The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob

by Pippa Grant

  Beck nods. “It’s okay to not get lucky every now and again.”

  “When is the last time you got lucky, little bro?”

  Since Tripp fell head over heels in love with the woman who almost stole his dream of owning Copper Valley’s baseball team from him, he’s been insufferable. I give him a pass most days, considering how he lost his first wife and considering that no one deserves another shot at happiness as much as he does, but I’m not in the mood tonight.

  I grab my own whiskey. “Some of us keep it to ourselves when we rent out the Eiffel Tower to give a woman the night of her dreams.”

  “You did that again? I thought you already tried that move a year ago.”

  “Lot more than a year ago,” Wyatt says. “It was before Ellie and I got together.”

  “No way. I thought it was the summer I was wooing Sarah.”

  “Wooing?”

  Beck grins. “Hell, yeah. Wooing. I still woo the shit out of her every day. Gentlemen, I have found my purpose.”

  I cut a glance around at my buddies again, and that feeling that I can’t deny any longer surges in my chest.

  Beck accidentally stumbled into the love of his life two and a half years ago with a mis-tweet that changed his entire world, and he and Sarah eloped this past summer.

  Tripp was a widower trying to find his own purpose beyond being a dad to two little kids a year ago when fate brought Lila and the Fireballs baseball team into his life, and now they’re planning a small wedding at Thanksgiving.

  Wyatt married Beck’s sister, Ellie, who’d hated him most of their lives until a car accident brought them together, and now, she’s six months pregnant with their baby and being an equal partner in raising his older son.

  Half of my best friends—my brothers from childhood—have settled down.

  I’m thirty-six.

  I’ve been touring as a musician since I was eighteen. I have more money than God, or at least more than I’d need in a hundred lifetimes. I’ve seen the world twice over. I’ve acted some. I quietly co-own an organic farm-to-table pizza chain that’s growing across the nation. I have my charities, causes, accolades, and awards.

  I’ve also never wanted to get married. I wasn’t even in high school yet when I told my mom I was going to be a single-forever rock star who ate steak and French fries every night for dinner, and that I’d only have a girlfriend when I felt like it, which would probably be never.

  And for most of my life, I haven’t wavered, unless you count giving up on French fries being the greatest food on earth and liking girls more once I discovered the fun of sex.

  But only when it doesn’t get in the way of my goals.

  But lately, I feel like I’m missing something.

  Walking into that bookstore today, seeing Ingrid—it was like the world opened up and said, Here you go. This is what you’ve been looking for.

  Except nothing is ever that easy.

  I toss back the rest of the whiskey in front of me and slam the glass on the table. “Who’s up? Ryder. You stalling?”

  Beck grins. “I should take Sarah to the Eiffel Tower.”

  “You haven’t yet?” Wyatt asks.

  “You haven’t taken Ellie either.”

  “She’s not interested. I took her to Venice instead.”

  “I was thinking Lila and the kids and I should head somewhere in the Caribbean before the season starts,” Tripp says.

  Beck shakes his head. “Leave the kids here. You two go have grown-up time.”

  “With you?”

  “And Sarah. She loves your kids. And my mom’ll help. So will yours. And your manny.”

  The three of them grin.

  Yeah, yeah. They’re all happily in love with lives beyond their jobs.

  And I’m the single guy who can’t stop picturing Ingrid’s pretty face and her curvy ass and the way she took charge when her kid shoved those marbles up his nose, never once losing her cool, handling everything with the kind of efficiency that shouldn’t be sexy when you’re talking about nostrils but nevertheless has me wanting to know more about her.

  When she’s probably happily married, because she should be.

  Even if she’s not the woman from my concert, she seemed like a good person, and good people deserve to be happy.

  “Poker, dumbasses.” I wave my cards.

  “Okay, okay, we’ll take your money.” Tripp grins at me, then downs a shot like he’s not my responsible big brother.

  It’s been years since he’s been this happy.

  I shouldn’t be an asshole about it.

  Three hands later, I’m holding my own with my head almost fully in the game. Tripp’s playing too safe despite that shot to loosen him up, and he’s in the hole. Wyatt, who pretends he doesn’t know we lie to him about the buy-in at every game, is kicking all our asses, whereas Beck’s losing his.

  Probably on purpose for Wyatt’s benefit, since Ellie won’t let Beck buy them a new house for when the baby comes. You getting rich and famous for showing your underwear doesn’t mean the rest of us have to live better than we grew up. We grew up fine, and my kids will grow up normal and fine too. By normal people standards, Wyatt and I are more than comfortable. Donate your money somewhere it’ll make a real difference.

  I like Ellie.

  She used to try to keep up with all of us, though the girls were heavily outnumbered in our neighborhood. Now, she helps keep us all grounded in remembering where we came from.

  And I like that Wyatt still shows up for poker night with his fifty bucks despite knowing that the rest of us inflate the value of each chip by a grand.

  Wyatt will count his share of the winnings in the morning and send us all a picture of his middle finger when it’s more than he knows should’ve been in the pot.

  The rest of us will pool what was leftover of our own buy-in and a charity somewhere in Copper Valley will get a boost before the weekend’s over.

  Beck rises and scratches his stomach. “You guys hungry? Sarah made a cheese ball.”

  Dude can pack it away. He’s legendary.

  “You can’t make your own cheeseball?” I ask.

  “It’s the relationship rule. She makes my cheeseballs, and I thank her in ways that would probably make her dad kick my ass if he knew. Plus, I made the cookies that the ladies are enjoying at their girls’ night tonight.”

  “And how many did you eat while you were baking?” Tripp asks.

  “Only like eight. Or eighteen. It was a big batch. Lots of small cookies.”

  “You give Sarah small cookies?” I smirk. “Dude. Ladies like big cookies, if you know what I mean. Just because you’re married now doesn’t mean you can slack off.”

  “Says Mr. Hasn’t Had A Date In Months. How many cookies have you been baking?”

  “I just told you I had a date at the Eiffel Tower.”

  “If it wasn’t in People, it didn’t happen.”

  “People doesn’t know everything.”

  “Nah, but we do.” Wyatt’s had enough whiskey that he’s loosening up and starting to grin. “If you had someone worth us knowing about, we’d know it. And we know you’re in a dry spell.”

  “You’re getting old,” Tripp says. “Priorities change. Performance can suffer. It happens. But we’re here for you if you need us.”

  “Here for you for sure, man.” Beck returns to the table with the mother of all cheeseballs on a platter that could hold a Thanksgiving turkey, with six boxes of assorted crackers tucked under his arm.

  He’s long and lanky and built to carry inhuman amounts of food in creative ways.

  “You want a matchmaking service?” he asks. “We’ll get you hooked up. Hollywood type? International? Girl next door? Someone into the freaky stuff? You name it, we’ll find you exactly what you’re looking for.”

  Wyatt frowns at him. “You still have contacts for all that?”

  “Nah, man. I’m calling Cash to get the hook-up. He’s playboying it up for us boring old married fo
lk.”

  “Dude. What am I?” I demand.

  “A boring workaholic,” Tripp answers, and he and Wyatt dissolve into giggles again.

  Beck lifts his phone, and the screen flickers to life with the fourth of our five-man band from back in the day. When we decided to end Bro Code, Beck turned to modeling underwear and then accidentally became a fashion mogul for people who like comfortable clothes. Tripp retired from it all to get married, have kids, finish the finance degree he started while we were touring, and get into business. Cash Rivers went to Hollywood and is killing it as an actor. Davis Remington, the youngest of all of us, went to college for dual degrees in nuclear engineering and computer science, and now works an hour or so south of Copper Valley. None of us are certain what he does, or if he actually works for the reactor down there like he says he does, but given why we called it quits with Bro Code, odds are good he couldn’t tell us even if we asked.

  Or maybe wouldn’t.

  I think he likes us thinking he has secrets.

  Cash wrinkles his trademark nose at us. He’s either on a movie set or he’s living on painkillers, because his nose is the only thing about him that looks normal. His eye’s bruised, there’s blood dripping off his cheek, and his lip is split. “What the hell? You having a bachelor party without me?”

  “Not yet,” Tripp says. “We’ll call you when you’re not invited to that too.”

  Cash flips us all off.

  Tripp and Wyatt crack up.

  Lightweights. They wouldn’t be laughing if they weren’t tipsy.

  “What happened to your face?” I ask.

  “Marco the makeup man. Want me to book him for Tripp’s wedding? You should see this guy’s zombie work.”

  Mr. Serious Older Brother hasn’t had enough booze to let that go. He starts wagging a finger. “I’m not having a zombie wedding.”

  “Could he give the whole wedding party dragon horns?” I ask.

  Beck pumps a fist. “Oh, hell, yeah. Tripp, dude, you have to wear dragon horns to your wedding. Bring in the baseball mascots too.”

  My brother gives us all the shut up eye. “Not why we called you,” he says to Cash.

  “Right,” Beck says around a mouthful of cheeseball. “Levi needs a girl. We need you to find the matchmaker.”

  I roll my eyes. “I don’t need a girl.”

  “Like a reputation-enhancing girl, or a short-term fun girl, or are you looking to join the ball-and-chain club?” Cash asks.

  “I don’t—”

  Beck slings an arm around me. “Even his mom’s getting some. Poor guy.”

  “What?”

  Tripp falls out of his chair and echoes my question from the floor.

  “Shut up, Ryder.” Wyatt throws a cracker at him.

  “No, keep talking,” Cash says. “Ms. Wilson’s getting her freak on!”

  “My mother is not getting her freak on.”

  Beck shoots a guilty look at Wyatt. “Was that a secret?”

  “Yes, you bonehead.”

  Now he’s looking between me and Tripp, who’s pulling himself off the floor and looking very, very sober. “Whoops.”

  “Who is he?” Tripp demands.

  My fists are clenched. “Have either of our people vetted him?”

  “Lighten up.” Wyatt tips his chair back and grins at both of us. “Your mom has good taste.”

  “And my mom likes him,” Beck says. “So does Sarah, and you know she’s suspicious of strangers.”

  “Who. Is. He?” Tripp repeats.

  Beck takes another bite of cheeseball. “He’s not the answer to the question of who Levi needs to get laid with.”

  Wyatt snorts.

  I shove him, and his chair tips over backward.

  Tripp’s on his feet, dialing his phone.

  Beck dives for him. “You can’t call your mom during poker night. It’s a rule.”

  “I’m calling Lila, asshole. Her Uncle Guido owes me a few favors.”

  “Man, this sucks,” Cash says from somewhere to my left. “You guys are having fun, and all I can see is the carpet. Hello? Hell-ooo? Anyone there? Don’t leave me in the dark. I’m dying. I’m dyyyyy-innnnng.”

  I snatch the phone. “Quit being a melodramatic dickwad.”

  “Levi! You need a date. Tell me what you want. Short? Curvy? Natural hair or dyed? Conversationalist or not?”

  “I don’t need a fucking dating service.” Maybe I do need a dating service.

  “Turn the phone. I can’t see Beck and Tripp wrestling. Man, they haven’t done this since—ouch. Whoa. Wyatt’s been pumping iron.”

  Wyatt’s between them, with Tripp’s phone tucked into his pocket and Lila’s voice ringing through so it sounds like Wyatt’s dick is talking like a woman. “Tripp? What’s up? Everything okay?”

  “My mother’s dating!” Tripp hollers.

  “Oh, honey…this isn’t the end of the world,” Wyatt’s dick says.

  Fine, it’s Lila. Wyatt’s dick can’t talk, and I wouldn’t want to talk to it if it could.

  I’m amusing myself, okay? It’s how I handle denial. And I’m deep in denial over so very much today.

  “No women during poker night.” Beck dives for Wyatt’s crotch.

  And Wyatt might have muscles, but Beck has freaky-long arms, and—

  “Whoa. Didn’t need to see that,” Cash says. “Anybody getting this on video?”

  Tripp’s phone goes flying.

  He and Beck and Wyatt are all wrestling on the ground and don’t notice when I grab it.

  “Lila, sorry, no girls at poker night. I’m hanging up.”

  “Is Tripp okay?”

  I tilt my head and watch the grunting match on the floor. “Yep.”

  “If he comes home bruised, I’m sending Uncle Guido after all of you.”

  “If you know who my mother’s dating and haven’t said a word, I’m hiring a hacker and announcing the Fireballs are doing away with their new mascot.”

  She gasps.

  Tripp rolls out of the wrestling match on the floor and lunges for me. “The fuck you will. She got death threats over the mascot competition, and now all those people see she knew what she was doing all along, and we gave them a winning fucking team for the first time in decades, and do you think a single one of them apologized and took back the threats? No. Jesus. You’re acting just like you did when you dated Violet.”

  I go stone-cold still.

  Beck and Wyatt freeze.

  Cash sucks in an audible breath, and Lila whispers a soft, “Whoa.”

  I glare at Tripp.

  He glares right back.

  “Oh, shit, dude.” Beck climbs to his feet. “Are you secretly dating Violet again?”

  Jesus. Do a reputation favor for a woman who gets caught “cheating” on you when you’re feeling like shit for having a temporary career crisis, and no one can ever let it go.

  Mostly because they had no idea it was all just for show.

  That was the deal.

  “Fuck you all. I’m out.”

  I know. I know.

  Don’t turn your back on your best friends when you’re down.

  But you know what sucks?

  Being confused and wanting something I’ve never wanted for the first time in my life, and knowing I can’t have it.

  Not the way I want it today.

  I don’t want to go to Tripp’s wedding solo. I don’t want to wake up alone at the holidays. I’d like to get back to my place in New York and open the door knowing there’s someone waiting who missed me while I was gone. I want to know I can pick up the phone no matter where I am in the world and call someone who’d answer at all hours of the day or night and listen to me talk about stupid shit like my mic malfunctioning mid-song during a concert.

  Is it wrong to want to be first to someone?

  Tripp’s in love.

  Beck’s in love.

  Wyatt’s in love.

  Fuck.

  Even my mother’s apparently
in love.

  Maybe I should get a dog.

  Four

  From Levi Wilson’s fan mail…

  Hi Levi,

  I feel like a total dork writing this to you today, because I haven’t written a letter to a celebrity in over twenty years—so, you know, when I was a toddler, because there’s no way I was a teenager writing fan letters twenty years ago—but I needed to say thank you for…well, for a lot of things.

  I’ll leave it at thank you for being so patient and kind with my son and me at Penny for Your Thoughts this afternoon, and to apologize for not helping you with the yodeling pickle you came in to get.

  Okay, actually, as a single mom of three, I can’t leave it at thank you.

  I really hope the yodeling pickles were for your crew and not your family. Not that I stalk your family, but it’s virtually impossible to live in Copper Valley and NOT know about your family, especially with your brother getting involved with the Fireballs this year, and his family being all over the news recently with the team finally having a great season and all the drama over the new mascot and everything. They’re adorable.

  Your family, I mean. Not the Fireballs. Though I guess some of them are adorable too, which I can say since I haven’t been a teenager for a number of years, as we’ve already discussed, and so many of the players are barely past their teen years, which makes them look like adorable little babies to me.

  GAH.

  And now you know why I don’t write letters to celebrities. I’m rambling.

  This definitely needs to be edited before I send it.

  If I send it.

  So. Back to the yodeling pickle and your family.

  If your brother’s kids are anything like normal kids, and by that I mean like my kids, then they probably also love making as much noise as humanly possible all hours of the day, but especially in those few moments when a parent really needs a few minutes of quiet to collect themselves after managing everything from making sure everyone’s hands are washed to checking their noses for errant popcorn kernels to monitoring them when they get really quiet, which is when they’re most likely eating so many raisins from the cabinet that going out in public before those raisins finish doing what two cups of raisins will do to a forty-pound body is a very bad idea.