A Wild Card Kiss

by Lauren Blakely

  “Cherry!” She makes grabby hands. “You’re a godsend. Jamie and I have friends coming over tonight, and I was going to rush out to the bakery and grab a cake.”

  “There is never a need for cake when you have me around,” I say, then make my way into her home.

  Her husband looks up from the dining table where he’s drawing a pig, or maybe a duck, or possibly a cat, with their two-year-old.

  “Hi, Harlan!” the little kid shouts.

  Jamie lifts a hand. “How’s it going? You ready for your last season?”

  My mind snags on the word last. Is he trying to trick me into confirming the rumors?

  Love the dude, but I swear he’s got a bet with his buds he’ll be the first to reveal what I do at the end of the season.

  Hell, I’d like someone to reveal it to me.

  Danielle comes to the rescue, setting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Honey, you’re a broken record. Maybe find a new topic.”

  Jamie shoots her a confused look, his gray eyes narrowing. “Like what, sweetheart? The new surgical technique for reattaching a retina? And football is starting soon. Football is the topic.”

  Danielle tosses her hands in the air. “How about the latest restaurants in Hayes Valley? Or maybe interesting tech news? Perhaps baseball?”

  “Hmm, the new Thai place or whether the city’s star receiver is going to stay or go . . . What’s more interesting?”

  Danielle shrugs helplessly. “Football fans. What can you do?”

  Jamie smiles and stands, gesturing to the kitchen and the deck beyond. “You want a beverage, Harlan? Soda? Bubbly water? Beer? We’re grilling later if you want to join us.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “We can talk about baseball. How about those Dragons?”

  “They look good this season. Maybe they’ll finally win a World Series,” I say, happy to shift to another sport.

  “Home run!” the two-year-old shouts.

  “And a bubbly water would be great,” I add.

  “I’ll grab it,” Abby calls as she sweeps into the dining room, clutching an early reader book from among the many lying around. “And I like football better, Daddy.”

  As the girl joins her mother in the kitchen, Danielle pats Abby’s head. “I wonder why.”

  After Abby returns with a raspberry LaCroix, I catch up with Jamie, chatting about the Dragons chances of making it to the Fall Classic. When we’ve shot the breeze for thirty minutes, I stretch my arms and tell them I need to take off.

  Danielle walks me to the door, motioning for Abby to stay behind.

  “Thanks again for the pie, and for the school check,” she says softly.

  “Of course,” I say, but I kind of can’t believe she’s thanking me for paying for Abby’s school. What else would I do?

  “I appreciate it,” she adds.

  “Danielle. C’mon. It’s a given,” I say.

  Her expression softens. “I don’t take it for granted.”

  “You never have, and I never thought you would,” I say, since friendly is how we do things.

  I met Danielle at the University of Washington. We dated our freshman year of college, but then she transferred to a school with a better pre-med program. I ran into her again the night I won my first Super Bowl. She was at a post-game party, and we hit it off again. I gave her a hard time about her preferring the San Francisco Hawks over the San Francisco Renegades. Then I gave her a hard time between the sheets, and we said our goodbyes in the morning. A few weeks later, she learned she was pregnant.

  A Super Bowl baby.

  The Southern gentleman in me reared his head and asked Danielle if she wanted me to marry her.

  I’d never heard a woman laugh so hard in my life.

  “We’re not in love. That was a one-night stand. No, sweetie. I just want to know if you’re interested in helping raise this baby. It’s hard being a doctor and a mom.”

  Was I interested?

  Absolutely.

  I wasn’t going to be a deadbeat dad.

  “Of course I am,” I said.

  “Are you sure? A lot of athletes aren’t.”

  “I’m not a lot of athletes.” Sure, I’d been the good time guy. I was still a helluva ladies’ man back then.

  But I also damn well knew what family was, thanks to my mom and the way she looked after all of us after my dad walked out.

  I was not going to do that.

  So, we agreed to raise Abby together as friends, as co-parents, and as equals.

  A few years later, she met Jamie, a fellow surgeon, and married him. Abby and I went to their wedding together.

  Now, in the doorway, I give Danielle a serious look. “It’s not only my job to take care of her. It’s my pleasure,” I tell her. “And you, if you need it.”

  Danielle lets out a sigh of relief. “I never want to assume.”

  “You’re a sweetheart, even if you prefer the Hawks. Glad you’re her mom,” I say, then I cup my hand over my mouth and call to Abby that I’m leaving.

  She runs over and leaps into my arms, clutching me like a koala. “Bye, Daddy.”

  “I’ll miss you, little bear. But I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

  “Just like you did when I was one.” Abby stares up at me, her hazel eyes big and serious. “And I remember you sang Dolly Parton to me as a lullaby.”

  Holy shit.

  Does my kid have a weird-ass memory from being an infant? How is that possible?

  I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “Wait . . .”

  Abby cracks up, swatting my shoulder. “Got you! Mommy told me you did that.”

  “Dolly’s the best,” Danielle adds.

  “That she is,” I agree, and then I tap Abby’s nose. “Let me know if you want to do gymnastics somewhere else in the fall.”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Take your time,” I say gently. But I know how much she loved it, so I hope she’ll want to go again.

  She looks away briefly, then nods, resolute. “I will. And I’ll let you know. Promise.”

  “Love you, little bear.”

  “Love you too.”

  I say goodbye, humming “Nine to Five” as I make my way across the city to a bowling alley to meet my buds.

  For the next few hours, I have a blast throwing strikes and gutter-balls alike with my friends until, one by one, they peel off. As the clock ticks closer to ten, it’s just Cooper—my quarterback—and me, and we chat as we make our way out, passing the bar inside the bowling alley where my gaze catches on a woman in a formal white dress.

  That’s odd enough to rate a look, but something about her feels achingly familiar.

  Possibilities nag at me all the way to the exit then won’t let me leave.

  At the door, I tell Cooper I’ll see him at training camp. “I swore I saw someone who looked familiar. I’ll catch you later. I need to go check on something.”

  He lifts his chin in a goodbye. “See you at camp.”

  I turn around, the blonde profile triggering a memory that tugs me back to the bar.

  Could it be?

  Is that . . . her?

  A tingle of excitement coasts over my skin at the mere possibility.

  When I reach the bar, I take a deep breath and look in, then I shake my head in amazement.

  The woman in white is none other than someone who, seven years ago, I desperately wanted to see again.

  And she’s wearing a wedding dress as she orders another shot of tequila.

  3

  Katie

  A few hours earlier

  * * *

  No.

  This is not happening.

  This is a nightmare.

  I’m seeing things.

  As my stomach crawls up my throat, my brain tries to rearrange the picture in front of me.

  They’re hugging? They’re planning a gift for me?

  But I don’t want a gift.

  I want my almost-husband.

  Who is sucking
another woman’s face.

  “Are you . . .” I can’t go on. Emerson squeezes my arm, and the encouraging touch from someone I trust drives me on. My face burns as I gear up to try again and spit out, “Are you kidding me?”

  The man in the tuxedo breaks the kiss, wrenching away from the woman in his arms.

  My mother.

  Bile rises in my throat once more. How could she? How could she actually do this?

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, shake my head, but the reality doesn’t change. “I cannot believe you,” I say to the woman who gave birth to me. Emerson grips my arm tighter, helping me to get through this horror.

  I am livid and devastated.

  Ashamed and enraged.

  Shocked and disgusted.

  I never thought it possible to contain all these awful emotions at once. But then, I never imagined I’d find my fiancé making out with my about-to-be-officially-and-finally-estranged mother.

  Fight-or-flight indecision holds me frozen. I need to get the hell out of here, but one thought echoes in my head and won’t let me leave.

  Say something before you take off.

  My mouth feels like glue. The woman who raised me just kissed the man I was going to marry.

  I dig down deep, searching for the right words, in the right order, but come up empty.

  My mother reaches for my arm. “Darling, I tried to tell you it was a bad idea,” she says, getting the first word in, beating me to it.

  “Don’t, Tracy,” Emerson hisses at my mother. “Don’t you dare.”

  Like I’ve inhaled secondhand strength from my friend, I seethe.

  My mother gets my fiancé and the last word?

  My gaze drifts down to her fingers on my arm.

  She is touching me.

  She was kissing the groom.

  No fucking way.

  I recoil, jerking my arm away from her like she’s diseased.

  “We’re in love,” my mom declares, gazing into the green eyes of the artist I was about to marry.

  He shrugs in surrender, his crow’s feet crinkling, giving away the five years he has on me. “It happened so quickly. I didn’t even expect it. I barely had time to think of what to say.” Silvio meets my gaze. “But I wanted to tell you, love. Truly, I did.”

  Love?

  He’s calling me love, like he always has?

  I snap out of my surreal, sluggish haze.

  I laser in on the slithering tuxedoed snake of a man. “I’m sure it was difficult to find the time to say four whole words—I’m fucking your mother. But maybe in the ten minutes it took you to tie your bow tie, you could have called me and delivered the news.”

  I inhale sharply, gearing up for another round of zing, and swing my gaze to her. She’s no garden-variety snake. She’s an anaconda. “By the way, wear the white ribbon. I bet it’ll look great on your wedding day.” I thrust the bouquet at her. “And feel free to use these sunflowers. I get why you wanted them so badly, and since they smell like crap, they’ll go great with your secondhand groom.”

  I turn on my heel. Emerson wraps an arm tightly around me. “Let’s get out of here,” she whispers, and I’m so damn grateful for her because I don’t even know which direction to go.

  My eyes sting.

  Tears prick at the back of them, threatening to let loose geysers.

  I grit my teeth.

  I will not let them hear me cry.

  I will not let them see me fall apart.

  Oh hell.

  The waterworks are coming, and I can barely hold them off.

  Thank God Emerson is here.

  I yank up my skirt and we run like the Legion of Honor is on fire.

  Through the hallway, toward a side door—somewhere along the way Jillian, Olive, and Skyler join us. Jillian’s on the phone, giving instructions about the car.

  When I reach the exit, my friends are still running by my side. We race down the long entryway steps, and I don’t even risk a glance at the lawn or rows of folding chairs. I can’t bear the thought of guests gawking, pointing. I must look like a runaway bride, only the opposite is true.

  A few more steps, and I’m nearly there. My father waits for me by the limo, right at the edge of the car park.

  I stumble into his arms, and I fall to pieces.

  Go.

  Just go.

  That’s literally the only thing I can say, over and over.

  We pile into the sleek vehicle—my dad, my sister, Emerson, Jillian, Skyler.

  My crew.

  But Jillian stops before she gets in, her hand on the door. “Katie, why don’t I take care of all that?” She gestures to the lawn.

  Ugh.

  The freaking guests.

  All those guests milling about in their pretty clothes, waiting for a ceremony. They’re here for my stupid wedding that isn’t happening. Soon, they’ll be able to whisper about the time they went to a wedding where the bride was stood up at the altar.

  “Thank you, Jillian. That would be great,” my father says, answering for me.

  “I can help too,” Skyler offers.

  A sob wracks my throat and I nod savagely. “Just take care of it, please.”

  “We’ll take care of all of it,” Jillian assures me, going full badass, problem-solving babe as they stay behind to clean up the mess my mother and fiancé made of my wedding day.

  We peel off, away from the gorgeous art museum, high on the hill. As the Golden Gate Bridge looms closer, another burst of tears rains down my cheeks. I can’t believe what just happened.

  I truly can’t.

  My dad’s seated next to me, and he rubs my back gently. “Honey, I’m so sorry. But you’ve got to know—none of it is your fault.”

  My heart clutches, and even through the tears, I do know the truth. “You’re totally right,” I say between sobs.

  “Good. Glad you know that. Now, where can we take you? What do you need? Do you just need to cry it out some more?”

  Those are all great questions.

  I have no idea what to do next.

  My heart thuds heavily. My hands are clammy. Hurt rages, clouding my thoughts. “I don’t know,” I whisper with a shrug.

  “We can just drive,” Olive says from the seat across from me.

  I look up, meeting their gazes. These people who are here for me. My sister, my best friend, my dad.

  I should try, really, I should, to answer their questions. But I just want to get as far away from my old reality as possible.

  “We could go out on your boat,” I say to my dad, casting about for options. Maybe that’s what’s next?

  “My fishing boat? You hate fishing,” he says with a sympathetic smile.

  He’s not wrong.

  “We could go eat veggie burgers,” I say to Emerson, since that’s her thing.

  Her brow knits. “You’re not a stress eater.”

  “Maybe now is the time to start,” I say, my voice hollow, as I try to figure out what the hell to do after being ditched. “Maybe that’s what I need to do. Scarf down French fries and wine. I bet that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’ve been jilted.”

  My dad squeezes my hand. “If you want fries and wine, that’s fine.”

  “Gah, I love you,” I say, all choked up. One of my parents understands the value of salt and liquor—the other stole my fiancé.

  My phone bleats. I jerk my gaze to the device in my hand. My mother’s name flashes on the screen, and hate roils through me. I death-grip the device and lift my arm, poised to chuck it at the window.

  My dad stops me with a hand around my wrist. “She’s not worth the cost of a new phone,” he says, gentle but firm.

  I huff. I growl.

  But he’s right. She’s not worth so much as a dime.

  “And believe me too, when I say this—you never need to talk to her again,” he adds.

  Letting the phone fall to the seat, I drop my head into my hands. “My life is a telenovela,” I say. But after a mom
ent, I look up, determination kicking in, replacing the self-loathing. Apparently, emotions for jilted brides ride seesaws.

  Who knew?

  I build up a head of steam, letting the hurt drive me. “I know what to do.”

  Emerson leans forward in her seat, eager. “Tell us.”

  I’ve got a plan. Something my ex-groom would hate. Something his floozy would despise too. And, most importantly, something I love.

  Twenty minutes later, the limo pulls over to a too-trendy axe-throwing brewery. I march inside, dress still on.

  Ready to take on the goddamn world with my axe.

  With a clenched jaw, I head straight for the lumberjack in green flannel at the check-in desk. “My fiancé left me for my mother twenty minutes before my wedding,” I bite out. “I need a big-ass bucket of axes.”

  The bearded man blinks, his brown eyes etched with sympathy. “It’s on the house.”

  For the next hour, I toss axes at a target.

  It’s cathartic until Olive’s phone rings, and she steps away from our throwing stall.

  “Hey, Jillian, what’s up?” she asks softly.

  I turn away from the lane, my ears pricked, eager to hear what’s going down at the crime scene where my marriage was pronounced dead on arrival at four forty-five on a Saturday.

  Olive’s jaw drops to the wood shavings on the floor. “For real?”

  I groan in misery, my axe in hand, my heart in my throat. What now? I don’t know how this day could get worse, but I’m certain it’s about to.

  Olive hangs up, takes a bracing breath, and says, “They’re flying to Dublin right now. They’re taking your honeymoon. He just posted it on social. They’re at the airport on their way.” She winces in sincere sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

  But fuck sympathy. Fuck my mom. Fuck my ex.

  I see red. I see all the bull’s-eyes in the world.

  I turn to the target, raise the axe over my head, channel all the rage, and throw. The blade slices deep into the bull’s-eye.

  Then I spin around, dust one hand against the other, and adopt a smile.

  Apparently, I am making my way through the seven or seventy stages of getting-left-at-the-altar grief, lickety-split.

  And right now, I’ve entered the burn-his-stuff-down phase.