by RC Boldt
“I’m waiting for Jack to get here.” He pauses. “But right now, I’m here to protect you.” He states this like it’s obvious.
“From what?”
“Dude was totally trying to cop a feelski.”
I stare at him. “He was not trying to cop a feelski, Ry.”
He gives me an exasperated look. “Mags. Any guy who offers to get behind you so that he can”—he breaks off to use finger quotes—“‘help your form’ is trying to cop a feelski.”
My mouth opens only to snap shut a second later. Lips pressing thin, I glare at him. “You’ve tried to help me with my form before.”
“I was sincerely concerned that you might not hit any of the correct balls that night.” His lips quiver in an attempt to restrain a smile.
With a dismissive sound, I roll my eyes, trying to tamp down my own grin threatening to break free.
“So what’s so urgent with ‘feelski boy’ that he had to interrupt your pool game for a phone call at,” Ry glances at his watch, “eight o’clock on a Saturday night?” He peers closer to where Adam stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall with the phone to his ear.
“Wait a minute.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Please tell me he does not have a flip phone.” Turning his attention back to me, he pleads, “Tell me you’re not considering having anything to do with a guy who carries a flip phone.”
I swat at him. “Stop it.” Glancing over at where Adam’s still standing, I offer, “Maybe he’s just … frugal.”
“Orrrr maybe,” Ry raises his eyebrows, “he’s a cheapskate.”
“He’s not a cheapskate. He said he owns a condo above Chianti’s.” This is impressive considering the fact that those condos are known to sell for no less than a million dollars.
“Then he was sent back in time from the early nineteen nineties.”
I can only manage to stare at Ry. “You need to stop watching so much TV.”
“And you need to stop agreeing to pool games with men who are time travelers.”
“Oh, my God!” I throw up my hands in exasperation. “I’m going to go back to enjoying his company.” I back away. “Later, Ry.”
“Have fun going rollerblading! Be sure to ask him about his Trapper Keeper!” he calls out to me.
And, thanks to Ry, now I’m half expecting the guy to either disappear, leaving a pool of clothing at my feet like in the movie The Time Traveler’s Wife, or end up talking like Arnold Schwarzenegger from The Terminator movies.
Awesome.
“Everything okay?” I offer a smile as Adam ends his call, snapping his phone shut before sliding it back into his pocket.
“Sure.”
That’s it. No further elaboration on that. O-kay. Well, then.
“I’m actually going to head to the restroom real quick. Then maybe we can start a game of darts?”
“Sounds good, Maggie.” He flashes me a warm smile, and I turn to head to the restroom.
After I finish washing my hands in the sink and fluffing my hair a bit in the mirror, I exit the restroom in time to see Adam practically sprinting out of the pub, as if a pack of rabid dogs was nipping at his heels.
The fact that I catch the not-so-discreet fist bump between Ry and Jack says a lot. They clearly had something to do with Adam’s retreat.
“What did you do?” Resting a hand on my hip, my eyes volley between the two men accusingly.
“We actually saved you, Mags.” Ry answers dramatically, placing a palm over his heart.
Jack follows suit. “Indeed, we did.”
Sputtering in exasperation, I glare at them. “How do you figure?”
Jack gives me a sympathetic look. “The guy had a flip phone, Maggie.”
“Oh, my God.” I rub my temples wearily. “Not this again.”
“We saved you from being exposed to his collection of Beanie Babies,” Ry says with a dramatic sigh. “That would’ve been terrible.”
“And from his VCR tapes of all the episodes of The Power Rangers.”
“Or his Tupperware collection.”
“You think he really has one?” Jack’s expression is one of utter seriousness.
“Totally looked like a Tupperware kinda guy.”
“Stop! Please. Both of you.”
They turn, faces a mask of innocence. Finally, Ry winks at me. “I should go and get us both a beer.”
I offer him a reluctant nod because, apparently, he’s my newly appointed evening companion.
“Well.” Jack clasps his hands together. “As fun as this has been with you two crazy kids, I’m actually beat and think I’m going to have to head home.” He and Ry exchange a quick hug-slap-on-the-back kind of thing before Ry heads off to get our beers.
That’s when I take notice of the weariness in Jack’s face. Concerned, I take a step closer, laying a hand on his arm, “Are you okay?”
Offering a tired smile, his head dips in a quick nod. “Just been a hell of a day on top of a hellacious week.” He drops a quick kiss to my forehead. “Have fun.”
I stop him just as he turns to leave. “Hey, Jack?”
When his eyes meet mine in question, I lose the nerve to voice my question. “Be careful going home.” Crap. That wasn’t at all what I meant to—wanted to—ask.
The smile he offers is different somehow, but I can’t put my finger on it. “Be careful with our guy, Maggie.”
With a wink, he says a soft good night, leaving me with his words swirling around in my mind and my eyes staring after him.
Be careful with our guy.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ry
I’m about to pounce.
Like a pride of lions pounce on a weak, slow warthog. Except that I’m only one man acting alone, and my prey? It’s a guy who—I’d be lying if I said otherwise—looks pretty sharp in his tailored suit vest, shirt, and pants, as he mingles with the rest of the after-work business crowd on a Friday.
Maggie’s looking exceptionally hot in the dress she has on. Jesus, this morning when I was pouring coffee in my to-go mug, she came into the kitchen, heels hanging from her fingers, and I had to use the counter to hide my insta-boner. I felt like telling her to go back to her room and change because no way in hell did I like the idea of other men getting to see her throughout the day looking like that.
The dress itself isn’t risqué in any way, but on Maggie, it molds to her curves. And not for the first time, I wanted to shove her against the kitchen counter and fuck her silly.
Shit. That’s definitely not my inner gentleman coming out. But, hell. She just looks … fuckable. So in my fantasies, I’ll fuck her silly first, and then I’ll make love to her, the way I’ve imagined doing.
It’s no surprise that, after my being held up at the office, Maggie would attract someone. It just helps that, at the precise moment I enter the bar, I see her speak to the guy before making her way toward the restroom.
Time to pounce.
“Hey, man, I’m Ry, Maggie’s roommate.” I lean an arm against the wall beside him, inserting myself into his personal space and smiling wide.
And, in case you’re wondering, yeah, I lay on the smolder.
Letting my eyes ever so slowly drift over him, my gaze lingers on his crotch area. Long enough to make him shift with unease, his eyes going wide.
Oh, yeah. He’s picking up what I’m putting down.
“So I was thinking”—I drag one fingertip down his cheek, dropping to his shoulder, drawing swirly patterns on it—“maybe after you’re done with Maggie, you could, you know”—I wink slowly—“have fun with me, too.”
His entire body stiffens, rigid as a board, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “Uh, you know what? I just remembered—”
“You’ve got somewhere to be?” I chime in helpfully. Because that’s what I am. A helper. Just good ol’ Ry, helping old ladies cross the streets, rescuing cats from trees and …
Being a deterrent for Maggie’s vagina.
Maggie’s heels signify her approach, and when I hear the exacerbated firmness of the click, click, click of her favorite red-bottomed shoes, I know she’s noticed the absence of suit guy.
“Ry.”
My face is a mask of innocence. “Hey, Mags. Sorry, I’m late.” Leaning in, I press a perfunctory kiss on her cheek. I lean back, tucking my hands in my pockets.
“Where did he go?” Her stare is intense, and I suddenly feel like I’m back in time in the principal’s office for using craft glue and gluing beads into Steph Wilder’s hair in art class. Steph was a grade-A bitch even back in the sixth grade, and it wasn’t my fault she fell asleep in class. I thought I did a pretty bang-up job on her hair.
She didn’t agree.
Nor did the art teacher. Or the principal. Or my father.
Maggie waves a hand in my face. “Hey! You just spaced out on me.” When she places her hands on her hips, I wince because it thrusts out her chest, and I’d give anything to palm them … just one—
“What happened to him?”
“What happened to who?” I attempt to shake off my thoughts.
She heaves an exasperated sigh. “Matt, that’s who!”
“You mean the dude in the suit?”
An exasperated eye roll is what I get next. “Yes.”
Tugging on my ear, I answer as nonchalantly as possible. “He forgot he had to be somewhere.”
Her eyes narrow. Frantically, I know I have to come up with something. And fast.
“He had to go out and get some evening chocolate.”
Oh, fuck. That’s the best I can do? Jesus. I should just stand in front of the dartboard all night as penance for that poor response.
“No one else has”—she breaks off to use finger quotes—“‘evening chocolate’ but you.”
“Ah-ah.” I wag my finger at her. “Not true. A ton of people have evening chocolate just like I do.”
She’s referring to the stash of chocolate I keep in the top cabinet in the kitchen. She’d discovered it recently and accused me of holding out on her. When I told her I didn’t share my evening chocolate—which is specifically dark chocolate—she looked at me like I was crazy.
“As opposed to ‘morning chocolate,’ I suppose?”
Tapping a finger against my lips, I pretend to be deep in thought. “Hmm, I don’t have morning chocolate, but I think you might be on to something.”
“It’s confirmed.” She gives a short nod to punctuate her words. “You’re weird.”
“What? You’re acting like no one else has special chocolate. Come on,” I protest, “tell me the truth.” Deepening my voice, I cock my head. “Do you have a special chocolate, Mags?”
For a split second, it’s like she’s mesmerized and under the spell of my voice, her eyes darkening with … lust?
But only for a split second. Because as fast as it happens, it’s gone.
Smiling up at me sweetly, she leans toward me, placing her palm flat against my chest. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
And just like that, this round goes to Maggie.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Maggie
“It’s … not you, it’s me. I just can’t do this …”
I stare back at Tim oddly. “You can’t … have drinks with a woman?” I pause for a beat. “In a bar?”
What. The. Heck? It’s not like I’m asking him to watch dinosaur porn with me, for God’s sake. Tim had been the one to ask me to meet up with him for a drink after work.
I repeat: He. Asked. Me.
He had been in our office, talking with another consultant, and when my coworker had introduced me in passing, I noticed the interest in his eyes. So it wasn’t a surprise when he stopped by my office after their meeting, chatted a bit, and asked me out for a drink after work to celebrate the fact that it was Friday. When I had suggested we meet down the street at my favorite place that makes their own craft microbrews, he’d readily agreed.
Now, however, Tim’s completely bugging out. And I can’t even exchange one of those What the heck is going on right now? looks with Ry since he’s currently in the men’s room. I mean, seriously. What could have taken place in the brief time it took me to use the restroom? Ry had arrived a few minutes after I returned to my seat at the bar beside Tim.
“I just think it’s too soon. Great meeting you, though.” Tim slips off the barstool after tossing down money for our drinks at the bar. He grabs my hand to shake it so aggressively, I nearly feel a case of whiplash coming on. Then, in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.
Dazed, I’m still staring after him when Ry returns, sliding into Tim’s now vacant seat.
“He had to go somewhere?”
“Apparently so.” My words are slow, drawn out. When I swivel my seat back toward the bar, I instantly catch sight of the money Tim had tossed onto the bar.
“Whoa.” I reach out to finger the bill. It’s a fifty.
My eyes fly to Ry, and he looks amused. “Well, I guess this TGIF celebration will be courtesy of Tim.”
Propping my chin in my hand, I stare into my glass of beer. “He talked about us getting together for dinner. Or maybe even catching a hockey game.”
“Please, Mags.” He gives me a look. “You dodged a bullet with that one. Pretty sure he’s about as exciting as a night in reading Homer’s Odyssey.”
I make a face. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “Would you rather I talk about his hair? Because it sucked worse than an Amish virgin.”
I throw up my hands. “Where do you even come up with this stuff?”
“It’s a gift,” he deadpans with a dramatic sigh. “God gifted me with wit, but it’s honestly so taxing sometimes.”
Eyes closed with a groan, I drop my chin to my chest. “Why me?”
He slings an arm around my shoulder. “You love me, you know. Would be lost without me.”
I huff. “Is that so?”
“Yep. Now, come on.” He reaches for a bar napkin, holding a palm out for me to provide a pen.
With a long sigh, I pull a pen from my small purse and slap it into his palm.
“Now.” His eyes focus on writing on the napkin. “I want someone who will stay and have a drink or two and not bug out,” he says as he writes.
Peering over at him, I wait to see if he’s going to crack a grin, but it appears that he’s serious. “I want the same.” Then, with a weary sigh, I add, “Obviously.” When Ry hands me the pen and napkin, I quickly jot down my response.
I want a guy who will actually stick around long enough to finish a drink.
Huh. If only I were kidding. Seems like every guy so far has left their drink either half full or more.
Ry’s arm nudges mine. “Hey, don’t be so glum. We have drinks on us tonight, Mags.”
“Yeah,” I say without an ounce of enthusiasm. With a sigh, I turn to him. “Actually, I feel like just going home. It’s been a crappy week, and I just want to go home and veg out.”
Ry flags down the bartender we’re familiar with, who’s always super-efficient and friendly. Handing over the fifty-dollar bill, which covers our tab more than four times over, he wishes him a good night before helping me off the barstool and exiting the bar.
* * *
I’m in my frumpiest pair of sleep shorts—the kind that are loose when you’re on your period and feel as appealing as that creature in the movie The Predator—and a tank top when I come out to the couch where Ry’s lounging.
“Can I get your help?”
Turning his attention from the television to me, his curious gaze hits me, noticing the large box I’m holding.
“What do you need?”
“Can we …” I drop my gaze to the box, suddenly embarrassed. “Can we take this down to the patio’s fire pit and burn all of it?” My voice is muted. Whe
n he doesn’t respond, I raise my eyes.
Dropping his bare feet back down from where they’re propped on the edge of the coffee table, he presses the remote control to turn off the TV. Rising from the couch, he takes a step closer, peering at the box before his eyes watch me intently.
“What’s in the box, Mags?” His tone is subdued, a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. And understanding.
“Pictures.” My eyes beg him not to make me elaborate. And, thank God, he gets it.
Briefly nodding, he steps closer, cups my face in his hands, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. Stepping around me, he tosses over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”
When he emerges a moment later, he’s tugged on a hooded sweatshirt, one hand holding another sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Taking the box from my hands, he sets it on the coffee table. He tugs the hooded sweatshirt down over my head, helping me slide my arms through the large sleeves. When he carefully pulls my long hair out, my chest aches at the way he smooths it down. Makes it hard to breathe.
Handing me the sweatpants, he nods, gesturing to my bare legs. “You need to cover yourself, or you’ll freeze outside.”
Slipping on the pants over my shorts, I have to roll the waistband a few times because they’re so long. Once I’m sufficiently covered for the colder weather outside, I take a deep, fortifying breath.
“Let’s do this.” Reaching down, I grab the box and hold it tight to my chest.
I know it’s long overdue to get rid of these reminders. I’d actually forgotten about this box in the back of my closet, but tonight, something made me think of it. And at that moment, I knew. Tonight was it.
It’s time to rid myself of the last remaining tie.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ry
I’m not sure what brought this on, but I’m not about to second-guess the fact that Maggie wants to—that she’s ready to—rid herself of the photos of her and Shane’s relationship. The callous, caveman part of me wants to beat my chest with my fist and yell at this step forward while the other part of me knows this isn’t exactly going to be a cakewalk for her.