

  They’re full of people milling about, talking, eating.

  They’re perfectly acceptable.

  Not my first choice for a weekend activity. Not when there are things like pickup basketball, comedy clubs, concerts, barbecues, soccer, and any other type of reasonably organized sports as options.

  But this wedding is cool as hell.

  It’s relaxed. It’s easy. It’s just two people getting hitched, having a meal, and sharing it with their friends.

  I indulge in some fantastic appetizers, like stuffed mushrooms and sushi rolls, along with a couple of glasses of champagne. Most of the time, I’m a beer guy, but when there’s champagne, I can’t resist.

  And this shit is just so damn good.

  I raise my third glass of bubbly to Teagan as we lean against the bar. Before I can offer up a third toast—our prior toasts were to playlists from teen-centric TV shows (her idea) and to comedy albums from sarcastic, offbeat comedians (my idea)—a booming voice lands on my ears.

  “Ah, don’t let me interrupt another delicious momento romántico.”

  It’s Martinez. Of course—he’s buds with Fitz.

  I roll my eyes. “But you’re so good at it, Marty Boy.”

  He parks an elbow on the bar and looks at Teagan. “You weren’t really going to kiss a man who doesn’t have a ring, were you?” He waggles his fingers, displaying his championship ring from when the Yankees won the World Series a couple of years ago.

  Damn good series.

  And I burn with jealousy, since I don’t have a championship yet.

  So I need another way in. “I get it. All those endless innings twiddling your thumbs on the bench have you confused. But let me clarify. We have cups—they’re bigger and better.”

  “Ah, thank you,” he says, with a faux appreciative nod. Then, in an innocent tone, he asks, “And where’s yours?”

  Teagan turns to me, hands on her hips, sass in her eyes. “Yeah, where is your Stanley Cup, North? Because this time next year, I want to be drinking champagne from it.”

  I laugh and haul her in close. “Me too, King. Me too,” I say, and at this moment, we are friends. But we’re something more too, and it feels good to laugh like this, all of us together. I like it a lot.

  “By the way, thank you for that cut fastball last night,” Teagan says to the closer, “striking out the side with the bases loaded. I hate Boston with a deep passion.”

  Martinez brings his hand to his heart. “That is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said. I, too, despise them to the depths of my soul. Beating them is my joy, as I was telling—” He cuts himself off, shifting gears suddenly. “Did you enjoy the wedding, Teagan?”

  “It was wonderful—every second. And who were you telling about your disdain for the Red Sox?” she asks, something about where he stopped catching her curiosity.

  With a light laugh, Martinez waves a hand, dismissing the question. “Just someone I was chatting with this morning.”

  Her eyes light up. “Was it your mystery bidder? Did you ever find out who your phone bidder was?”

  A hint of a smile flashes across his features, but he quickly erases it. “I’ll find out tomorrow. Until then, I need to go mingle. Have fun, tortolitos.” He winks, then adds a translation, “Lovebirds, that is.”

  Teagan’s cheeks flush pink. It’s a good look on her.

  Martinez leaves, heading to join the other guests, going to talk to Fitz’s sister. “Maybe one of Fitz’s sisters was the mystery bidder,” I suggest.

  “He only has one single sister—Emma, the one who studies art.”

  “Oh yeah. She’s a hoot. We used to mess with Fitz and pretend we were going to be a thing.”

  Teagan’s eyes turn fiery. She breathes through her nostrils.

  I try to rein in a grin. “Are you jealous?”

  “A little.”

  I laugh. “Holy fuck, that’s adorable. Jealousy looks good on you, Teagan.” She folds her arms, and I bump my shoulder against hers. “As I said, it looks good on you.”

  She rolls her eyes, then picks up her glass, lifting it. “To friendships and good-looking jealousies, then.”

  “To friendship, rituals, and wild unknowns.”

  I clink my glass to hers, take another sip, then set the flute on the bar, gazing briefly at the New York City skyline visible through the windows of the Loeb Boathouse. Not a bad way to spend a night.

  This isn’t the first wedding I’ve been to in the last two years. I attended Summer and Oliver’s a few months ago. But this is the first one where I’m not mulling over what-might-have-beens.

  I’m only thinking about my life right now. About what might happen tonight. And tomorrow. And the next day.

  I feel unburdened for the first time in a long while, and it’s a great feeling.

  Teagan takes a sip, then puts her glass down next to mine. “So, how would you rate this wedding?”

  I rub my palms together, ready to dive into the review. “Bring it on. What’s the scale? I need to know exactly how I’m grading it.”

  She gazes at the ceiling, as if deep in thought. “On a scale of one to . . . better than a chocolate milkshake.”

  I pretend to stumble backward. “Whoa. Those are fighting words, Teagan.”

  She maintains a straight face. “I know. I’m asking you to make a very tough choice.”

  I draw a deep breath, like I’m seriously considering this. And I am. I do love chocolate milkshakes fiercely, and that gives me an idea. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  She arches a curious
brow. “How good this wedding is?”

  “Yes,” I say emphatically.

  “Okay, enlighten me. How do we find out how good this wedding is?”

  I roll my eyes like it’s so damn obvious. “We should get a milkshake after this.”

  “Nope. My question. My rules. You have to judge before you get dessert.”

  “Woman, you are a fierce competitor.”

  She wiggles her brows. “I know. Now answer the question.”

  Before I can, Fitz wanders back in from the deck of the boathouse, Dean by his side. My teammate catches my eye, a knowing glint in his eyes as he glances from me to Teagan and mouths, Go for it.

  I mouth back, I can’t hear you, just to fuck with him.

  I turn back to the redhead who is under my skin and in my head. She’s tapping her toe, pursing her lips. “I know you guys were just exchanging words about me,” she says, but she’s laughing, and I love that about her.

  She gets me.

  She understands how I am with my friends. She doesn’t judge me for how I like to have fun with the guys.

  She doesn’t want to change me.

  She’s cool with who I am.

  Yes, the bitter kernel I’ve nurtured, I’ve watered, I’ve held on to—it’s all gone. And I’m so damn glad.

  I lift my hand, set it on her shoulder, then slide it down her arm. “Actually, here’s my answer to the is-it-better-than-a-milkshake question. There’s only one thing that’ll make this wedding better than a chocolate milkshake,” I say, my voice a little low, a little rough, emotions seeping into it that I didn’t entirely expect.

  But ones I don’t want to stop.

  She shivers, her gaze drifting to my hand on her arm. Her eyes swing back up to mine. “And what’s that?”

  I lean in close and whisper in her ear, “If you’ll dance with me.”

  Perhaps this was always inevitable tonight.

  It feels like it can’t be any other way as she brushes her lips against my neck, up to my ear, softly, sweetly, saying, “Yes. That would make it the best.”

  “Pillowtalk” plays by Zayn, and I’m not a fifth wheel.