Two Wedding Crashers (The Dating by Numbers Series Book 2)

by Meghan Quinn

  Because right now, I’m one hundred percent sure we are two lost souls searching for each other, and we happened to meet in paradise.

  Taking his hand, I lead him into my home for the first time and guide him past all his gifts and straight to the couch where we take a seat facing each other. I continue to hold his hand as he strokes my cheek with his other.

  “I’ve missed you, Rylee.”

  I swallow hard and lean my hand into his touch, briefly closing my eyes, tears feeling heavy. “I’ve missed you, Beck. You being here, not talking to me, but seeing you everywhere, it’s been torture.” I squeeze his hand. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?”

  He wipes a stray tear. “I had some things to figure out first. I wanted to make sure that when I came after you, when I came one last time to convince you to be with me, there was no chance you could say no.”

  “Beck,” I breathe sadly. “I’m sorry about Las Vegas. I never should have run out on you like that.”

  “And I wish I had been more understanding. I wasn’t as cool-tempered and sympathetic as I should have been.” His jaw twitches, the muscle pulsing in a sexy manner that makes me want to kiss the spot. “I just got so . . . frustrated. I didn’t like being shut out like that. I want to know everything about you, Rylee.”

  “I know that now, and I’m sorry. Can you tell I kind of suck at this whole relationship thing?”

  He chuckles and lifts my chin. “We’re not perfect, no one is. There had to be a flaw in you somewhere.” Winking, he pulls my head forward and places a very soft kiss on my forehead.

  Soaking in his scent, in the way he feels next to me again, I scoot closer to him until I’m sitting on his lap. He strokes my hair casually, the cutest smile on his face.

  “So, why are you here?” I ask, hoping for the best.

  “Well you see, I had to check Port Snow out, wanted to make sure it was not only a place I could work but a place I could live.” Hope springs in my chest.

  “And?”

  “I love it, Rylee. Just like I love you.”

  A very unattractive laugh pops out of me. I’m the epitome of elegance and class. Overcome with joy, I lean forward and press my lips against Beck’s, the salt of my tears mixing with our kiss. “I love you too. I love you so much, Beck.”

  He groans and moves his hands to my hips where he grips them tightly, deepening our kiss for a brief second before he pulls away and presses our foreheads together.

  “Fuck, Rylee. You don’t know how relieved I am to hear that.”

  “I’m sorry I made you doubt yourself. I just . . .” I pause and pull away. “What about . . . what about—”

  “I have a job at the gallery. Your parents have been amazing, giving me a ton of responsibility since they want to spend more time on the retirement side of things. They also hooked me up with some contract work in Augusta for some murals.” He strokes my hips with his thumbs. “I love it here. It’s quirky and perfect, a place where I want to start a family with you.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. I’ve spoken with Cal about my options given my background. Adoption may still be an option, surrogacy is an option, and so is becoming a Big Brother, which is good enough for me. All I want is you, whatever comes along after that is cherries on top of the sweetest fucking cake ever.”

  “Beck . . .”

  He silences me and looks directly at me, his eyes unwavering. “Listen to me, Rylee. I’m dead serious when I say being a Big Brother would be sufficient for me. If our family consists of four-legged children, then I’m cool with that too. What I want is you and only you. Do you hear me?”

  I press my lips together and nod.

  The sincerity in his voice, the way he’s dominating me with his words, there is no doubt in my mind he’s serious, that this is what he wants. And if we don’t have any other additions to our little family other than animals, he’ll be okay with that.

  “So . . . does that mean you’re moving in?”

  “Hell yeah.” He pulls me closer and kisses me on my mouth, his lips more demanding this time. When he separates, he speaks softly as our noses touch. “But I’m going to tell you right now, I get the right side of the bed and there will be lots of fucking. At least for the next forty-eight hours, there will be lots of fucking and fucking all over this house.”

  I giggle as he presses his lips against mine again, his hand skirting up my shirt, getting to work on my bra already. He wasn’t kidding.

  “Beck, screen door,” I mutter between kisses.

  His head tips back to look at the door and says, “It’s fine.”

  “It is if you want to show up in the Port Snow Observer tomorrow.”

  This gives him pause. “Shit.” He sighs and presses his head against my chest, his hand inches from my boob. “This town is so goddamn in your face, and I weirdly love it.”

  “I love it even more now that you’re here with me.”

  “Wouldn’t change it for anything, Saucy.”

  He leads me to the door, slams it shut and locks it, and then I guide him to my bedroom where he strips me naked and makes love to me. His mouth, his hands, his body owning mine with every pulse, every stroke, every kiss.

  Beck Wilder, the man who mysteriously took over my vacation getaway. I’m an utter and complete fool for him.

  It’s funny. I write happily ever afters for a living, and this is oddly one love story I never would have predicted or been able to write for myself.

  Somewhere along the road, I lost sight of my own happy ending. I had become immersed in my fictional world. I wonder if I believed that only my heroines deserved love. Only my heroines deserved a future of bliss without heartache.

  And then one day in paradise he appeared. My hero. A man with a selfless heart beyond compare, with mischief in his eyes, and ridiculousness on his lips. A man who had the ability to push me outside my cozy world of one into loving and welcome arms of two. A man too good to be true, but somehow mine all the same. This is where I write The End. Isn’t it?

  Epilogue

  BECK

  Where’s the green bag? Did we leave the green bag? Oh my God, Beck, the green bag, where is it?”

  My wife wanders around our bedroom, frantic, eyes crazed looking for a bag that is held tightly in her hand.

  “Saucy, it’s in your hand.”

  Looking down, she notices the bag and clutches her forehead, falling to the floor. “This was a bad idea. What were we thinking? I’m not ready for this. How on earth will we be able to—?”

  “Rylee, take a few deep breaths. Take them with me.” I join her on the floor and pull her into my lap. I lean against the wall and stroke her hair as I look at the three bassinets lined up by our bed. So much fucking joy right now, I can’t contain it. We breathe in and out together until Rylee’s body stops shaking. “We’ve been to all the classes, we have a schedule set up with the helpers, and we have everything you can possibly need for raising a baby.”

  “Beck, not a baby, three, three babies!”

  “I know.” I can’t contain the smile. “Three babies, Saucy. We’re going to be a family of five. How lucky are we?”

  She relaxes when I press a kiss against the side of her head.

  “Three babies. Three little ones to call our own. Three little lives we get to mold and shape. Three little souls we get to love and devote our lives to. We’re lucky. And I’m not going to promise you it won’t be hard, but we have so much help. And when we’re sixty and looking back at this moment, we’re going to wish we could do it all over again because it’s going to be so goddamn fulfilling.”

  Her head rests against my chest. “This is why I love you, why I married you a year ago. You instill a sense of calm inside of me.”

  “And here I thought it was my cock you liked inside of you.”

  “Oh my God.” She swats my chest and pushes away. “Way to ruin a moment.”

  I laugh and pull her back to my chest. “You love it just like I l
ove you, and just like I’m going to love Isaac, Taylor, and Zac.”

  She shakes her head and dislodges herself from my grip. When I see her pointing her finger at me, a stern look on her face, I burst out in laughter.

  “We are not naming our children after the Hanson brothers.”

  “Come on . . . it’s funny.”

  “No.”

  “Taylor can be the girl, and Zac and Isaac easily can be the boys. It just makes sense.”

  “You’re deranged.” She takes a deep breath and says, “Come on, Stacey is probably already at the hospital.”

  “Because her mom drives like a mad woman.” I stand from the ground and pick up the green bag full of snacks and things to keep us busy while we wait for our triplets to be born.

  Yup, triplets. All I have to say is, thank you, prom season.

  It was no secret in Port Snow that Rylee and I wanted to have a family, but given my background, we’ve had a bit of a hard time trying to make that happen. That was until Stacey Higgins approached us, a cliché of unprotected sex on prom night. She has aspirations to go to college and become a marine biologist, and there’s no room for triplets in those aspirations.

  When she first came to us, Rylee laughed and tried to pat the girl on the shoulder and walk away, but I scooped up the opportunity, found a lawyer, and made it happen. The birth father, Shane, signed the papers quickly not wanting to have to father triplets at such a young age, and Stacey followed closely behind.

  Of course once Rylee saw it was a real possibility, she started nesting immediately, which meant we moved out of her little cottage, our love cottage, and into a bigger house on the shoreline—with a fence, of course, for any wandering little kids—and we bought a minivan. Don’t believe me? It’s black—stealth color—has all the bells and whistles, and I look hot as fuck driving it. We have three car seats strapped inside and lullaby music tuned up on the stereo. We’re ready.

  We’re nervous, but we’re ready.

  We head out to the black rocket—minivan—and Rylee takes my hand, squeezing it tightly. “What if they don’t love me?” She bites her bottom lip. It’s a concern she’s had ever since we went through the adoption classes. Attachment and bonding has been a big concern of hers.

  I cup her chin and meet her watery gaze. “It’s impossible not to love you. From the first moment they lay eyes on you, they’re going to love you, just like I do. The moment I first saw you, covered in puke, frazzled, and cute as fuck, I knew I’d love you. It was inevitable, and it will be the same with our babies.”

  I place my lips on her forehead and then help her into the passenger side of the van. When I hop in, I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it. “I couldn’t imagine going on this journey with anyone else but you, Saucy. I’m one lucky motherfucker.”

  And I mean that.

  From a broken and torn marriage, to the worst day of my life, to six years in jail . . . I’ve come a long way to live in a small town with the love of my life, my best friends, Chris and Justine—only a few houses down now—and three small babies we’ll call our own on the way . . .

  Hell, life doesn’t get better than this. All it took was crashing a wedding to begin the best days of my life and the incredible love-filled—and no doubt chaotic—future ahead of me.

  Cheers to the bride and groom!

  HAYDEN

  Do you have any regrets about getting into that fight with Marcus Miller?”

  “No.”

  Flashes of light repeatedly go off, the clicks a sound I’ve become accustomed to.

  A sound I hate.

  Sip my water.

  Look around the room.

  Cameras point in my direction, stage lights blare from above, the bill of my hat being the only protection from the onslaught of light. I adjust it, curving down the sides as reporters raise their hands for the next question.

  I know what they want to prove, what they want to get at, but I’m not taking the blame.

  “So you don’t think the fight cost you the advancement in the playoffs?”

  Of course the squirrel-faced guy would ask that question.

  Bob I think his name is.

  He’s a dick. He makes it his mission to turn any story into something completely fabricated for more reads on his news site. I’ll never understand why the Brawlers still let him in the media room.

  “The shots O’Reilly deflected cost us our advancement. He played a hell of a game and shut down our offense.”

  “But you were tied heading into the last five minutes of the game, right before you were sent to the penalty box, leaving your team short a man. You don’t think that has anything to do with the loss?”

  I place the cap on my bottle of water and clear my throat. Pinching the microphone with my fingers, I lean in and look directly at the smarmy reporter with yellow teeth, sporting a brown suit and a cue ball of a head. “Tell me, Bob, if someone came up to you and slapped a hockey stick across the back of your legs, would you bend over and ask for another? Or would you have retaliated?” He’s about to answer, but I cut him off. “From the look of it,” I eye him up and down, “you would have bent over, but that’s not how I handle things. Miller deserved to be brought down to the ice and I won’t apologize for my actions.” I grip the table’s edge and look around, ready to stand. “Unless you have any other questions about the actual game, I’m done for the night.”

  Questions fly but I don’t listen, I zone out and stand from the table, taking my water with me.

  Gripping the curve in the bill of my hat, I walk down the steps of the podium and head out of the media room, my publicist hot on my heels.

  “You could have handled that better.” he says, trotting next to me to keep up with my pace.

  “Well, we just lost our chance at fighting for the cup, so excuse me for being fucking pissed.”

  “Steinman is not going to be happy about that comment.”

  Greg Steinman is the owner of the Philadelphia Brawlers and the controlling nitwit sure as hell won’t be happy with that comment but he can deal with the repercussions. I’m allowed to be pissed. I answered their questions, I played the media game but I don’t deal well with being blamed for the loss. There are a lot of factors that went into that game resulting in us being knocked out of the playoffs.

  Do I regret cracking Marcus Miller’s jaw with one solid punch to his face? Fuck no. That dickhead has been on my ass the whole series taking cheap shots with his stick, this was the only time when I lost my cool, which is hard for me to do. It takes a lot for me to shuck my gloves and fight on the ice.

  And maybe the Renegades will be going to the championship, but Marcus won’t be playing, that’s for damn sure. I made sure of it when my fists connected with him over and over.

  I squeeze my hand, pain searing through my bruised and swollen knuckles.

  “I’ll deal with Steinman,” I huff out. I turn the corner to the locker room, the space silent, my teammates either quietly packing up or already gone after coach’s speech.

  Next year, we will train harder. We will study harder. That cup will be ours.

  It’s the same damn thing you hear after every hockey season. I might be a rookie in the NHL but I’ve heard my fair share of end of the year speeches and this one is no exception. Did I think we would win the championship my rookie season? No, but fuck it would have been awesome.

  “Are we not meeting?” James asks, looking so goddamn put together that it’s pissing me off. One hair out of place would have been nice, one button undone, one showing of how upsetting our loss was would be fucking comforting right about now.

  “Does it look like I want to meet with you right now?” I toss my water bottle into my locker and shift around my gear, pulling my wallet and keys from my lock box. My phone is already in my pocket and the suit I’m supposed to be wearing is hanging from the coat hook. Fuck that shit, I’m walking out of here in a t-shirt and athletic pants. “Can’t you tell now is not a good time?” />
  “When will be a good time then?”

  Head turned down, my hand gripping the back of my neck, I answer, “When I’m fucking ready.”

  Doesn’t he get it? The last thing I want to talk about right now are endorsement deals and positive publicity during the off-season. Let me fucking mourn my loss for a day. He should know this, working with athletes, we take a loss hard, let alone a loss that ends your season.

  Shifting behind me, his shoes rubbing against the short carpet of the locker room, he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow then.”

  Tossing an almost empty roll of tape across the room, I spin on my heel, suit hooked in my finger and hanging over my shoulder, I say, “Don’t bother. I’m heading up to Binghamton for a few weeks, clear my head. I’ll call you.”

  “Hayden.” He walks next to me as I make my way to the parking lot. “We have some important matters to discuss. You have business meetings you have to attend.”

  I ignore him and continue on my path.

  “What about the power drink deal? They have a promotional photo shoot scheduled.”

  “I’ll be there, just send me the information.”

  “I really think we need to talk about this.”

  Halting, I come inches from James face, bending at the knees to meet his shorter height. My voice is menacing when I speak, my jaw tight with each syllable uttered. “If you want to keep your job, I suggest you leave me the fuck alone for now. Give me fucking space, man.”

  Startled, James backs up, hopefully well aware of the kind of damage I can cause despite my usual sunny and outgoing disposition.

  I’m a fucking fun guy, easy-going, but when it comes to my sport, my job, I take it seriously and expect nothing but the best from myself, so when I lose, I need time.

  Succumbing to my request, James backs off and leaves me to walk alone to my black Range Rover, one of three cars still left in the parking lot.

  Unlock, toss the suit in the back.

  Sitting behind the wheel, I let out a long breath and press my forehead against the cool leather.