Kiss Me Tonight: Put A Ring On It

by Luis, Maria

  Unfortunately for him, I’m not in the habit of accepting casseroles in place of apologies like my mother.

  I spent fourteen years kissing Rick’s ass and I’ll be damned if I do the same for a stranger. I don’t care how muscular his arms are or that his chest is wide enough for me to curl up and take a nap alongside my nonexistent cat.

  The Hulk hooks a finger in the collar of his black shirt. Then drops his hand to the bar, fingers closed in a fist. “Listen—”

  “You said that already.”

  That tight fist unfurls until his fingers are digging into the mahogany bar, leaving me with the distinct impression that I’m poking a not-so-hibernating bear.

  Bring it.

  “You’re cute,” he says, like I should be grateful for the assessment. Like I’m not a woman closing in on forty with a teenage son and goddamn gray hairs threatening to sprout at any moment from my nether regions.

  A puppy is cute.

  A kid in kindergarten is cute.

  I am not—

  “Cute,” he repeats with oblivious male arrogance, “but I’m not looking to pick anyone up tonight.”

  For possibly the first time in my life, I’m rendered mute.

  If Topher knew, he’d commemorate the moment by marking it as a national holiday.

  If my mom knew, she’d whip out her phone and get me on the first dating app she could find—all before I could protest about not wanting to meet a guy right now.

  Which I don’t.

  I’m not looking, which doesn’t at all explain why I’m contemplating rearing back an arm and busting this guy in the jaw. Clearly, this delicious-looking douchebag has inspired a bout of insanity—it’s the only reason I have for envisioning the dimple puncturing the center of his chin being used as bull’s-eye practice for my fist.

  Wishing his hat wasn’t in the way, so I could, at least, stare daggers at him with surefire accuracy, I growl, “No wonder you’re taking up for Dominic DaSilva. Kindred spirits, after all.”

  “Yeah?” He drains his Bud Light. When he pulls the bottle away, his damp lips glisten. Then they glisten even more when he runs his tongue along them. Unwanted heat gathers in my core, just as he taunts, “How’s that?”

  Feeling emboldened by how much I’m growing to dislike this man, I leverage my weight by dropping my hands to his single bent knee. Beneath his dark-washed jeans, hard muscles flex and unclench under my fingers.

  “Here’s a clue,” I clip out succinctly, “you’re both assholes.”

  A moment’s pause.

  I hear Stuart/Stewart at the back of the pub arguing about the merits of the Patriots drafting a rookie quarterback next season.

  I hear Shawn taking a new patron’s order.

  And then—

  And then the knee beneath my hands is quivering because the damn bastard is laughing. Laughing! Head tipped back. Throat elongated. One hand lifting to his chest like if he presses hard enough, he might have a chance to stem the flow of mirth.

  I’m momentarily drunk-tracted by the sound.

  Husky.

  Low.

  Sex bottled up in the form of masculine enjoyment.

  I hate him on principle alone.

  Grabbing my wallet from my clutch, I sloppily pull out a twenty and toss it on the bar. No change needed. There’s not a chance in hell I’m gonna wait around for it, all for the entertainment of the douchebag propped up next to me who thinks it’s hilarious that I dared to imagine he might be interested in me.

  When I make a move to leave, the Hulk halts me with a hand to my shoulder. “Hey. You can’t drive home like this.”

  “Ninety-percent asshole.”

  If I could see his brows, I bet they’d be sky high right now. As it is, his mouth opens and then slams shut. “What?”

  “You heard me,” I mutter, drawing my clutch to my chest like a shield from his overwhelming masculinity. “I don’t know where you’re from, buddy, but you’re clearly not a local.”

  “California.” When I jerk my head up, he clears his throat. “Originally, I mean. I’m from San Francisco.”

  Well, that explains it.

  I met a lot of Hollywood folks early on in my marriage to Rick, back when he still enjoyed toting me around like his toy of the month. Some were nice. Most were phony. All had a certain scent of privilege permeating through their pores. And this one here . . . my gaze catches on the gold Rolex encircling one thick wrist.

  Yeah, he might be wearing an old-as-shit hat, but the watch weaves the complete story.

  Rich.

  Entitled.

  Just like my ex-husband.

  No doubt the Hulk is vacationing here in London, just like Rick was when I first met him that summer before my senior year.

  “Word to the wise,” I say, pulling up the Uber app on my phone, “Londoners talk. A lot. If you’re sticking around long enough to give a shit about whether or not they talk about you, I suggest digging deep into that non-asshole ten percent and learn to be a good person.”

  “Be a good person, huh?”

  I tap the screen to pull up the new street address that’s belonged to me for all of a month.

  “Mhmm.” Without glancing up, I pat his shoulder like he’s a good dog. “It’ll be tough for you, considering all those old habits you’re going to have to kick to the curb, but I have faith in your abilities to turn your life around.”

  “How gallant of you,” comes his soft, sardonic murmur, “considering you just met me.”

  Satisfied that the Uber is only minutes away, I drop the phone into my clutch. “A memorable meeting, for sure. It’s not every day I start dreaming of ways to punch a hot guy in the face after only ten minutes of conversat—”

  I go down.

  As in, I go down.

  Weak, alcohol-inflicted legs.

  Numb feet.

  Worst-case scenario doesn’t even come close to doing this moment any justice—not the way I collapse, knees buckling, and go face-first into the Hulk’s crotch.

  Face.

  First.

  Someone just put me out of my misery.

  In my desperation to not end up on the floor, my hands snake out and find purchase wherever I can.

  His legs, I think.

  There’s a masculine grunt, loud enough for my sloshed brain to pick up on and send SOS signals sparking to high alert in my system.

  Abort! ABORT!!!

  The grunt is followed by a big hand cupping the back of my skull, and I’m distinctly aware of the barely restrained tension lacing those fingers. Pull me closer, push me away. He’s clearly stuck in limbo, and I’m on the verge of holing up in my house and becoming a hermit until the day I die.

  I’ll miss the sunlight, but when the alternative is this . . .

  “Jesus fuck.”

  His obscenely uttered curse springs me into motion, which seems to shock him into action too. That hand drops to one of my shoulders, followed by the other one doing the same. He tows me upright so easily that air swoops in under my feet as my sneakers leave the floor.

  “Jesus fuck.”

  And I thought my dad had a potty mouth. Dad had nothing on this guy.

  Lurching backward, out of reach, I step back. Then do so again. Anything to put some much-needed space between us.

  His hands find his narrow hips, his barrel chest expanding with an unsteady breath. “You’re absolutely trashed.” He says this like it’s a massive inconvenience, something he proves a moment later when he snags his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans and drops cash on the bar. “I’m taking you home.”

  I stare at him. “I don’t get in the car with strangers.”

  “Considering where you just had your face, I’d say we’re practically best friends at this point.”

  Heat stings my cheeks.

  Shoving his wallet back in his jeans, arm muscles visibly bunching with just that slightest movement, he stands there, and I’m forced to tilt my head back to look up at his face.
Holy cow, is he tall. Way taller than I anticipated. Six-five, maybe. Six-six, probably.

  “I ordered an Uber,” I inform him stiffly, if only to maneuver the conversation away from my all-too-inappropriate nosedive.

  With a chuffed breath, the Hulk steers me toward the front door of the Golden Fleece. “The irony of modern-day living. You’re totally fine with jumping into some random person’s car without knowing anything about them but you won’t get in mine even after our delightful talk.”

  “Delightful” sounds anything but, given the hostile way it comes out of his mouth.

  Together, we step out into the crisp, Maine night. The scent of woods and ocean mingle like the most intoxicating cocktail. I inhale sharply, dredging up all that fresh goodness into my body. Living in Pittsburgh may have worked for my lifestyle with Rick, but Maine is the soothing balm to my soul. Like a salve being smoothed over all my cracked crevices and sharp craters.

  The Hulk is ruining my salve.

  “For the record,” I mutter, “I don’t know anything about you either.”

  “You know I’m a ninety-percent asshole.”

  Sharply, I spin around, catching him off guard. We’re close. Close enough that my hands land on his chest and I look up, I see more of his face than I have all night. His features . . . they’re familiar.

  Strangely so.

  “Ninety-five,” I counter weakly.

  His lips press together. “Tacked on another five percent, did you?”

  “Collateral damage that you can earn back.”

  “Yeah?”

  Maybe it’s just me, but I swear his voice just dropped an octave. Could be the Guinness talking. My tipsy, sex-starved body hoping. Either way, I rise up on my toes, putting our faces as close together as humanly possible, considering our height difference, and murmur, “Never mention that moment from inside again, and you’ll be set to go.”

  His chest shakes with silent laughter. “You’re assuming we’ll be running into each other again.”

  “If you’re living in London, we’ll be lucky if we’re not neighbors.”

  Leaning down, putting his mouth next to my ear, like he did when he first sat down next to me, he husks out, “Might want to give me a perfect score, then.”

  I squeeze my legs together. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He steps close, one foot in my direction, but it’s enough to bring our chests flush together. Oh, boy. “I’m a guy who can’t walk away from a challenge. So unless you want me goin’ out of my way to look for you all over town . . .”

  He lets the threat dangle out in the open.

  He’s flirting again, and I . . . I swallow over the thick lump in my throat. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  A car honks its horn behind me.

  My ride.

  I stumble back, gravel crunching beneath my shoes. “See you when I see you?”

  Moonlight splices across his face as he lifts his ball cap for the first time all night, and for a moment—a split second in time—my heart stutters in a quick tattoo that echoes to the beat of oh, God no, because the Hulk, the stranger whose jean-clad crotch I met without preamble, looks a whole lot like Dominic DaSilva.

  I scrub my eyes with the heels of my palms, disregarding the makeup I’ll be washing off as soon as I walk through my front door in ten minutes.

  There is no way it’s him. DaSilva, I mean.

  A famous, former football player camping out in London, Maine—population three thousand at the peak of tourist season?

  Impossible.

  Blearily, I blink my eyes open.

  His hat is back in place, and he’s standing there watching me, feet spread wide like a cowboy ready to wrangle a steer. “Forget something?” he calls out, that gravelly voice of his surrounding me like dark smoke.

  It’s not him.

  It can’t be.

  Go home, brain. You’re drunk.

  Beyond drunk, apparently. There’s no other explanation for me closing the blinds of my new home an hour later, only to see a truck pull in next door . . . and the Hulk-Definitely-Not-Dominic-DaSilva clamber out.

  With my hand pressed to the cool glass window, I watch, slack-jawed and swaying on my bare feet, as that now all-too-familiar massive body strides up the driveway to the house that’s had U-Haul trucks parked outside it all week.

  He pauses at the front door.

  My heart gathers in my throat.

  (Or maybe that’s the beer-induced vomit already threatening to make an appearance.)

  And then he goes inside.

  I let the curtain fall, obscuring my view of the street. Twist around. Let my body slip against the glass window until my ass is on the floor, my forehead is parked on my bent knees, and I’m forced to admit out loud:

  “Guinness is the devil.”

  And I’m never drinking it again.

  3

  Dominic

  “Assistant coach.”

  It’s all I can do not to spit out the words as I sit opposite London High’s athletic director.

  Adam Brien and I go way back—we both played on the offensive line at Louisiana State University. During the off-season, we partied together until the sun crested the horizon. I suited up and attended his first wedding in Rhode Island—I was out of the country for his second—and I regularly send gifts for every one of his kids’ birthdays.

  Normally, hanging out with him would be cause for celebration. Pop open a beer can. Kick my feet up on the desk. Ruminate about all the good times we shared when we were fifteen years younger.

  This situation is anything but normal.

  I stare down at the contract, my fingers splayed over the London High School crest printed at the top of the page. Drag my gaze up, up, up until I’m looking my old buddy in the eye and feeling my mouth twist in a sneer. “You’ve got to be fucking shitting me.”

  Brien drums his fingers on the desk, his expression, for once, giving nothing away. “You can’t be droppin’ F-bombs like that around the kids.”

  Without missing a beat, I point to his signature scrawled at the bottom of the first page. “If they saw this shit, they’d be dropping F-bombs too.” Hands flat on the desk, I lean in. Keep your calm. Don’t lose your shit. Swallowing down all the four-letter words that are wanting to join the party, I grit out, “A month ago, you promised me the head coach position. I just fuc—”

  And, repeat: no F-bombs.

  Clearing my throat, I try again. “I just moved across the country, bought a house that looks like the backdrop to a 70s porno, with floral wallpaper and shag carpet everywhere, all so I could do you a solid.”

  That makes Brien laugh. Uproariously. “Do me a solid? DaSilva, you were fired. You, man, not me.”

  If I were the sort of guy who blushed, my cheeks would be flaring red right about now.

  And, yeah, there’s no denying it. I was fired, though that particular call had nothing to do with me and everything to do with inner-company politics. Hollywood is a firepit of snakes, and I was more than willing to play the game, so long as the checks kept coming in too.

  Go on that new dating show, my former boss at Sports 24/7 told me.

  Network ratings are down and a publicity stunt, like you falling in love on national TV, could do us all a favor, he said. Put A Ring On It? Hell, all you need to do is stick around for a few weeks before getting yourself booted off.

  So, I went.

  And I stayed longer than just a few weeks.

  Because I’m all about taking one for the team and doing the dirty work. Blame it on foster-care syndrome, if you want, or we can just call a spade a spade: Hollywood is a cesspit of the mundane, a real-life version of Groundhog Day where the same shit happens day after day. I was more than willing to go on an adventure and get paid while doing it.

  Maybe that makes me an asshole.

  I’m more inclined to think it makes me an opportunist.

  An opportunist with a heart.

  Lips clamping shut, I rake
my fingers through my hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. “Brien, you called as soon as news broke of the network letting me go.” They’d fired me for the same reason they’d asked me to go on Put A Ring On It: network ratings. Only, Sports 24/7 hadn’t appreciated their cover being blown post-production. Within months, I went from being the alleged forerunner on the show to the man who went on for all the wrong reasons. Once the episodes began airing a month ago, Sports 24/7 cut their losses. In other words, I got kicked to the curb. “You said you had a gig all lined up for me here,” I add, keeping my temper in check. “Teach P.E. Coach ball. I bought a house—”

  “With how much money you’ve got, it’s more of a tax write-off than a forever home, man. Don’t get it twisted.”

  He’s not wrong about that.

  I bought a two-bedroom cottage on a cul-de-sac that needs some serious Chip and Joanna Gaines sorta love. Floral wallpaper. Pink, Pepto-Bismol carpets in the bedrooms and bathrooms. Laminate tile throughout the rest of the house. A garage that can’t even fit a lawn mower, never mind my truck. Wood-paneled walls.

  The house is a complete train wreck, and the only reason I bought the place is because it has one of the few exclusive accesses to a private beach here in London that won’t run me over a million bucks. Had I wanted to, I could have easily purchased one of the mansions up on Madison Drive. Moved into it with absolutely no work necessary. Lived the same damn life I’ve been living in Los Angeles for the better part of four years.

  And I’d be just as bored too.

  So, yeah, I passed on the mansions for a thirteen-hundred-square-foot home that’ll prove to be a sound investment once I do some major renovating.

  Private beach. Larger profit margins. Cheap mortgage.

  It was a no-brainer.

  Faced with my silence, Brien drops his head back with a sigh. He’s wearing a London High polo shirt with the Wildcat mascot stitched into the fabric. Swap out the red-and-white colors, erase the gray hairs coming in at his temples, and I can almost believe we’re shooting the shit just like we did back in college.

  Almost.

  “Levi came back, man.”

  It’s all he says, but it’s enough for me to sit up a little taller and narrow my eyes. “What sort of secret local code is that? Give me the translation.”