“Yes, it’s him,” Ellie answers her in a flat tone.
Devon leads me to Laia and presents me to her.
His fiancée is petite, with all the right curves, and has got a dazzlingly sweet smile, which she uses in abundance while she shakes my hand.
From the corner of my eye, I see Pete hauling Ellie into a tight embrace.
“Hey, kiddo. Your bro mentioned you’ve got a case. Congrats,” he murmurs in his deep bass-baritone.
I envy the carefree tone Pete hits with Ellie, and even more the fact that she closes her arms around his torso like it’s the most natural thing in this world.
Will I ever get back to such ease with her?
Before I can think about this further, Ellie’s two friends step over to me.
I met Hope and Cora during college when Devon was still studying in Phoenix. It was all before Ellie and I started dating. Sometimes, when I’d drive over to Tucson to see Devon and Pete, Ellie and her besties would tag along for a drink and a pool game with us boys.
Hope’s hair is shorter now than the last time I saw her, but the chin-length style gives a pleasant edge to her features. She still seems to be a fan of strong eye makeup, but with her smart suit and purple blouse, the effect is less rebellious than it used to be.
While I kiss her cheeks, we each murmur a polite, “Nice to see you again.”
Cora kept her modern Southern Belle style in her pastel dress with a giant ribbon and plenty of pearl buttons. It fits with her, “Wyatt hon, long time no see,” greeting, too.
When Cora pulls back from me, my heart speeds up. There’s still one more person to greet.
Ellie stands motionless as I pivot to her. Her cheeks are playing in that enticing rosy tint from when she first caught sight of me.
I know it’s fury painted on her skin, but I can’t stop wishing it were a real blush and not just the hot rush of anger. One unleashed by me.
When our eyes meet, she draws her brows together slightly, not enough for the others to see, but I get her meaning.
She wants to know why I broke her rule.
Well, I didn’t.
Or at least not knowingly, so I don’t have to be uneasy about being here.
I shrug imperceptibly in a ‘you know, it just happened’ way.
Her nostrils flare, and a murderous glint invades her green eyes. The intensity is such that I wince.
Her lips twitch slightly as if saying, Yeah, you better be aware of my frustration.
“It’s been almost a decade since you two met, no?” Devon moves to us, tapping one hand on my shoulder, and with the other, patting his sister’s back.
“It seemed much shorter,” Ellie says.
Her tone is throaty, and I wonder whether she’s only thinking of this morning. Or whether she also feels that when we stare at each other, time becomes a relative concept.
“Aren’t you going to greet each other?” Devon asks.
“Sure, of course,” I mumble, but I’m not sure how to proceed.
I can’t possibly wave at her. But any bodily contact could be dangerous right now, while my chest is still roaring from our silent conversation and the realization that Ellie and I still understand each other without words.
Ellie holds out her hand.
Okay, that I might be able to take.
But before I can touch her palm, Devon bursts into a laugh. “It might have been a while, sis, but Wyatt and you aren’t strangers.”
Indeed, we aren’t. Even if I’d feel less awkward with a stranger right now.
Devon places a hand between Ellie’s shoulder blades and shoves her toward me. “Greet each other properly, you two.”
I’m as unprepared for Devon’s gesture as she is. Still, my muscles are trained to react to the unexpected, so I open my arms, making Ellie crush against my pectorals. I forbid myself to breathe, but her scent—coconut, orange blossom, with a hint of earthly freshness—infiltrates my nostrils despite my effort. I don’t want to be affected by Ellie, but I can’t deny that I still am.
At least my body is.
I suppress the memories that threaten to surface as her warm body presses against me.
It goes easier when Ellie’s words distract me from my thoughts. “What the heck are you doing here?” she whispers.
I could tell her a short line—there’s no time for proper explanations—but I fear it would only fuel her dismay, so I opt to stay silent and release her from my clumsy bear hug.
“I’ll go to the kitchen and tell Diego we need an extra set of tableware,” Devon says and dashes off.
“And I’ll go to the back room and fetch a chair,” Pete announces and walks off, whistling.
Ellie uses this moment of distraction to plant a thumb against my spine. She takes advantage of her pointy nail to add as much pressure as she can, and a strange pride glows in her features when I flinch.
I raise my brows at her in a silent, ‘What was that for?’
A small tilt of her chin answers, You know very well what.
No, I don’t, I signal to her with widening eyes, but she calls my bluff with a narrowed glance.
Then she leans closer, so close that her breath teases my stubble. “We need to talk. Say you need to make a call and head to the bathrooms,” she murmurs in a low voice so she can’t be overheard.
I’ve heard Ellie say a lot of quirky things, but this one still takes me by surprise. I can’t prevent my lips from curling up. “The ladies’ or the gentlemen’s?”
“Funny. Just do as I say,” she hisses back, trying to move her lips as little as possible.
Her caution is unnecessary since nobody is watching us anyway. Pete and Devon are still gone, and the girls are busy shuffling the plates around on the table to make sure we can all fit.
Without waiting for my answer, Ellie blinks at Laia and raises her voice. “I’m going to the restroom.”
“Sure, sweetie.” Laia smiles at her.
Ellie throws a meaningful glance at me, then strides off.
I stare at her miffed little march with a smile, even though I know she’s probably plotting how to murder me once I reach her.
Chapter 11
(Ellie)
As soon as I reach the narrow corridor of the restrooms, I stop.
I flatten my back against the cool yellow surface, carefully avoiding the large talavera plate used as a wall decoration. I angle my body so I can monitor the dining area.
Devon trots out from the kitchen, and I lean back to avoid him catching me spying. I bite back a smile as I spot a plate, a glass, and some silverware in my brother’s hands. I imagine the waitress offering to take over this duty and my brother answering that he’d rather do it himself. Yeah, that’s how much Devon likes his childhood friend.
By the time my brother arrives back at our table, Pete has also returned with an extra chair, and they all sit down.
Including Wyatt.
Desperation curls through me as I watch Wyatt fill his glass with water, empty it, then refill it again.
He can’t be that thirsty, can he? Didn’t he hear my message? What’s he waiting for?
“Stand up,” I murmur, keeping my gaze locked on him.
My mental channeling must work because Wyatt straightens and strolls in my direction.
But instead of veering right toward the restrooms, he continues to the restaurant’s terrace. Once outside, he pulls his phone from his jeans, taps on the screen, then presses it to his ear. After a second, his lips begin to move.
Is he on a call? And with a woman?
Judging by his pulled-back shoulders and wide smile, that’s a likely hypothesis. No man speaks in such a posture with a fellow guy.
Wyatt’s black polo and white-washed jeans—the perfect ensemble of effortless charm together with his sculpted muscles—don’t distract me from the indignation I feel.
Before I know it, my thumbs are playing piano on my fingers.
When I realize what I’m doing, I press my palm
s to the wall.
Wyatt lowers his phone and sticks it back into his pocket. He re-enters the restaurant and finally ambles to me.
“I’ve made my exit, as you wanted. Now what?” he asks, grinning.
“You took your sweet time,” I growl. “Was that call essential?”
Wyatt’s brows arch, then he chuckles. “That was my cover act. Cora’s sitting with her chair facing right toward the terrace. I said I was stepping outside to speak with my agent, so I wanted to give a brief show.”
Oh.
A hot flush rises to my head. “Well, you could’ve made your maneuver shorter. We only have a few minutes left. I need to go back to our table soon.”
“And we need more time than that? What are your plans with me?” His cocky smirk shouldn’t give me any sensations, especially not the fuzzy bubbly kind, but it does.
Before I answer, a familiar sound hits my ear from nearby. I know only one person who would whistle Frank Sinatra in Diego’s restaurant.
Did Pete stand up from the table?
I quickly pop my head out from the corridor and murmur, “Oh, shoot,” when I see I’m right.
“What’s the matter?” Wyatt asks.
“It’s Pete. I think he’s coming here.”
As if to confirm my hunch, Pete catches Juliana, the waitress who’s heading over to our table. I zero in on his lips to read what he’s saying, which is: “I’ll be back immediately. Short visit to the little boy’s room.”
My eyes dart to Wyatt. “Quick, we need to do something. Pete can’t catch us together.”
Wyatt points at the door behind me. “Where does that lead?”
“No idea,” I snap. “I don’t work here. Maybe it’s an emergency exit.” As I say the last word, a lightbulb goes up in my head.
I check the ceiling to see if there’s an alarm. If Pete finds Wyatt and me together, it will look suspicious. Still, if we raised a warning signal while fleeing from him, we’d be in even more trouble.
Luckily, Diego didn’t install any device above the door.
Now only two questions remain: will the door open, and may we, as guests, enter?
When Pete’s tootling grows louder, I forget my hesitation and reach for the handle. It gives way below my palm’s pressure, and the door spreads with a creak.
“Come on now,” I hiss, grabbing Wyatt’s arm and pulling him behind me through the opening.
As soon as I slam the door shut, darkness and a stench of artificial lemon, the kind that many floor detergents use, smack me in the face. I try to take a step, but my toes bump into something, and a plastic rattling like a bucket tumbling fills the surrounding space.
Oh, no! This is no emergency exit.
Wyatt chuckles. “This is getting weirder and weirder.”
“Shhh.” I reach back to cover his mouth with my hand as swishing steps echo in the corridor.
Wyatt’s fiery breath titillates my palm, but I keep my fingers on his face, too afraid that if I let go, he’ll make a smarty-pants comment—which, for the record, I truly deserve. What was I thinking going into the cleaning supply closet?—and Pete will hear us.
There’s a loud clank, then a thump, and finally silence.
“Okay, I think he’s gone.” I withdraw my fingers from Wyatt’s lips, pivoting to him.
The light oozing in from below the door isn’t enough to illuminate his face, but now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark somewhat, it’s enough to make out his lifted brows.
An urge to justify my behavior swamps me. “I didn’t want Pete to see us.”
“I gathered as much.” Wyatt’s voice hides more than a hint of amusement. “Can we go out now?”
“No, let’s speak here.”
The hideout I chose is tiny, stinky, and the humidity in it is bound to make my curls frizzy. Still, at least nobody can spot us together and wonder what we’re doing.
“What do we need to speak about so urgently that our best option is to hide with spiders, buckets, and mops?” he asks.
His mocking question makes me remember my previous irritation, and my jitters subside. I narrow my eyes, even if I know Wyatt can’t perceive my menacing glare. “Is there even a need to ask? You broke our rules.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
Wyatt shakes his head. “You’re wrong. The only thing I did was phone Pete and invite him to eat together.”
I poke him in the chest. “Huh, so you admit that since I told you not to phone Dev, you made Pete invite you.”
Wyatt scratches his neck, and his elbow bumps against a broom hanging on the wall. He catches it before it can drop to the floor and props it against the wall. “How was I supposed to know that the dinner you spoke about wasn’t just a tête-à-tête with your brother? You never said Pete would be with you too.”
He’s right. I didn’t.
“Well, when you found out, you shouldn’t have joined him,” I complain.
Wyatt shakes his head. “Wasn’t possible. Pete told me to tag along. It would’ve been awkward, not to say rude, to fend him off.”
“Still, you shouldn’t be here. Now we need to pretend the entire night around each other. It won’t be long before the others suspect something,” I reiterate my point, but my voice has lost its sharp edge.
“We’re hiding in a closet together. That, on its own, is enough to raise suspicions.”
I can hear the amusement in his voice, and his breath tickles the tip of my nose.
“Nobody knows we’re in here,” I mumble. “I saved us from Pete’s questions.”
Wyatt sighs. “Maybe we wouldn’t need saving if we told everyone about—”
“No. That’s rule number one.”
“Tonight proves that your rules are hard to keep,” he says.
Shuffling steps interrupt us. We both hold our breaths as Pete walks past, whistling the song, “Just a Gigolo.”
When the music and the sound of Pete’s shoes die off, I cross my arms across my chest. “If you don’t want my rules, then you should look for another therapist.”
I’m bluffing, of course.
I’m in no position of setting an end to my collaboration with Wyatt. Not unless I want to look for another job.
“Don’t say that. I—” Wyatt lifts his hand.
I brace myself for the impact with his skin, but he lowers his arm again.
A pang of disappointment sizzles through me.
I’m going nuts. It must be this stuffy closet messing with my brain. Why else would I feel aghast that Wyatt didn’t go through with his gesture?
“—I’m sorry,” Wyatt continues. “Let’s keep all the rules you want. I need this therapy more than I thought.”
His tone hides something undefinable. Perhaps a hint of fear, as if he senses an abyss and is scared to drop into it.
It makes me call off my trick, and I say, “Okay, then let’s keep everything as it was. We’ll meet tomorrow for your therapy.”
I reach for the door handle and push the door ajar. The bright light of the corridor makes me squint.
Wyatt steps beside me. “Can I stay for dinner?”
I’d prefer if he didn’t, but I need to prove to myself that the disconcerting desire for Wyatt to touch me means nothing, so I nod. “Yes. But we shouldn’t go back together. Wait here a minute before returning to our table.”
I march out to the dining area with my chin high, but in my chest, odd ripples are billowing from our weird timeout.
Laia looks up and smiles. “Ah, here you are. I was getting worried. I thought you got trapped somewhere.”
The blood drains from my face.
“Is everything okay, sugar?” Cora asks.
“Yes, of course. I’m just a little tired,” I murmur, “so I stepped outside for a whiff of fresh air.” I hop down on the chair.
Devon pats his fiancée’s hand. “You see, sweetie, I told you, there are no big bad wolves in El Placer.”
My heart skips
a beat.
Except there are.
Chapter 12
(Ellie)
TEN YEARS AGO
“Little Red Riding Hood?” Hope examines the sticky note I received only a minute ago when she and I arrived at the Sigma Phi Beta frat house. “It suits you,” she adds with a smile.
I roll my eyes at her. “I seriously doubt that. Remind me, why did we drive to Tucson to participate in this?”
“Because it’s Friday night, and we wanted a nice breather from our own boring campus life.” Hope pats my shoulder.
“Well, if that was the plan, we failed miserably,” I murmur between my teeth.
It’s my first “Find Your Magical Match” theme party, but it might as well be my last. Cora was smart to stay in Phoenix and get some beauty sleep. It’s not so much the random name tag that the guests need to wear that bothers me. It’s more the whole ambiance.
The large living room is jam-packed with guys reeking of Natty Light and sweat and girls who probably borrowed their tops from their seven-year-old sisters. That or they just don’t know that most fabrics shrink when washed at ninety degrees. Almost all of them are wiggling their bodies to some loud R&B tune I’ve never heard before, but which Hope seems to know, because her chin moves to the rhythm.
“It could be worse.” She gives me an encouraging smile.
“How?” I observe a guy do a Chris Brown turn, dumping the contents of his plastic cup on his partner’s cleavage in the process.
“Well…” Hope adjusts her sandy tresses that Cora helped her blow-dry before we left. “We could be obliged to wear costumes, but we aren’t.”
I picture myself in a red, hooded cape and cringe.
Okay, she’s got a point.
“Also,” Hope counts on her finger, “we arrived after the organizers began doing the Grimm Brothers. Before that, the Greek gods must’ve been the leading inspiration for matching up folks, because I just saw Hera and Zeus pass by.”
I pat my tag. “I don’t know about you, but I’d trade Little Red for Aphrodite.”
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 9