by Kendall Ryan
“My grandpa. But it sounds like he’ll be all right.”
Asher gives me a curious look. I realize I’ve never told anyone about my grandpa’s failing health and I’m not even sure why—like if I don’t talk about it, it won’t be real. Except that’s not true, because I mentioned it to Sara on our first date.
And that’s when it hits me with the full force of a cross-check into the Plexiglas.
Even though things with Sara have been exceptionally fun, I have to keep my eye on my goal, which is to hopefully get traded and move to be closer to Gramps. There’s no way I can be there for him when I’m over a thousand miles away.
Hell, even the kind nurse told me that in not so many words—don’t bother coming in a few days, because this latest episode will be all but forgotten by then, and we’ll probably be on to some new health scare.
Welcome to the world’s suckiest decision. Stay here in a city I love with a girl I might have a shot with, or do the right thing and go take care of the only family I have left.
It’s really not a decision at all.
14
* * *
Bridesmaid Dresses and Blog Posts
Sara
“Ballet slipper or petal pink?”
Maybe it’s just the fluorescent lighting in this bridal shop, but the two dresses Becca is holding up in front of us look nearly identical in color. Or at least they do to me.
Don’t get me wrong, they both are absolutely gorgeous, but I can’t spot a single difference between the two, even if I squint. They both have long, flowy skirts and tight bodices held up by delicate lace straps, and are both roughly the shade of a brand-new ballet slipper. Stunning. Subtle. And, if you ask me, completely the same. But she swears they are two different colors. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Becca was pulling a prank on her bridesmaids.
“Seriously, guys,” Becca says, jutting out her lower lip. “I can’t decide. Which one do you like better for your bridesmaid dresses?”
The look in her eyes is desperate and expectant as the four of us shift our gazes from one to the other. It feels like Becca is asking us to compare apples to oranges, but from what I can see, we’re comparing apples to slightly riper apples.
After a longer than comfortable silence, Elise is the first to pipe up, clearing her throat. “Um, which one is which?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God I’m not the only one who can’t tell.
“Petal pink has to be the one on the left, right?” Bailey asks, but the hesitation in her voice suggests that it’s a complete guess.
“Right,” Becca says, then scrunches her nose. “Wait, your left, right? Or my left, which is your right?”
Oh Lord. I’m getting a headache just trying to keep up. If we spend another hour of this day comparing identical pink dresses to each other, I’m going to go completely out of my mind.
“Why not flip a coin?” I say gently. “They’re both so beautiful, and we’d be happy to wear either one. But one pink versus another isn’t nearly as important as the fact that you and Owen are going to be married at the end of this, right?” I smile, trying to be helpful.
I can feel the rest of the girls hold their breath at once, waiting to see the bride’s reaction. Luckily, it’s a positive one. Her tight-lipped expression softens into a smile.
“You’re so right, Sara.” Becca laughs. “Thank God one of us can stay levelheaded during all of this, because I sure as heck can’t.”
I let out a soft sigh.
Bailey digs into her purse and emerges with a quarter between her fingers. “I’ve got a coin. Do you want to do the honors?”
Becca eyes the quarter, then returns the dresses to the rack and giddily rubs her hands together, offering one palm out to Bailey so she can hand over the coin that will decide our fates as bridesmaids.
“Heads, ballet slipper; tails, petal pink,” Becca says, then balances the quarter on her thumbnail and flips it. It bounces off of Aubree’s shoe and lands on tails.
“Petal pink it is!” Becca says, sporting a proud grin for having made a decision.
Elise laughs. “Okay, but my question still stands. Which one is that?”
All five of us erupt into giggles as we descend upon a rack of petal-pink dresses, holding up different necklines that we think will look best. As I slide hanger after hanger along the rack, I solemnly promise myself that I will skip all this nonsense on my big day and let my bridesmaids wear whatever the heck they want.
That is, if I ever have a wedding. And that’s a big if, seeing as my current relationship is nothing more than a publicity stunt. Well, a publicity stunt with some very unexpected side effects.
Our relationship may be pretend, but I haven’t had to do too much pretending around Teddy lately. Things with him have felt so natural. The last night we spent together, I don’t know if I had more fun in the bedroom or just sitting and talking with him over chips and salsa.
Sexually and emotionally, something about us just clicks. And I think Teddy feels the same way, unless I’m reading him wrong. But I am pretty perceptive. Except, I guess, when it comes to spotting the difference between petal pink and ballet slipper.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans, and when I see it’s Teddy, I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. He’s been dealing with some messy stuff with his grandfather, which I totally get, but it means we’ve been talking a little less frequently lately.
“Ooh.” Bailey giggles, wagging her eyebrows at me suggestively. “I know that smile. Somebody got a text from her man.”
“I’ll keep it quick,” I promise, stepping back from the dress rack. I don’t want to dishonor the sacredness of a girls’ day, but they all have been thoroughly filled in on Teddy’s grandpa’s situation. This could be something important.
Turns out, it is important. But not for the reason I expected.
Check it out. We made the hockey blogs.
My eyes widen as three more texts from him pop up, each one a link to a different blog featuring pictures of us leaving the rink together hand in hand. The best part? I was having a damn good hair day.
I look a little closer and can’t help but notice the way Teddy is gazing down at me. His expression is so relaxed and happy. I feel a little breathless.
This plan is totally working.
I fire off an excited response to Teddy. LaShonda is a PR genius!!! We’ll have to celebrate.
His reply comes a second later. Date tonight?
Oh.
It’s not what I was expecting, but I can’t say yes quickly enough.
Becca has to run ten miles tonight to stay on her marathon training program, so we already agreed our girls’ day would wrap up before dinner, leaving my evening totally free. Still, I’ll have to get out of here relatively quickly if I’m going to look presentable enough to be caught on camera tonight.
But when I ask him where we should go to have our best shot at being spotted by the press, his answer surprises me.
No cameras tonight. Just you and me. Want to cook dinner together? I can pick up ingredients.
A warm tingle dances across every nerve in my body. He wants to see me tonight. Not for the press, the cameras, or the big PR plan. Just me and him, cooking dinner, enjoying each other’s company. And to me, that’s better than any fancy dinner money could buy.
That sounds perfect. Your place or mine? I reply.
His answer comes a second later. Mine. See you tonight.
15
* * *
Playing House
Teddy
I’m not a very smart man.
If I were, I wouldn’t be torturing myself like this. Playing house, pretending this way with Sara . . . I know it’s not smart, but somehow it’s all I want in the world tonight.
She’s due here in twenty minutes, and I couldn’t be more excited. This is definitely the highlight of my week. After practice, a workout, and then a nap, I shopped for groceries and then showered
again to make sure all the parts I want her mouth and hot skin all over are nice and smooth.
Thankfully, my cleaning lady was here today, so I don’t have anything to clean up. My place is immaculate. My counters are now littered with the ingredients for tonight’s dinner, and I have low music playing on the surround-sound system. I check the display and see the low, moody song playing now is titled “You’re Somebody Else.” It makes me pause for a moment as my brain spins.
Right now, I wish I could be somebody else. Maybe that twenty-one-year-old guy who was reckless and impulsive—the one who did what he wanted without fear of the consequences. The one who spent a lot of time with Sara laughing and having hot, sweaty sex.
If I didn’t have to worry about what came after, I would pursue this relationship with Sara with every ounce of my being. If I didn’t have the trade or my grandpa’s health hanging over my head, I would go all in. It wouldn’t even matter that she isn’t looking for a serious relationship—I would woo and push and win her over so hard.
I take a deep breath, starting to regret telling her we’d cook. I’m so distracted by thoughts of later that I’m liable to chop off a finger or start a small kitchen fire. Takeout would have been a lot easier. Instead, I have the ingredients for steak Caesar salad.
When Sara texts me a few minutes later that she’s stepping into the elevator, I meet her in the hallway just as she’s stepping off. I cleared her with the building’s security when she agreed to become my lawyer.
“Are you wearing sweatpants?” is the first graceless thing out of my mouth. Shit. Smooth, Teddy.
Sara only laughs. “Duh. Why wouldn’t I be wearing sweatpants?”
She’s dressed in a pair of baggy gray sweatpants with the drawstring tied at her waist, and her off-the-shoulder white T-shirt is half-tucked into the front of those ridiculously comfortable-looking pants.
My eyes finally lift to hers. “That’s an excellent point.”
I invited her here to enjoy a casual night in. We both dress in suits way too often, and she has every right to be comfortable. And even though I seem to have a hard time remembering it, we’re not actually dating. This is a PR stunt to protect the interests of my team and sponsors in case I find myself in the middle of a massive scandal.
“You look nice,” she says, leaning close to give me a friendly one-armed hug.
I wrap both my arms around her and lift her feet from the floor. “So do you,” I say, finally releasing her.
“I’m supposed to believe that after you just shamed me for wearing my PJs?”
“Wasn’t shaming you, babe. You took me by surprise, is all. You’re always so buttoned up.”
“True. But it’s my night off. I wanted to be comfortable.”
I nod as she follows me inside. “As you should. Honestly, you’re a genius. Hell, I might change too.”
“You should definitely join me in comfort-town.” She nods.
It’s after this conversation that we end up in my kitchen, me dressed in a pair of black athletic pants and a black T-shirt, instead of jeans and the button-down I had on earlier.
Sara is perched on a stool at the counter, and two steaks sizzle side by side in a cast-iron skillet on the stove. I grab a bottle of champagne I’ve had chilling all afternoon and pull out the cork with a loud pop.
“What are we celebrating?” She gives me a curious look.
“Your promotion, of course.”
“I thought we celebrated that the other night.” She winks.
“Maybe I want to celebrate you all over again.”
“You’re sweet.”
Not hardly. “You worked your ass off, babe. You’re incredible.” I pour two glasses of bubbly and offer her one. “Cheers to kicking ass.”
She grins and takes a sip of the champagne. “I guess we’re both at the top of our game.”
She’s right, and it’s a stark reminder that we both have so much to lose.
I merely nod and take a long gulp of champagne.
“Is it true that you might be traded?” she asks a little while later.
“You read the sports column now?”
She shrugs. “When I have reason to. Is it true?”
I look away, unable to meet her eyes. “Might be. I really don’t know for sure yet.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
I push my hand into my hair, stalling for time. “That’s a good question.”
Truthfully, I know it has something to do with the fact that I didn’t want to give her a reason to doubt us, or scare her off before we even have a chance to get started. She might be doing this because my PR rep asked her to, and sure, that’s why I agreed initially too.
But from our very first date, something changed. Hell, if I’m being totally honest, maybe it happened before that.
That day in the locker room when Owen told the guys he was planning to propose sort of threw me for a loop. Most of the older guys on the team are married, some have a couple of kids, but before Justin and Elise started dating last year, none of us in our group even had a girlfriend. And now two of my best friends are in serious relationships, and one is getting married.
I was never the type to go out looking for a relationship, but the more time I’ve spent with Sara, laughing and kissing—hell, even this, listening to her talk about work while I cook—is pretty damn nice and makes me realize I want more.
“I guess I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure what will happen yet, and I figured it was better not to speculate.”
She nods. “You didn’t want to jinx it?”
I tilt my chin. “Something like that.”
I flip the steaks while she fills me in on the dynamic at the law firm, from the lowly associates to the power-hungry partners. Then I get to work on whisking the five ingredients for the salad dressing.
“Yum. Are you making homemade Caesar?”
I nod. “It’s pretty easy. If I hadn’t learned to cook living with my grandpa, I probably wouldn’t have eaten.”
She softens, smiling at me. “Well, I’m impressed. Honestly, Teddy, this is sweet of you. The champagne. The steaks. This is the most perfect night in.”
The soft expression in her eyes makes something inside me squeeze. “Looks like you could use a refill,” I say, nodding toward her empty glass.
“Sure. I can handle one more glass.”
“Did you drive?” I ask, retrieving the wine bottle.
She nods.
“Well, you’re more than welcome to stay the night if you want another glass later.”
Her expression stays neutral as I refill her glass.
Even though I’m dying to know how she feels about that idea, I stay quiet. A smart man knows not to push his luck, even though the idea of spending the entire night with her in my bed is enough to turn my lower half to stone.
I toss the chopped romaine lettuce, sliced cucumbers, and tomatoes into the same bowl I’ve just finished whisking the dressing in, and pull the steaks out of the pan to rest. Once everything is ready, we carry our feast over to my seldom-used dining table and dig in.
“This steak is perfect,” she says, slicing herself another bite.
“I think the last time I ate at this table was the last time my grandpa was in town.”
Sara smiles. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those typical bachelors who eats standing over the sink.”
I chuckle. “Guilty.”
She shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. “Do you cook for yourself like this every night?”
I read into the words she doesn’t say . . . A girl could get used to this.
Forking a bite of salad, I shake my head. “Nah. I eat a lot of eggs during the week, maybe a quick omelet after practice, or I call in a takeout order from the market downstairs.”
“Edelman’s?” she asks, and I nod. “What’s your go-to?”
“Promise not to laugh?”
“Sure.” She grins.
“Caesar salad.
>
She laughs anyway. “With chicken?”
“Salmon, actually. I read somewhere it’s good for inflammation and muscle recovery.”
After dinner, Sara insists on loading the dishwasher since I cooked. I don’t put up much of a fight because the sight of her in my kitchen, looking so at home in her sweatpants and her hair loose, renders me momentarily speechless. She looks comfortable and relaxed, the vibe so chill and domestic.
Is this what Owen has with Becca, and Justin has with Elise?
Shit. I’m suddenly more than a little jealous.
It’s in this moment I realize that I’ve never had a woman here like this. I’ve brought hookups home before, sure, but I’m usually seeing how fast we can both get off so I can get her gone.
As I wipe down the counters tonight, I’m trying to think of ways I can talk Sara into staying.
Once the dishes are done, I grab the champagne bottle and refill her glass. Sara watches me quietly. When she accepts the glass and takes a sip, it’s with the silent understanding that she’ll be spending the night.
“You have a guest room, right?” she asks, her voice soft.
I lean in closer. “If you stay, you and I both know it’ll be in my bed, babe.”
I don’t miss the way her gaze darkens as she meets my eyes. A silent, tense moment passes between us. I want to kiss her, but I don’t—not just yet.
“Actually, I just realized I’ve never given you a proper tour.”
“I’d love one,” she says, recovering.
I bought this place last year, but I rarely have people over. Owen and Justin share an apartment in the same building a few floors down, and that’s where people usually congregate when we hang out. There, or Asher’s place when he hosts the poker tournaments he’s fond of.
While Sara sips her champagne, I lead the way, heading toward the terrace off the living room. She already saw the study when our erotic video made its premier at the end of our last date. We end up in my room a few minutes later and then into the adjoining bathroom.