Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Page 17
But as I run my hands over the silky material that falls around my legs, I feel an uncertainty.
Of course, not about marrying Logan. That’s a no-brainer.
I don’t need to read an article like “Five Hints You’re Marrying the Love of Your Life.” I could write that piece myself, along with some companion posts like “Do You Really Know When You Think You Know?” (hint: the answer is yes) and “When ‘I Do’ Is All Too True.”
No, this uncertainty stems from something else entirely.
“I see Daddy!” Amelia whispers excitedly, her eyes glued to the gap in the door that leads to the white sand and floral arch where our friends and family wait. “Do you want to see him, Bryn?”
I smile and kneel behind her, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “I think I’ll wait until we walk down the aisle.”
“O-kaa-aay.” Amelia doesn’t sound particularly confident in my choice as she singsongs three syllables into the two-syllable word. “But he looks very handsome.”
I laugh. “I’m sure he does.”
Another thing I have no doubt about.
But this whole baby situation? That’s another matter entirely. It’s thrown me for a loop.
I’d been so happy with the plan to wait a few years before trying for a baby. Logan and I both manage our own businesses, and with mine so new, it didn’t seem smart to add a baby to the mix too early. Not only that, but we have this gorgeous girl in front of me—the only member of our bridal party because she’s the only one we need, in more ways than one.
Not yet. Two words I’d felt so confident about.
But Amelia’s question this morning made me realize something. I’m on the brink of marrying the man I love madly. I don’t think I want to wait to try for a baby. Why should we delay? We don’t live in a world where I have to choose whether to be a wife or a businesswoman or a mother. I can be anything and everything. I want it all, and I want it now. I want what the guys think I already have – a baby in my belly.
“Bryn, we’re ready to go whenever you are. Just say the word.” Maria, the event planner, nods toward the closed doors.
“Great. Let’s do it.”
Maria hands me the bouquet of tropical flowers as I stand and thank her. I breathe in the heady aroma of the beautiful blooms, centering myself in this moment.
I am about to marry the man I love most.
My what-if guy who isn’t a what-if, but an only-and-forever.
“Let’s do this.” I press a quick kiss to Amelia’s soft hair, and Maria says a few words into her headset as the music starts to play.
The doors open, and Amelia focuses on the aisle ahead like a true professional. But just before she takes a step, she spins, runs to my side, and plasters her tiny arms around my waist, her basket of flowers gently tapping my thighs.
“I love you,” she whispers.
She loves me.
My ovaries melt into a thousand tiny love puddles.
“I love you too,” I whisper, and she gives me another squeeze, then pulls away, faces the guests, and scatters petals as she walks toward them.
Tears prick my eyes, and I blink them back, focusing on the orchids in my bouquet, then look up again to see a pair of deep, sensual eyes staring at me from underneath that floral arch. Logan lights up my body even from a distance, and a shiver runs through me.
Butterflies flit in my stomach, but not from nerves. They’re gliding on wings of excitement. I cannot wait to do this—to walk down the aisle and marry the man I love. In fact, I want this so badly I could run.
The sand is soft between my toes as I move quickly past our friends and family. Fitz with his arm wrapped around Dean. Summer with her fingers twined tightly with Oliver’s. And Ransom and Teagan, his arm around her waist, holding her close.
I pass my bouquet to Teagan in the front row and rush to my fiancé’s side, and because he is so darn kissable, I press my lips to his. He slinks his arms around my waist, kissing me back like nobody’s watching.
“You look amazing,” he whispers before dotting one last kiss onto my cheek.
Heat flushes my neck. “Thank you. You look amazing too.”
What would he look like holding a newborn baby in his arms? And not in five or ten years, when we’re a little older, a little more tired—what would he look like if we had one right now?
I already know the answer.
He’d look like the perfect man he already is—the perfect man for me.
“Are you two ready?” the officiant asks in a low voice, her gaze darting between us.
“So ready,” Logan says, and I open my mouth to agree.
But I can’t.
Not just yet. Not with these thoughts of babies and family swimming in my brain, making it hard to focus on the moment.
We’re a team in everything we do, and I want to start my marriage the way I intend to live it—with complete transparency. Not mentioning details has gotten us into trouble before, and I won’t let it hinder things again.
I take a deep breath. Can I really do this? Can I really delay my own wedding and tell this man I want it all, and I want it now?
I hold up my pointer finger to the celebrant. “Can you please give us one minute?”
26
Logan
Universal truth: no man ever wants his wedding delayed.
But since the woman who’s just held up her hand to slow the proceedings is the most important one in the world to me, I don’t say a word, even when the officiant widens her eyes, even when I hear a low whistle from someone in the crowd.
Bryn pulls me over to the shade of a nearby palm, and I cup her cheek and pull her close, a bemused smile twisting my lips. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” She shakes her head, an adorable wrinkle creasing her brow. “No. Amelia’s question this morning about babies, and then Summer and Oliver thinking we’re pregnant, and—”
“They think we’re pregnant?”
“Not anymore. But all those things had me thinking, and I want to marry you today, and I absolutely want to do it regardless, but I need to know something first.” She searches my eyes, so honest, so beautiful. “When it comes to having another baby, do you still think it’s something we should look at in a few years’ time? Because I did, but I don’t want to wait anymore. I really want this now.”
Wow.
I hadn’t expected that.
Just when I thought it was impossible to fall any more in love with her, I do.
In fact, it’s all I can do not to wrap her in my arms, throw her over my shoulder, and take her up to our hotel room, caveman-style, to get started on her proposition right away.
“Bryn, my heart is so full when I’m with you.” I graze my thumb over the soft skin of her cheek. “And I would love to start growing our family whenever you feel ready, whether that’s in two years, two months, or two hours. I want to do it all with you, Bryn. Everything.”
She gives me a sexy little smile. “Should we make a baby together, Mr. Smolder?”
“Yes. Yes, we absolutely should.” I sweep my hand around the back of her neck and pull her in for a whirlwind of a kiss. I kiss her like she’s my forever, and my wife, and a mother to my child, and the mother of our future children—because she’s all those things to me and more.
Someone catcalls from the crowd, and she pulls back, a sexy flush to her cheeks. I love putting that flush there.
I can’t stop my grin. “Is there anything else? Or should we go and get married?”
“Let’s do it.” She smiles, and we walk back to the officiant, who soon pronounces us husband and wife.
Forever.
Later on, after we dance the night away with our family and friends, we make good on our commitment. I strip off her dress to reveal her lacy blue lingerie, and I make love to my wife again and again and again.
Three months later, we learn we’re pregnant, and eight months after that, we welcome our second daughter into the world. We name her Ashlee, after
Bryn’s mom.
And from the moment I see her sweet little face, I fall in love all over again—with our daughters and the woman who made me believe in love again.
A Little Epilogue
Ransom
* * *
But wait. Whatever did happen to my sister and Martinez? Was it as simple as an auction bid? Is falling for someone ever simple?
Never.
Let’s hear it from them though as we go back in time to the auction.
The Story of Tempest and Martinez
An Extra Special Epilogue
Tempest
* * *
The afternoon of the auction . . .
* * *
So it’s a Saturday afternoon, I’m hanging at my brother’s Murray Hill pad, reviewing a column I’ve written on the best ways to avoid hidden fees in mutual funds, when a solar eclipse occurs.
The sun, moon, and earth align.
Metaphorically.
First, an email lands in my inbox from my lit agent, Viviana Grayson.
* * *
Tempest!
* * *
Guess who just earned a bonus for her German edition of The Girl’s Guide to Personal Finances? It’s also my favorite kind of bonus.
* * *
The big, huge kind with lots of zeroes.
* * *
They love you in Germany.
* * *
And Korea. Check coming from there.
* * *
And Hungary. Yet another check.
* * *
And Brazil. One more check.
* * *
I’ll be sending you royalty checks from all those territories this weekend. Click on the PDF to see the amounts.
* * *
Xoxo
Viv
* * *
Naturally, I click that PDF so fast my finger hits a new land speed record.
I blink.
Blink again.
Enlarge the PDF.
I mean, I do wear glasses. So I might be seeing it wrong.
But that is a hella lot of zeroes.
Like, five zeroes.
And I write back to Viviana with a series of fireworks GIFs because I’m not entirely sure what else to say.
Except Thanks for being the badass you are.
So I add that and hit send.
Then my brother jerks around, fiddling with his bow tie. “Temp, you don’t think Martinez is hot, do you?”
The last name rings a vague bell.
Just to get his goat, since his goat needs to be gotten, I furrow my brow. “Who’s that? An actor on Scrubs?”
He rolls his eyes. Something he does with me so frequently I sometimes worry they might get stuck in the back of his head.
“Scrubs has been off the air for years. Good job, Ms. Anti Pop Culture.”
I point out how well I know Broadway as he explains that Martinez is the guy he’s always referring to as Marty Boy, which is why I rarely hear his full name.
Then he says it.
Adrian Martinez.
And does that ever ring a bell.
That rings all the tingly bells indeed.
But it’s nice to mess with my brother.
With lightning speed, I turn to my best friend, Google, and look up “Adrian Martinez.” The Adrian Martinez with the dark blond hair that has such a delicious swoop to it. The one with those crystal blue eyes, and with that jawline—it’s statue-worthy.
He’s the guy.
I met him two days ago.
I’m not simply talking about walking past the Times Square billboard. Though he’s hard to look away from there in his briefs, plastered over ten stories of New York skyscraper.
I’d like to count my royalties over the grooves of his abs.
With my tongue.
“Why didn’t you tell me your Martinez was Adrian Alejandro Martinez from the Gigante underwear ad in Times Square?”
And from earlier in the week during an interview.
Only, I can’t let Ransom know. Not yet, at least. That would give my brother too much fodder and too much ire. He’s more protective than he needs to be, but this girl makes her own choices. I close my laptop, rearranging my face to be expressionless so he doesn’t see right through me.
I’m good at that—presenting a poker face to the world if I have to.
But still, I kind of can’t believe this is him.
A guy my brother knows. A guy my brother smack-talks with. A guy who’s going to the player’s auction tonight.
Sometimes the world works in mysterious ways.
Or perhaps intentional ones.
Because I know what I want, and I think I know how to get it.
Ransom
* * *
Hmmm. I’m thinking they met before the auction now. I have a sneaking suspicion that somehow they crossed paths.
Let’s go back a few more days.
Time to rewind.
Martinez
* * *
Earlier that week, a few days before the auction
* * *
When I come into the ninth inning of a game, whether the bases are loaded or empty, nothing distracts me.
I wear blinders because that’s my motherfucking job.
To drown out the noise of the crowd, the game, the day, the night.
Nothing else matters.
I take to the field, head to the mound, and enter the zone.
It’s a skill I’ve mastered, and I use it in other areas of my life too.
When I’m reading a book in the park, when I go to a museum, or when I have dinner with friends—I ignore everything else and am present in the moment.
That’s why it’s killing me when I sit down for an interview in a quiet coffee shop with a reporter from a lifestyle site who wants to do a feature on me.
“Devon Patrick.” The sandy-haired reporter interviewing me introduces himself, then gestures to a brunette with electric-blue glasses, pretty pink lips, and a gorgeous smile.
“Tempest,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’ll be here to sign for Devon.”
I’d been told by my publicist that an ASL interpreter would be here for the reporter. “Adrian Alejandro Martinez,” I say to both of them, then to her, I add, “Charmed.”
Because I am. She’s beguiling to look at.
Which means I need to apply the same focus to Devon that I would to a save situation.
The bases are loaded. There are no outs. The opposing team’s top slugger’s at the plate. I come in. Mow down the side.
The reporter begins with some standard questions, wanting to know when I moved to America, how many other languages I speak, if I go back to Europe often since I grew up in Spain, spent some time with family in Italy and visited grandparents frequently in France as a child.
I give him the answers that are widely known—when I was fourteen, Spanish, Italian, English and passable French thanks to my father’s mother, and . . . as often as I can.
Tempest signs all my answers for him then translates his questions for me.
Sure, I’m talking to him, but I can’t help but feel that I’m talking to her too. He says something to her with his hands, and then she translates for me. “Adrian, tell us about growing up mostly in Spain, since it isn’t widely known for baseball. Was that hard?”
“It came with its challenges, but I had great coaches and was determined to play in the Major Leagues,” I say.
She smiles then tells Devon what I said.
“And you’re close with your family?” he asks through her.
I nod, meeting his eyes as I answer, but I want to look at her, not only because I’m distracted by her soulful eyes and a smile I can’t seem to get enough of.
I tell myself she’s simply a woman I’m meeting as part of my job.
That I shouldn’t be so taken with her so soon.
And I’m not truly taken, I suppose.
Yet I want to keep talking to her. Or, really, through her.
> “I see my mother and father every week if I can. They live just outside the city. I have them over for dinner when I’m able to and when I’m not playing.”
“What do you like to cook?” she blurts out, then she shakes her head, apologizes, and turns to Devon, signing quickly.
He chuckles, saying something to her silently with his hands.
She dips her head, then raises it, that smile curving her lips in an oops, did I really say that grin.
“I make a mean gazpacho. Paella, of course too. My father taught me how to make those. My mother is Italian and she loves classic Italian dishes. And, my grandmother in Paris made sure I knew how to make tarte normande. But I can’t have those too often,” I say, patting my belly and wiggling my eyebrows.
She grins. “It’s always good to make sure you can do the Gigante ads,” she says. Her fingers were flying as I spoke, and she signs her own comment as well, making the reporter chuckle again. I just get a kick out of the fact that she’s seen my ads.
“But I also like to bake pizza,” I add with a smile.
Devon grins, waiting for Tempest to translate. She does, and he replies through Tempest, “Pizza is life.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I say, tapping my chest then pointing in the air, glancing skyward.
Devon signs something else, then Tempest looks at me, those brown eyes locking with mine and once more distracting me.
Get in the zone, man.
“What kind of pizza do you bake?”