Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel Read online

  We can continue the celebration of Bryn’s awesomeness at karaoke or choose darts or shuffleboard instead.

  In the hallway, I tap out a quick reply to Nancy Fenester, one of the trustees who approves all my requests for fundraising, to let her know I’ll have a list for the third quarter soon. That sent, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and return to the bar, ready for our next activity.

  Ransom is solo at the table. The hockey hottie tips his forehead to the dartboard.

  “Favor of my choice if I beat you at darts,” he says, sliding right back into our competitive banter.

  That’s how we are.

  At the glitter-mitten party, we bet on who could make the most garish mittens. I won. At mini golf, we threw down greenbacks over who’d make the most holes in two. He nailed that odd victory.

  But this wager has me curious and then some. Because a favor is a brand-new currency.

  “A favor? What kind? As Sandy and Danny would say, tell me more.”

  “It’s a good favor. One you’ll like,” he says, a little teasing in his tone.

  “Tell me more now, then,” I say, pointing to the floor in a demanding gesture.

  He shakes his head. “Only if I win.”

  I shoot him an I’m not crazy look. “I’m not signing up for a favor if I don’t know what kind.”

  He gives me flirty eyes. The gold flecks in his hazel irises twinkle with Ransom mischief.

  Wait. Is he hitting on me? He can’t possibly mean sexual favors. Can he?

  My traitorous body wouldn’t mind him laying one of those on me. Or two of those.

  Or maybe stop counting and just go all night long.

  After all, Ransom’s frame defines “chiseled,” and his face is the prime example of masterfully carved. His warm eyes probably grace the Wikipedia page for “soul-searing.” He’s the most tempting possible temptation the goddess of temptation could have placed in my path.

  But there’s that little matter of how he’s never shown a bit of romantic interest in me.

  Isn’t this a skeezy way of making a move though? Because . . . ew. “This isn’t, like, some Indecent Proposal thing, is it?”

  He blinks, then flinches as the dots connect. “What? No. Are you kidding me? Fuck no.”

  Okay. While I didn’t want him to be propositioning me, I didn’t want him to recoil at the idea either. “Fair enough.”

  “Because that’s tacky, Teagan.” His tone has shifted to earnest, his gaze intent, and his use of my first name underscores that the clarification is important to him. “I’m not going to bet you for sex, because that’s fucking disrespectful. I have sisters. I was raised to treat women right.”

  And . . . I’m going to pretend I totally never thought he would proposition me. Especially since I’m not supposed to picture the horizontal mambo with him anyway. I punch his shoulder and keep a lighthearted tone. “I know. I was only teasing.” And hell, that was super convincing, even to my ears. I expect an Oscar to come my way soon.

  “Good,” he says, then resumes our usual bantering. “Anyway, you’ll like this favor.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. “How can you know that if you won’t tell me what it is?”

  “Because if you know, then it’s no fun. And you like fun.” His expression says Am I right, or am I so right?

  Damn him.

  Because he is both those things. “True, but I don’t want to commit to darning your stinky, unwashed-for-weeks socks.”

  He pulls a what do you take me for face as we make our way to the dartboard in the corner of the bar. “Please. I have a laundry service. I’d never ask for a favor that lame. And to ease your mind, why don’t you tell me some of your off-limits favors?”

  I tap my chin, exhaling deeply. “For starters, I won’t mow your lawn.”

  “Totally understandable.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “Also, since I live in the Village, I don’t have a lawn.”

  “How convenient.” I snag several darts from a table, and he takes some too. I point one at him. “Here’s another favor on my no-go list. I won’t grab a mattress on the street that says ‘free’ and help you drag it into your apartment.”

  He sets a hand on his heart. “I promise I will never ever ask you to haul any nasty, disgusting, bedbug-infested object from the curb into my home.”

  I go full Alexis from Schitt’s Creek, making a cute little aww sound, then tap-dance my fingers up his chest. “You are, like, the sweetest guy ever.”

  His eyes drop to my hand on his pecs. For a few seconds, his gaze seems to match mine. There’s a tiny flare of heat in it, but then it disappears so quickly I think I’ve imagined it.

  I yank my hand away like I can erase that minuscule touch.

  He clears his throat. “Continue. What are your other favor deal-breakers?”

  “I won’t be your Scrabble partner. I know that’s hipness sacrilege when retro board games are the height of cool, but Scrabble bores me.”

  “Ouch. Does that apply to Words with Friends too?”

  “Obviously. Both suck.”

  He exhales forlornly. “As a Words with Friends lover, that line in the sand hurts. But I’ll take it on the chin. And I’ll offer you this final proviso too. If you don’t like the favor once I tell you, you can trade it in for a karaoke song of my choice.”

  “So I have nothing to lose except being subjected to Rush’s ‘Tom Sawyer’? Earworm of all earworms. All right. I’ll accept your wager.” I offer a hand for shaking.

  He takes it. “Smart woman. But that is not my favorite song.”

  I smirk. “I guess we’ll never know what your favorite is, since I’m going to crush this game.” I give a playful shimmy of my hips as I flash him a let’s do this smile.

  Treating Ransom like I would one of the other guys makes it easier to deal with that cocky grin, those see-inside-me eyes, and that sculpted-by-the-NHL body.

  Ransom is a pal is a pal is a pal.

  With our wager in place, I take aim with a dart and let it fly toward the board. I wince in frustration when it barely grazes the outer ring, the sharp point stabbing the edge.

  “You know the goal is that bull’s-eye in the middle, right?” Ransom asks dryly.

  “Gee, thanks. Appreciate the tip.”

  “I’m helpful like that.” He takes his turn, firing a dart straight down the line and notching it squarely in the center.

  He smirks.

  After a whistle of appreciation, I say, “That was beautiful, and I hate you.”

  I fire the next dart. It scrapes the edge of the board and falls listlessly to the floor with a sad thump.

  “Oh, bummer for you,” Ransom says, not bummed in the least.

  I roll my eyes and pick up the little weapon. “There is still time for me to stage a comeback.”

  We fire away a few more rounds until he easily wins the game, then I cross my arms and tap my toe. “Fine. You won. I guess I’ll have to take you shopping for your sister’s birthday, since I bet you detest shopping. That’s the favor, right?”

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “I don’t hate shopping. And that’s not the favor.”

  “We’ll hit the boutiques tomorrow morning at nine just for fun, then.” I wiggle my fingers. “For now, tell me what you want.”

  He licks his lips, drags a hand through that thick, dark hair I bet is as soft as a silky cat’s, then exhales like he’s prepping to dig down deep. “Do you happen to know anyone who’s a sucker for animal charities and who also maybe likes to help people too?”

  “Hey. Don’t call me a sucker,” I say, but I’m smiling because he knows there is only one answer to his question. I do know someone. I am that someone.

  “My bad. Wrong word.” He pats his chest. “Someone who’s a total pushover like me.”

  “You’re forgiven. And yes, I might know someone who fits the bill.”

  “Good. Because I have a charitable proposition for you.”

  “Don’t keep me in
suspense.” I’m jazzed now, excited in a whole new way. This is my passion—I work to give.

  Because I don’t have to work.

  Which, on paper, sounds awesome. But, in reality, the reasons for it hurt like hell.

  “The annual player’s charity auction is this weekend,” he explains. “The one for all the sports teams in New York.”

  That piques my interest. I’d followed the auction last year on Twitter because the pics set my social media feed aflame. Well, they were of hot athletes in suits and tuxes. Who doesn’t need a fire extinguisher with all the sparks lit by that imagery? “The one where players pick different causes and compete to raise money for them?”

  “Yup. So, all sorts of organizations benefit. Wounded Warriors, first responders, recycling programs, animal rescues, and, of course, my personal favorite—companion dogs,” he says.

  I smile. “I didn’t know that was your favorite.” I’m curious why, but don’t want to get sidetracked when I’m dying to know what he’s getting at and where my favor comes in.

  “So, in addition to the event funding some great causes, I’ve got a little bet going with some of the Yankees. Whichever team brings in the most for their charity, the other has to match the total donation to the winner’s organization.” The opening beats of “Love Shack” float over the bar from the stage. Sounds like Oliver singing. “That’s some serious extra incentive to come out on top,” Ransom says.

  “If it means more money for charity, I’m not going to knock any weirdly competitive bets among friends.”

  “Frenemies,” he corrects.

  I arch a brow. “Sounds more like you’re friends who compete with each other, but sure, I’ll call you frenemies if you want me to,” I say playfully. “Especially since we’re talking about matching donations, which are awesome, generally. Even better if they stoke your competitive spirit.”

  “Yeah, it doesn’t take much to fan those flames.”

  “This all sounds amazing,” I say, but I furrow my brow because I’m not sure where I fit in this scenario, though I think I can make a good guess.

  I give away a lot of money from my parents’ foundation to worthy causes. This year, I’m aiming to hit a certain number, and as long as the board of trustees—led by Nancy—approves my donations, I’m close to the mark. I’m assuming Ransom wants me to pony up. Since the causes he rattled off are ones the board usually signs off on, I suspect it’ll be an easy yes. “So, you want me to make a matching donation too?”

  He gives me that smile. The one he knows how to fling in a woman’s direction to get her to say yes. The one that’s both warm and sexy at the same time, all curved lips and a hint of a dimple—as if his polished looks, fiery humor, and calendar-worthy physique weren’t devastating enough.

  Just add in a dimple to make him irresistible. That’s fair.

  “Sort of,” he answers. When he glances down, a tiny bit shy, a flop of dark hair brushes his forehead. He runs a hand through it, pushing it back. What a lucky hand. “But I was actually hoping you’d want to bid on me in the player’s auction.”

  I stare at him as the “Love Shack” refrain from the stage echoes in our corner of the bar.

  Did he just say what I think he said?

  Glitter on the highway indeed.

  “Bid on you?” I point at the hunk in front of me, making sure I understand the scope of this favor. “In the auction with the players from all the pro teams?”

  “Yes. I’ll cover the cost,” he adds.

  Ah, that makes more sense.

  This is a business deal.

  And that’s just fine. Completely, totally fine.

  I squash that tiny smidge of hope wishing for more because I don’t want more, I don’t want more, I don’t want more.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  A smile and shrug come my way. “I’m going for the big kahuna. The player’s auction draws the most attention, the biggest donations. If you bid on me, I can make sure I go for the amount I want to give away, know what I mean?”

  Ah. The light illuminates the whole room. “You want to rig the auction?”

  He volleys me another grin, one that says But it’s cool because it’s more money for charity. “Yes, but I’m giving it all away, and it’s my money, so who cares if I’m running up the number?”

  Raising my hands, I shake my head. “Not me. I don’t care that you’re running up the number. It’s pretty clever actually, enlisting a partner in crime.”

  “Thank you.” His winning smile spreads wider. “We’ll make arrangements in advance. The amount. How high to go. But yeah, I want to win for many reasons. One, because I want to raise the most. And two, bragging rights with my frenemies.”

  I sketch air quotes. “Your ‘frenemies.’ Of course.”

  He laughs. “I swear they’re frenemies, not friends.”

  “It’s a fine line. But in any case, you came to the right cohort. I’m totally cool being Brad and George lining up a little flimflam.” If he wants to go all Ocean’s Eleven, recruiting his team of one to pull off a caper for charity, I’m game.

  With his money.

  A beautiful reverse heist to make sure he gives away the most.

  “What could go wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say with a bright, legitimate smile. This sounds like a hell of a good time. But my brain hangs on a detail. “What about the prize I’d be bidding on though? The date with you. Would you forego that?”

  An unexpected coil of tension winds tightly through my body as I wait for his answer. I want to cross my fingers, since I’m hoping—really hoping—that he says no, he wouldn’t want to skip it.

  Which is dumb. Because I can’t date him.

  I just want to know the score.

  He scratches his jaw. “Well, considering it’s the Win a Date with a Player auction, and the teams’ PR people post publicity photos, yeah, the prize would be . . . a real date. So we’d go on a real date, presumably. Dinner, dancing, a carriage ride.”

  I pretend to retch.

  He cracks up. “Yes, I know you hate carriage rides.”

  “Because I love horses, and I don’t believe for a second they want to pull carriages in the park. Maybe we could go for a trail ride instead.”

  “Consider it done, pardner,” he says, all cowboy and southern sexy.

  “So,” he continues, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He seems oddly nervous. Nerves aren’t something I associate with Ransom North, so I’m not sure what to make of them. “What do you say?”

  Our friends have been trying to smash our faces together for months, and we’ve resisted like magnets. Yet, if I bid enough, we’ll go on that date they’ve wanted after all.

  But it’s not a face-smashing date.

  It’s a date for a cause.

  Lingering lust for the man aside, it’s a date that could help me achieve my goals.

  I’d be honoring my father’s final wishes.

  Helping to promote the value of giving.

  I can do that with a picture that’d spread a thousand words.

  As a social media strategist for a dating and relationship site, I know how powerful photos on social media can be. Shots from a charity event like this, with a sports star of his stature, can absolutely raise awareness for a good cause.

  That’s what I vowed to do with my parents’ money.

  That’s what I want more than anything.

  To keep up their philanthropy after their deaths.

  And now, as I roam my gaze over the stud in front of me, he’s part of that good work.

  I shove all my desire for him under the carpet. This is about friendship and goals.

  For both of us.

  The date is simply a detail.

  “You don’t have to pay my share. I’ll do it.”

  3

  Teagan

  He stares like I’ve announced I want to fly to Mars for vacation, camp out and eat Skittles on the red planet, then hop
an interplanetary jet home.

  “Don’t be silly, King.”

  I cross my arms, holding my ground. “It’s not silly. I want to. Also, hello? I need to. The King Family Foundation and all.” My voice goes steely, as it sometimes does when I say that name, when I remember all that legacy encompasses.

  “I know,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. “But I would never ask you for a donation. That’s just wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong. It’s literally what I do.” I give a little foot stomp for emphasis.

  He sets a hand on my arm, a tender sort of touch that surprises me. He’s been touchier than usual tonight. Maybe I have too. “You’d be doing me a favor by bidding on me. I want to win for pride and for the cause,” he says. “But no way am I asking you to pay for the date. That’s not fair.”

  “North, here’s the deal. Assuming I get board approval for the donation, I’m splitting the price tag with you. That’s just how it’s going to be. I want to pay for it. I want you to hit that goal, and I want our date to be covered on social media because that’ll raise the profile of the foundation, as well as awareness of the work we’re doing for companion dogs. So, that’s my offer.” I tap my toe, a move that’s not terribly foreboding in pink Chuck Taylors, but so it goes. “What say you?”

  He lets out a long stream of air, rubs a hand across his chin, then says, “You are ferocious in every single battle, King.”

  “Yes, and there is no zombie-laughter mulligan here.”

  “All right. Let’s do this.”

  “Let’s do it,” I echo, then I nod to the stage, where Bryn and Logan are crooning “Hooked on a Feeling.” So perfect for the two of them. It’s their theme song, those lovebirds. “I think this calls for a song. And you get to pick which one,” I say, tapping his shoulder.

  “I won, so I picked the favor,” he points out.

  “I’m feeling generous. Pick the song too, North.”

  “If you insist.”

  His eyes sparkle with a glint that says he has something up his sleeve. We head to the stage, and when Bryn and Logan finish, Ransom scrolls through the song options on the screen, winks at me as he selects one, then hands me the mic.