Two a day, p.18
Two a Day, page 18
I raise the mallet to pound one of the critters, but I don’t see Drew.
Where did he go?
When I spin around, mallet in hand, I gasp.
He’s on one knee, a velvet box in his hand, his hazel eyes flickering with vulnerability and hope.
Is this real?
My heart thunders. My bones sing.
Yes, this is so damn real I’m trembling with happiness already.
“Brooke Holland, I love playing games with you every day and every night,” he says, his tone solemn and full of tenderness too. I’ll remember the way he sounds right now always. “You challenge me, you make me a better man, and you make me so damn happy.”
“You make me so happy too,” I say, my voice breaking with joy.
“Will you be my wife?”
My heart climbs up my throat as I nod over and over, and I just can’t stop. “Yes, yes, yes. I would love to marry you.”
When he flicks open the box, a brilliant diamond shines brightly at me as the moon glows on the stone. “It’s perfect for you,” he says reverently.
I sink to the ground as he slides it on my finger. “You’re perfect for me,” I say, emotions overflowing.
He cups my cheeks, kisses my lips, then smiles—that blinding smile that caught my eye the day I met him. That holds my attention every morning and every night.
Then he says, “I guess some guys do have all the luck.”
Gabe’s epilogue
* * *
I still can’t believe the shit that just went down with my ex. Hours later, out with my buddies playing poker, and I’m reeling a little bit in shock. But I’m damn grateful too that it’s all over, even in spite of that awful ending.
I shudder involuntarily at the memory of the way my ex stormed out of my home a few weeks ago, the horrible things she said. No — shouted. For my whole building to hear.
Then, as Drew asks if I’m all in on this hand, I shake off the memory. Screw exes. “I’m definitely in,” I say, then slide another chip into the pile on the table at The Happiest Hours, a bar in Venice — home of my so-called Free At Last party the guys are throwing me.
While we toast to moving on, I vow to focus on my one true love — football. This is my last year in the NFL and I don’t need anything keeping me company but the game.
I clink glasses with the guys, and as Drew shuffles the deck to deal the next round, my gaze strays to the window where a sexy-as-sin brunette chats on the phone as she walks a little dog down the street.
The woman’s got a swing in her hips and a pouty fullness to her lips. She looks like a piece of candy, all effortlessly delicious in tight jean shorts, cut off and raggedy sexy, and a purple halter top that shows off her pierced belly. I’d like to peel that top off her, lick a path between her tits and down her stomach, then tug on her belly ring with my teeth.
Even though I totally shouldn’t be thinking about that.
As I stare unabashedly a little longer, she starts to look damn familiar.
She reminds me vaguely of picnics, barbecues, Thanksgivings. Then, a Christmas party. A moment under the mistletoe, maybe.
Wait.
Hold the hell on.
Is that…?
No fucking way.
Another memory flashes before me of Ellie Snow. One of the times I babysat her.
THE END
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* * *
Harlow…
I move closer, jutting out a hip against the side of his desk.
Like he’s fighting not to but can’t resist, his eyes travel up and down my legs. Good thing I like wearing skirts as much as he likes looking at my legs. “Did Carlos get you that intro? To Fontaine?” I ask, prompting him.
“He’s still working on it.”
I smile, but it’s a small one so I don’t let on how thrilled I am that Carlos hasn’t quite come through. “Then, what are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask.
For a second, he startles. I’ve surprised him. Good. He’s the most pliable when he’s off-kilter. “I’m working,” he answers.
I shake my head, then pop up on his desk, perching my butt on the edge. “No, we’re going to the Petra gallery. There’s an exhibit. Allison Fontaine is a silent partner in the gallery.”
It’s like watching a sunrise, the way his smile spreads, slow and unstoppable. “You’re too indispensable,” he says, like he’s amazed with me.
Good. I want to amaze him.
“I got us on the VIP list,” I add.
“You did?”
“I did.”
“You’re incredible.”
I go for the kill. Crossing my legs. Leaning a little closer. “I wanted to do this for you.”
His breath comes in a staggered breath. “Harlow,” he says, a low warning.
“We can go together,” I say, pushing more. I’m not letting this chance pass me by.
“Together?” He asks, like he’s never heard the word, never uttered it.
I slide my palm further across his desk. I’m at a sharper angle now. The kind that shows off hips, and curves, and breasts. All the places he wants to touch me. “Yes, like a date,” I say, and I should be nervous.
But I’m not. I’ve been working up to this moment for more than three years. I’m simply ready for my gift.
“This is a bad idea,” he warns.
He’s wrong. It’s not a bad idea at all. “Are you sure about that?”
Another harsh breath. His eyes close. The man is at war. Well, some men need to chase. I sit up, hop off the desk, head to the door.
The wheels of his chair squeak.
In no time, he’s up too, grabbing my wrist, yanking me around, and jerking me against him.
My wrist tingles. My body sings.
He glares at me, fire in his eyes. “You have done nothing but tempt me for the last two weeks,” he hisses.
An accusation. And also the truth.
“Good,” I whisper, in a taunt.
“Why the fuck are you tempting me?” He bites it out, but it’s not a question for me. It’s for the universe. It’s rhetorical.
Portrait of a man breaking. It’s happening. Before my very eyes. This is art, and I love it.
My pulse beats wildly fast.
But I’ve been patient. I’ve waited for my chance. I stay patient.
He will bend. He will break. “Am I, Bridger? Am I that tempting?” I ask.
And I wait for his reply…
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WORTH THE RISK
A Patrick and Cara Epilogue
Chapter One
Patrick
* * *
You think you’ve got it together. That you can give your buddy hell about anything and everything. That you’re too cool to be affected by things like crushes, and then whammo.
You see a woman who takes your breath away.
When I walk into the movie theater, I try not to gawk at the gorgeous blonde at the popcorn counter.
I’m sure I’m failing.
I have to be failing.
But fuck it.
I’ll fail.
Her jeans celebrate her legs like they were made to praise her figure. Her V-neck blouse dips dangerously low over the curve of her breasts but not low enough all at the same time. Her rosebud lips are divinely kissable, and maybe I’m having a religious experience because I want to worship at the altar of her body all night long and into the next day too.
Then her eyes meet mine and fuck it. I’m a goner.
Consider me officially in a state of crush.
Finally, I turn my attention back to my friend, but it seems he’s also been converted to the Church of Babeism. Drew’s gaze has snagged on the woman in the pink dress—the one who posed by the banner with him at the meet and greet. She smiles at him.
“Hey, Adams,” Brooke says to my buddy. “Good to see you.”
“And you too,” he says. But I’m staring stupidly at the other woman. Fortunately, I should be looking at her since Brooke is introducing her. “This is my sister, Cara.”
And the pretty blonde with the button nose shoots me a you’re busted look. “And you two must be the guys planning clown pranks,” she says.
I desperately try to think of something witty to say, but I’m pretty sure I was giving Drew hell about a movie. Oh, and plotting clown pranks. Well, he was planning to send one to get me, and now this woman is going to know I am fucking afraid of clowns. Real cool, Patrick.
But I go with it. I use…yup…clowns as an opening line. I adopt a serious look. “For the record, I am vehemently opposed to clown pranks. And to clowns.”
She hums in understanding. “I get that. Completely.”
“Well, clearly this was meant to be,” I say, hoping to make the best of our clown fear. “I believe we just clown bonded.”
She laughs. “Yes. It’s totally a thing. Tell me more about your least-favorite clowns.”
“The ones with red hair. Big noses and huge feet,” I say, moving next to her at the counter.
She clasps her chest. “Those are my least favorite too.”
Cara laughs, then says to Drew and me, “Are you two clowns heading to see Fake Play?”
Oh, hell yes. Thank you, fate. “We are.” We’ve already clown bonded. Time to seize this chance. “Would you like to sit together? In case there are clowns or anything in the flick, we can support each other through it.”
Cara sets a hand on her chest. “I was really worried about clowns in the movie, so that’d be great.”
She turns to Brooke, asking if she’s okay with it, and when she says yes, I buy two popcorns.
As Brooke and Drew catch up, I ask Cara if she’s seen Fake Play before.
“It’s my sister’s favorite, so she’s forced me to watch it a few times.”
“It’s not your thing?”
“I like it…” she says, hedging.
“But?”
She looks guilty. “I’m a secret documentary geek.”
Shut the front door. This is too much. Too perfect. “Me too.”
She scoffs. “No way.”
“You doubt me now?”
“I mean, what are the chances we both like documentaries, and dislike clowns?”
“True, true. Those are just signs of good taste. We won’t know unless we put this documentary like to the test. I might like military documentaries and you might like nature ones, and where would we be then?”
She gasps. “You’re right. It’s the documentary quandary.” She shoots me a flirty look. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
All sorts of dirty things I want her to tell me flit through my head, but they’re far too X-rated for a documentary conversation. “Animals,” I reply instead, naming one of my favorite kinds of documentaries.
She laughs with sheer delight, it seems. “Who doesn’t like animal documentaries?”
“People with no soul.” I shudder.
“And, for the record, my favorite kind of documentary—aside from the animal features—are the really twisty news-style ones.”
And this seems like the best beginning in the history of meeting women ever because, “Me too,” I say. “Have you seen F Boys And Girls?” I ask, referencing a recent Webflix special about a group of reality show stars who conned a long line of networks to get on their shows.
“Yes!” she says, her eyes widening. “It was guilty but addictive viewing.”
I lean closer, catch a drift of her honeysuckle scent. “I couldn’t agree more,” I say, only my voice comes out a little rough, a little gravelly, and I don’t even care if Drew hears and gives me shit about it later because I’m having too much goddamn fun.
“No clowns and the very specific twisty news documentaries,” Cara says, tilting her head toward me as we head toward our seats. “Sounds like we’re a match made in movie heaven.”
And she doesn’t need to tell me twice.
The four of us sit, with Cara next to me, chatting about some of our other favorite documentaries as the trailers roll on the screen. Then the lights dim, and the movie begins.
I was giving Drew a hard time about the flick. Yes, he’s the hardcore movie fan, but truly it’s not bad, especially when the hero realizes he’s been into the heroine all along.
I just met Cara, so it doesn’t feel like a mirror into my life, but what does match my emotions is the hero’s decision to go for it.
That’s how I feel.
Normally I don’t dive into romance or dates. I’m cautious. I research, like I do with investments.
But sometimes you just feel chemistry. Sometimes you have so much in common with someone that it’s worth taking a chance on them, even if it means risking heartbreak on the other side.
So after the movie ends and we’re all on Ocean Avenue, I say, “Want to grab a beer? Shave ice? Smoothie?”
The question is for everyone, since I don’t want to be rude, but truly, I hope Cara’s game.
She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling like she’s just as excited as I am to keep up this unexpectedly fantastic impromptu date. “Definitely.”
But Brooke yawns, and my chest tightens.
“It’s past your bedtime,” Cara jumps in, teasing. “It’s already nine.”
“Yes, someone has been working early and late,” Brooke says, with another yawn. “But I don’t mind if you want to stay.”
“I’ll drive you home,” Cara says, and my heart takes a little don’t go nosedive even though I like that she’s taking care of her sister.
“I’ll drive you, Brooke,” my buddy steps in to save the day, and I should never have played with his text messages that time because the man is clearly a saint.
As Cara and Brooke say goodbye, Drew claps me on the back. “Have fun, buddy. And don’t forget to tell her I win the prank wars.”
“Yeah, that’ll be our topic of conversation for sure,” I reply, because I just can’t help needling him one last time.
As Brooke and Drew walk toward his car, I gesture toward the smoothie store on the corner, its bright lights spilling out onto the sidewalk. “Smoothies are calling our names.”
“Is it the berries calling to you? Do you prefer banana? Pineapple?” she asks as we walk.
“All of the above,” I reply. “I’m smoothie-omnivorous.”
She clasps a hand dramatically to her chest. “I’m a mango or bust gal.” She faux shudders. “And here I thought we had everything in common.”
“Ah, but it’s good to be different in some ways,” I reply, laughing at her antics. “Like work, for example. I can’t imagine you’re a financial advisor too?”
“No,” she replies as we stop in front of the store. “I’m studying to be a special ed teacher.”
“Wow,” I reply, impressed. “What made you choose that?”
She shrugs, her eyes turning serious for a beat. “I had great teachers myself and I always wanted to teach. It was as simple as that.”
“You’re pretty amazing. You know that, right?” I ask, a little gentle, a lot intrigued.
She looks up at me. Tension crackles in the air between us. My eyes are drawn to her lips, those rosebuds tempting me, taunting me. She darts her tongue out, leaves them glistening, and I ache to do the same.
But she suddenly looks down, turns back to the store. “Want to order?” she asks, and the moment evaporates as we head to the counter and order our drinks.
A few minutes later, we’re back on the street, the beach to our left, the city to our right. The scent of the ocean fills my lungs as she asks me about my job, and I tell her about the investments I make and how I research, research, research to ensure I’m prepared for whatever scenario may arise in the rapidly fluctuating market.
“That’s another thing we have in common. This right here?” Cara taps her purse as we walk past a group of people singing Drew’s team’s song. “I’ve got Band-Aids. Tissues. Ibuprofen. I like to be prepared too.”
I grin and gesture to the sandy shores beside us. “And what about the beach? Do you happen to like moonlit walks along the beach as well?”
“What a coincidence. I do.” She laughs and her hand glances over my arm, and goddamn, one simple touch shouldn’t affect me so much, but it does.
We walk past couples holding hands, couples with their arms around each other, couples, couples, couples, and it seems only too natural to say, “Do you know what else I like, Cara?”
She stops walking, glances up at me from under her impossibly long lashes. “Tell me.”
“You,” I say simply.
Pink colors her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “Looks like that’s another thing we have in common then,” she replies on a whisper, and fuck it. I know I should spend more time getting to know her, doing my research, but maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong in the past. Maybe this—acting on a newfound crush—is the way that’s right.
She licks her lower lip, and I don’t miss the moment this time. I cup her jaw, my hand gliding over her soft skin, and lean in to place a gentle kiss on her lips. Her hands wrap around my waist as she sort of sighs into my mouth, like this moment is just too perfect, too much.
