Flirting with the Frenemy

by Grant, Pippa

  “He saved her life, you jackass,” Jason snaps, approaching quickly from the other side of the long table.

  “Quit fighting,” she rasps out. “And hand me a drink.”

  Adrenaline belatedly makes my veins fizz. My legs wobble while Wyatt quietly steps away from the Dixons and returns the long way to our table.

  “My dad’s a hero,” Tucker whispers.

  “You’re damn right,” Monica says softly, her voice thick too.

  Her mother’s fanning her face, eyes bright like she’s fighting back tears. “Lordy goodness,” she murmurs. “That was scary as all dickens.”

  Tucker’s eyes are huge, borderline scared, and I reach across the table to squeeze his little hand. “Hey. It’s okay.”

  “Did she die?”

  “No, sweetie. She’s okay.”

  He glances at his plate, full of hot dog octopi and big chunks of fruit and cookies. Then back at all the grown-ups fussing and panicking belatedly at the next table.

  “Just chew it good,” I tell him.

  He nods and gives me a brave smile, and I suddenly don’t know how I could do it.

  How do you protect someone you love so much from ever getting hurt? Or let them hurt when they have to?

  How do you survive it?

  My respect for Wyatt is growing by the second.

  Parenthood isn’t for the weak.

  Monica heads to help Jason, and her mom sinks back to her seat, but I watch Wyatt casually walk past two families at the end of the rows of tables, all gaping at him like he’s the hero Tucker knows him to be, while he keeps his head down, hands in his pockets.

  He doesn’t look up until he’s back in his seat next to Tucker, and then, his focus is all on his son. “Ah-ah, I saw that. Fruit swords before treasure cookies.”

  Tucker grins, his fear fading with Wyatt beside him again. “Good job, Dad.”

  I could probably explain what I do next, but I don’t want to.

  Let’s just say it ends with me bending across the table, grabbing Wyatt by the cheeks, and planting a kiss worthy of a hero on his lips.

  And there might’ve been some belated applause.

  For him being a hero, I mean.

  Not for me kissing him.

  Because that would be ridiculous.

  And dangerous.

  But two hours later, I’m grateful to be safe and sound back in Beck’s house. No deer or foxes or wolves darted in front of my car, and clearly they didn’t get Wyatt either, since he pulls up right behind me.

  Neither of us has said another word about Mrs. Dixon choking.

  Or about me kissing the stuffing out of him.

  And I’m not planning on mentioning it.

  Especially the kissing part.

  Until I walk through the basement door from the garage and realize there’s a huge water stain over the bar. “What—” I start, and then I know.

  “The dishwasher,” Wyatt and I say in unison.

  “I started it before we left.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Davis probably didn’t notice.”

  I just gape at him and continue to point at the ceiling.

  “I know, I know,” he sighs. “I’ll go get towels.”

  I should argue that I’ll clean it up. That this is my fault for kissing him. But I know he’ll insist on helping, and then we’ll be within looking distance of each other, and I’m really, really starting to be convinced that we probably shouldn’t ever even live in the same town. “I’m going to bed. And I’m locking the door,” I inform him.

  He smirks. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Dad, can I watch baseball?” Tucker asks through a yawn.

  I don’t wait to hear his answer, because I’m already starting to get attached to both of them.

  The universe is being a real dick.

  Or maybe I need to quit looking for what’s easy—like Wyatt just landing in my lap this week—and actually figure out what I want to do about getting my life back on track.

  He was right this morning.

  The doctors didn’t know if they’d be able to repair my hip and leg enough for me to ever walk again.

  But here I am. Limping my stiff self up the stairs.

  I am going to be physically fine again.

  It’s time to figure out what the rest of me needs.

  Nineteen

  Wyatt

  The things I do for my friends.

  When Beck asked me to irritate Ellie, I had a vague idea what I was in for. A prickly porcupine sniping at me? Yep, because I knew just how to poke it. Glares hot enough to melt iron? Wouldn’t have her any other way.

  That uncomfortable feeling in my dick every time I thought of her naked?

  Can’t say I haven’t been dealing with that anyway these past six months, when I wasn’t letting the guilt seep in.

  Getting my toes done with Tucker, Ellie, Monica, Jason, the Blond Caveman, Sloane, and the mothers of the happy couple? At the Yo Ho Ho Spa?

  Didn’t even cross my mind.

  But here I am, in a fancy-ass massage chair with one foot soaking in a tub of flowery-scented water while a woman I’ve never met buffs, slathers, rubs, and does all kinds of weird shit to the other.

  Tucker erupts in giggles every time his pedicurist tries to touch his feet, so she’s given up and is letting him suck on a pirate lollipop and just soak his toes in the bubbly spa water.

  “Smile, honey,” Ellie says from her seat on the other side, holding up her phone to get a selfie of the three of us.

  I glare at her.

  She smiles bigger.

  Tucker laughs.

  “Beck gets this done all the time,” she tells me.

  “He also parades around in his skivvies. Are you texting this to him? I will…” I wiggle my brows at her, a clear threat to kiss her, or touch her, or cause some other disaster to befall us “…if you text that picture to anyone. Or post it on social media. Or do anything other than delete it.”

  Her brows twitch like her face is battling between scowling at me and giving me the I dare you look.

  “It takes a man very secure in his masculinity to get his toes done,” Monica calls to me from her seat in a massage chair on the opposite wall.

  The Blond Caveman has his nose tucked inside a financial magazine and ignores her.

  Jason grins at me. “She’s right, you know.”

  “Oh, hush. Wyatt has no issues with his masculinity,” Ellie says. “You should’ve seen him mopping the floor of the kitchen last night.”

  “You should’ve seen us mopping the floor,” I tell her.

  “I was a big helper,” Tucker says proudly. “I mopped buckets full.”

  Monica sends a quizzical glance at Ellie.

  “Dishwasher flooded,” Ellie explains.

  “Well, thank god it was Beck’s house,” Monica says.

  I choke on a laugh, because that, at least, is the truth. I texted him a picture and told him Ellie and I got carried away doing the dishes.

  He replied with a picture of his middle finger, and his assistant pinged me two minutes later to say that she’d scheduled a drywaller to come in and repair the water damage next week, and to enjoy washing dishes by hand in the meantime since the earliest she could get a new dishwasher was five to seven days.

  This morning, I woke up to a message from him that he couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend for his sister, except maybe Levi, because his ass is nicer than mine.

  I haven’t told Ellie, because we’ll sort that all out after the wedding’s over, when she doesn’t need me to play this role anymore.

  Fuck, I hope I don’t lose a friend over this.

  But if I do, I probably didn’t deserve him as long as I had him anyway.

  “Want me to paint pirate flags on your toes?” my foot lady asks.

  Ellie dissolves in a fit of laughter.

  “You don’t have to get nail polish,” Monica tells me with a grin.

  “Yeah,” I tell the lady. “Pirate
flags.”

  Ellie laughs so hard she has a coughing fit that ends with her gasping and rubbing her leg, but she’s still smiling, so there’s that. Her foot lady has to stop. Jason gives me a thumbs up. The Blond Caveman rolls his eyes behind his magazine, which he’s not using very effectively to block his face.

  When we’re done, I have pirate flags on my two big toes, and I look like an idiot, but I don’t really care. Tucker thinks it’s awesome and begs me to take a picture to send to his mom.

  I oblige while I’m waiting to pay, and when I get to the front, the cashier smiles. “Mother of the groom took care of you, your son, and your girlfriend. Go show off those pretty toes, and come back and see us again!”

  Outside, Mrs. Dixon is speed-walking toward the hotel at the end of the street. Jason and Monica and her mom are talking to Ellie and Sloane while the Blond Caveman makes a phone call.

  I stop next to Jason. “Your mom didn’t have to pay for us.”

  “It’s the only way she’ll say thank you.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it or she’ll get bitchy again. We’re heading to the food trucks on the square. You guys coming?”

  “Wyatt promised Tucker another trip to the water park,” Ellie answers for us. “They’ll catch up with us later.”

  “You want to go with them?” Monica asks. “We’re just going to be walking and stuffing our faces and badgering Patrick into wearing a pirate hat and an eye patch. You’ll have more fun at the water park.”

  “I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”

  “I have six.”

  “Monica.”

  “Oh, hush. Don’t give me that I’m here for the bride stuff. When’s the last time you went down a water slide?”

  “I can’t—”

  “And the lazy river? You love the lazy river.”

  “Babe, you love the lazy river,” Jason says. “Let’s all go.”

  “Yeah!” Tucker cheers.

  Ellie tries to send Monica another meaningful look, but it’s completely lost on the bride.

  “Nobody cares about your scar,” I tell her quietly.

  “I care,” she mutters.

  I study her a minute.

  She’s not meeting my gaze, and her cheeks are going pink.

  She’s soaked in the tub at least three nights this week, so I know the water itself isn’t the issue.

  It’s the swimsuit.

  “Give me thirty minutes,” I tell her.

  Her brows furrow. “For what?”

  “A solution. C’mon, Tucker. We’ve got a job to do.”

  “You’re not bailing on us, are you?” Monica asks.

  “Nope. Meet you there. Make sure Ellie’s with you.”

  I don’t know if my idea’s even possible, but it’s worth a try. And if there’s anywhere that can pull it off, it’s Shipwreck.

  Twenty

  Ellie

  I am in severe like with Wyatt Morgan.

  The man found me scuba shorts.

  He activated Shipwreck’s gossip network and found me scuba shorts that cover me down to the knee, completely hiding my scars.

  We spend the entire afternoon at the water park, destroying our pedicures, Jason and Wyatt trying to out-cannonball each other, floating around on the lazy river, helping Tucker learn to swim, laughing as he climbs through the two-story pirate adventure sky fort with its water cannons and dodges the water that dumps out of the giant bucket on top, and soaking up the gorgeous afternoon sunshine.

  I bypass the water slides, but Tucker and Wyatt go down them a million times.

  Monica declares it naptime around five and gives me a gentle push toward Wyatt’s car. “Go home. Jason and I are having a pizza-in-the-room night and leaving the families to fend for themselves. We’ll see you for the rehearsal in the morning, okay?”

  “Not The Grog?” We missed it last night with all the worry over Mrs. Dixon almost choking.

  “Oh my god, Ellie, I am so tired,” she says with a laugh. “Besides, I think Jason’s feeling neglected.”

  “If you need anything—”

  “My mom’s here. And you know all I have to do is lift a finger and any of the Rock family will be right on it.”

  “C’mon, Ellie,” Wyatt says. He waves at somebody on a bike, and the rider slows as he approaches, a double-handled plastic bag dangling from the handlebars. “Train’s leaving in three minutes.”

  “Mr. Morgan?” the kid on the bike says.

  “Yep.” Wyatt hands him a couple twenties, and the kid hands over the bag.

  “Is that fried chicken?” I ask, sniffing the air.

  “And potato salad, french fries, banana pudding, and a funnel cake. Ordered it all from the food trucks.”

  “Jason, I’m sorry, I’m marrying Wyatt tomorrow instead,” Monica announces.

  “Shut your mouth, he’s mine,” I retort without thinking.

  She grins at me, and I feel my cheeks heat up.

  And not because of all the sun this afternoon.

  “Girls are weird,” Tucker announces. “I’m never getting married. Except maybe to my sister if I ever have one. Can I have a sister?”

  For once, Wyatt seems to be speechless.

  “You should ask Santa for a sister,” I tell Tucker while I herd him into Wyatt’s SUV. “Sisters are the best. I know, because I am one.”

  “Sisters are annoying,” Wyatt corrects.

  “He’s just jealous because he never had one,” I whisper to Tucker, who giggles while he pulls his seat belt over his booster seat. “Sisters are totally awesome.”

  Tucker loops his arms around my neck and hugs me tight, and surprised, I hug him back.

  “You’re awesome, Miss Captain Ellie.”

  “Not as awesome as you.”

  We make it back to Beck’s house without incident and dive into the food like we haven’t eaten in a week. Tucker tries two bites of banana pudding and declares it gross.

  “Then I guess it’s my paternal duty to eat yours,” Wyatt announces.

  “Hello, we share it,” I argue.

  “He’s not your kid.”

  “Tucker, may I please have half of your banana pudding?”

  He looks between us. “It’s nice to share, Dad,” he finally whispers.

  “It really is, Dad,” I agree.

  “Bath time for you,” Wyatt tells him without answering either of us.

  But he leaves half a carton of banana pudding in the fridge when he takes Tucker upstairs.

  I clean up the dinner mess, realizing with a start that it’s been days since I cleaned up in here, yet everything’s nearly spotless anyway. Except for our small dinner mess, of course.

  Because Wyatt takes care of things.

  I’ve sometimes wondered why Beck stayed close with him. Once the guys started their boy band adventure, an entire new world opened up. Beck, Levi, Tripp, Cash, and Davis could’ve gone anywhere, done anything. They each lost a few friends along the way—money changes things—but Wyatt was the one constant outside immediate family.

  And I think I get it now.

  Just like we called Davis to fix Frogger, any one of the guys from the neighborhood could call Wyatt, and he’d have their backs. He’d do anything they needed done.

  Including keeping an eye on a sister they’re worried about.

  Once the dishes are put away, I fix myself a cup of tea—a new habit since the accident—snag my doodle pad from the bedroom and carry it out to the living room. Tucker’s crying upstairs. Wyatt’s talking to him softly, steady, calm, his deep voice reassuring me too even though I don’t realize I need reassurance, nor do I have any idea what he’s saying.

  It’s just the calming cadence of his voice.

  Nothing could be that calm and soothing if there was actually a problem. Poor kid’s probably exhausted from too much fun.

  I glance at email on my phone, decide there’s nothing that can’t wait until next week, and toss it aside to open my doodle pad instead.

&nbs
p; I doodled all the time when I was a kid, but sports, clubs, and other extra-curriculars didn’t leave me much time for it in high school or college. It wasn’t until I was forced to take two months off work for recovery this winter that I picked it up again.

  And it turns out, I realize as I flip through the pages, I had a lot of anger to work through this year.

  Dick and the Nuts was supposed to be fun, about a schlong and a pair of peanuts—no, not testicles, actual peanuts, like the legumes—who set out to take over the world despite one of the nuts being on crutches.

  Dick was supposed to be a funny, lighthearted evil genius.

  He’s actually everything I hated about Patrick by the time he broke up with me. Addicted to his job first, his phone second, his bloodline third, and everything else was just gravy. I met Patrick at a fundraiser for Jason’s company—clean water and green energy pretty much go hand-in-hand, and my parents like to send corporate dollars from Ryder Consulting toward various nonprofits every year—and I thought we shared a lot of the same passions in life.

  I don’t know if I looked at him through rose-colored glasses that first year, or if he slowly changed away from the man I thought he was when we met, but by the time this past Christmas rolled around, I was more angry that he’d kept me from meeting my goal of being married and pregnant than that he hadn’t proposed.

  I should’ve realized that meant I wanted the wrong thing out of our relationship, but it took a car accident and, honestly, this week for me to fully connect the dots.

  There’s more to life than marking off checkboxes.

  I’m smiling to myself over the Nuts—I named them Joe and Bob, because I’m creative like that—and their plan to put Dick in a trance so they can run the controls on the spaceship to blast the earth with a laser beam that’ll give everyone the giggles so they can rob all the chocolate shops they want without anyone raising an alarm, when Wyatt steps down the stairs.

  He disappears into the basement, and when he returns with an armful of sheets and the comforter for Beck’s bed, I start to get up.

  “Move one muscle, and I’m calling Beck and telling him we’re getting married.”