Delayed Gratification: (Always Satisfied Book 2.5)

by Lauren Blakely

  “Woman, how many times do I have to tell you it’s called football?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I will never call soccer football?” She sets a glass down for me with such panache, it’s a declaration.

  I shudder. “Fine, have it your way. Your improper American way,” I say, taking the glass and having a drink.

  I had another wedding tonight, and it went off without a hitch, so I’m here at Gin Joint to unwind. One more successful best-man-for-hire gig under my belt. “In any case, lest you think we’re lacking in bizarre forms of exercise, I will have you know that we recently reinstated strolling classes.”

  “Soon, your homeland will work up to sauntering classes,” she says with a sexy little lift of her eyebrows. Because everything she does is sexy.

  “Of course, but it takes time for trends to reach there. As for punk rope, I’m not sure we’ll ever see that in London.”

  “Good thing you’re not in London, then,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows, then pleading. “Come with me. You’re my comrade in exercise. We’re fitness warriors.”

  That’s true. In the few months since I’ve met her, we’ve discovered we’re both addicted to exercise, but we haven’t worked out together yet.

  “But what is punk rope? It sounds like we’d be in a mosh pit with a bunch of twine.”

  She grabs a glass of water from behind the bar and downs some. “It’s like jump rope meets recess with cool music. Think of it as a PE class for adults set to rock and roll.” She flutters her lashes. “Come along. Pretty please.”

  I give her a curious stare. “Why on earth are you asking me?”

  She pouts. “You don’t want to go with me?”

  I need to think long and hard on my answer. I do enjoy Truly’s company. An incredible amount. More than I probably should enjoy the company of my good friend’s sister, since that’s what Malone has quickly become.

  And I do want to do all of these things with her. But I also know that it’s a risk. The more time I spend with her, the more time I want to spend with her.

  Then again, I’ve been tops at resisting anything remotely resembling a relationship ever since a particular woman back in London—ahem, Claire—saw fit to break my heart in half and then stomp on it with steel-toed combat boots, so it’s not like anything with Truly is going to go further. I won’t let it.

  So I say, “Take me to your punk rope class, please.”

  She squeals in delight, and it’s a sound I rather enjoy.

  I’m sure I’d enjoy other high-pitched noises from her, but this will do. It’ll do just fine.

  The next day, I’m sweating buckets. My muscles scream. My brain struggles to keep up with a jump rope routine so complex it would take a degree in double Dutch to master. But at the same time, it’s ridiculously fun.

  When we’re done, Truly and I are both laughing and sweating as she asks, “Do you want to grab a drink?”

  “Do you actually drink at ten in the morning on a Sunday?”

  She laughs, nudging my elbow. “I don’t mean that kind of drink. A proper après exercise drink.”

  I shoot her the side-eye as we leave the YMCA and head into the Manhattan summer morning. “You can’t possibly be suggesting we lose the benefits of that class by having a chocolate smoothie? Next thing I know, you’ll be wanting to add peanut butter to it. And then what’s the point? Woman, I do have to maintain my figure. As the premier best man for hire in all of Manhattan, I must keep up appearances.”

  She pats my belly. “It’s flat. Flat as a board. And I would never ask you to put anything bad in that perfect body.” My skin sizzles for a second at the way her eyes seem to roam over me.

  Wait.

  That heat lasts more than a few seconds because I do like her hand on my body.

  “Please feel free to enjoy the washboard,” I say.

  She pokes her fingers across my abs and whistles. “Hot damn, Jason Reynolds. You do indeed have a six-pack.”

  “And you can inspect it anytime. Also, consider this my yes.”

  “Yes to what?” she asks curiously as we reach the crosswalk and wait for the light to turn.

  “Yes to any fitness class you ever want to take, so long as it involves your hands on my belly.”

  “Well, it was fun to touch.”

  “And this is why I say no to smoothies. Cuppa?”

  She adopts a posh British accent. “Why, yes. That would be ever so lovely. And that’s what I meant by après exercise drink, you weirdo.”

  “You’re the weird one,” I fire back.

  We pop into a café around the corner, where she grabs a coffee and I order an English breakfast tea.

  We chat about growing up in New York versus London, the relative merits of movie theaters versus streaming, and then the most unusual lines we’ve overheard—at bars for her and at weddings for me. When we’re done, it occurs to me that I have a new friend, and I quite like this development.

  But I also fully intend to keep her in the friend zone.

  I can do that. I absolutely can.

  Because I must.

  3

  Truly

  Like a soldier running drills, I take the next leg of the obstacle course, alternating jumps in tires then leaping over a plank.

  Jason remains right by my side then lunges for the rope ahead. “Faster, faster, faster,” I encourage him.

  “Woman, I’m going as fast as I can,” he says in that yummy voice that entertains me so much. We climb down the rope and reach the end of the course before anyone else in the class. I raise a hand to high-five my teammate.

  “We are killing it,” I say, panting.

  “That is because you are absolutely ferocious. I’m terrified. Have I mentioned that before?”

  “Only every time we work out together.”

  That’s become our thing in the last few years since we met. After punk rope, we couldn’t stop. We signed up for everything, from bike races to mud races and even jujitsu.

  It’s funny because the first night I met Jason, I was wildly attracted to him for those five minutes at the bar. And look, he’s a handsome-as-hell guy. But I quickly shut down those romantic notions, and now we’ve segued into this wonderful friendship.

  A friendship that I love and cherish. A friendship that I don’t want to do a damn thing to destroy.

  Because now, not only is Jason’s relationship with my brother at stake, but so is mine.

  I like him as a friend, and I want to keep him in my life. And I see him as part of my life, an important member of my social circle. So I don’t think of him romantically anymore.

  I simply don’t.

  When we finish class, we make our way to Chelsea.

  “Hey, I had an idea for your bar,” he offers. “What if you did signature drinks that you named?”

  Color me intrigued. “Go on.”

  “I was thinking you could make up recipes, give them fun names, and maybe give each of them a story.”

  My brain whirs, immediately latching onto the concept. “That’s kind of a brilliant idea. Like, I could do Hush Money and devise a little story about the drink you need when you have to keep something quiet.”

  “Another could be Last Word, and you’d tell a tale about getting the final word in.”

  “Or Devil’s Teeth, and that’s the drink for when you’ve made a daring escape.” I beam at him as we turn the corner toward Gin Joint. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Nope. You are a wildly clever bar mistress.”

  I give him the side-eye. “I think it was you who just came up with that idea.”

  “Then I am wildly clever too.”

  “Obviously, the way you seem to juggle everything.” I shift gears. “Speaking of, how are all your endeavors going?”

  As an entrepreneur, Jason keeps irons in both the best-man-for-hire world and the men’s advice one too. “Soon I’m going to have guys coming into my bar asking, ‘Do you happen to know a best man for hire
?’ And I’ll say, ‘I’ll tell you. He’s the best best man in all of Manhattan.’”

  His amber eyes twinkle. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want. I can picture it now.”

  “And when they ask for grooming tips or dating tips or job tips, I’ll reference you too. I’ll say, ‘Have you read it in The Modern Gentleman in New York? Because I have.’” I pause for a second, then add, “I’ve been enjoying your column. You should do one on how men and women can indeed be friends.”

  “And wherever would I find the perfect example?”

  “Hello? Us! Every day.”

  He draws a breath as if he’s weighing my suggestion. “So you want me to do a column on how men and women can be friends? What would I say in it?”

  I tap my finger against my lips, diving into the idea well. “You say, ‘Find common interests, find things to talk about, and then make sure to make time for each other.’”

  “Seems we do all that. We’re the poster children.”

  When we reach Gin Joint, he says goodbye and walks away.

  As he leaves, I feel a strange pang in my chest.

  What the hell?

  Am I missing him already?

  I’ve never missed a friend quite like this before.

  Well, there’s a first time for everything.

  4

  Jason

  A few weeks later, Truly and I wander through Central Park, passing a playground where schoolkids scamper up the monkey bars.

  “What were you like as a kid?” I ask, tipping my forehead toward the cluster of children.

  “Hellion,” she says. “I was a total hellion.”

  I shoot her a look. “I have a hard time believing that. You don’t seem like you could have been a hellion at all.”

  She stares sharp knives at me. “How can you say that? I’m complete hellion material.”

  “Okay, prove it. What did you do that was so hellion-esque?”

  She holds up a finger as if to make a point. “I threatened to run away once. I packed a lunch. I told my mom that I was leaving and was going to live down by the river.”

  “And did you go?”

  “For about an hour. I had a picnic. It was quite good.”

  I laugh as we meander down a path. “You are so not a hellion.”

  She lifts her chin and gives me a defiant look. “But I wanted to be one.”

  I arch a skeptical brow. “Admit it. Deep down, you were a good girl.”

  She offers me a smile. “I was mostly good. Does that surprise you?”

  “You’re a mostly good girl now, so the answer is no.”

  “What about you? Were you a good boy?”

  I square my shoulders, acting all proud. “I was a choirboy.”

  “You were never a choirboy.”

  I raise my right hand. “I was. I swear. Mum and Dad were regular churchgoers when they were together. I sang in front of the congregation as soon as I could walk.”

  Her lips curve in a grin. “That’s actually adorable. And I bet that’s where some of your confidence in speaking in front of crowds stems from.”

  “You may be right,” I say as the path spills out to Fifth Avenue. I look at my watch. “Speaking of speaking, I need to practice a best-man speech for a wedding I’m working this weekend.”

  “Come by the bar once the bride and groom are hitched.”

  Loving the free and easy way she invites me, I give an equally easy answer. “I’ll be there.”

  And I’m looking forward to it already.

  When the I dos are through, I head straight for Gin Joint. It’s almost automatic these days, giving in to the draw of Truly’s place, knowing I’ll see friends there like Malone, Nick and Harper, Spencer and Charlotte. But most of all, her.

  On the train, I fire off a text to Truly, asking what’s on tap. She answers straightaway.

  Truly: Gin. And more gin.

  Jason: Obviously. Beyond that.

  Truly: A chalkboard full of delicious specialty cocktails.

  Jason: Hmm. Will I like any?

  Truly: Sorry, I had a hard time hearing you through your doubt. What did you say?

  Jason: I said I bet everything is fantastic.

  Truly: That’s what I thought. Because playing hard to get with my drinks will get you nowhere.

  Jason: Exactly where I don’t want to be.

  By the time I arrive, the crew is all gone, so I head to the bar and say hi to the woman of the hour. She offers me a smile and something about it just hooks into my heart.

  Who am I kidding?

  It hooks into my heart and other parts too. This friendship thing is great and horrible at the same time. I want her and I can’t have her, and that’s for the best, but it sucks.

  I settle in, focusing on chitchat rather than unmet desires. “So, tell me. What sort of advice did you give out as the world’s greatest bartender tonight?”

  “Well, someone came in wanting to know how to properly grow a mustache.”

  I slam a palm on the counter. “My column does indeed come in handy.”

  “Yes, I did as you suggested and told him about the Miracle-Gro.”

  “Perfect.”

  “That’s my job as a bartender. To know the answers to literally everything.”

  “Then what’s the answer to—” I’m about to say how friends can become lovers, but I can’t go there. I can’t let on—for every reason. She’s become a vital part of my world. She’s part of the friendship gang. And I need everything in my life to work perfectly right now. I have bills to pay, people to support. I can’t simply pursue whatever falls my way.

  So I glance around the bar then ask, “What’s the answer to . . . the best spot in the whole world to take a crazy, wild trip?”

  “Well, obviously you want to go to Antarctica,” she says immediately.

  I wiggle a brow as if considering this odd suggestion. “I do?”

  “Of course. Don’t you want to freeze all the time?”

  I shudder. “Nope. Can’t say that I want that whatsoever. But I do love snow.”

  She leans closer, whispering like she has a secret, “Then you ought to consider going snowboarding.”

  “Snowboarding,” I say, stroking my chin as I noodle on this. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  That seems to spark an idea for her, judging by her tone. “Maybe we should go sometime.”

  “I look forward to that sometime,” I say, my voice a little wistful and a little full of mischief too.

  Maybe we aren’t talking about snowboarding at all.

  5

  Truly

  Six months later, the jingle bells are jingling, and I have a blast seeing my mother and spending Christmas with her, her dogs, and my brother.

  We sing Christmas carols and make up random lyrics to them on the fly, open silly little gifts, then spend the day doing volunteer work as we’ve done for the last several years.

  The next day, I return to the city and pop into Gin Joint because even during the holidays, people still like a stiff cocktail. Perhaps more so.

  Though I’m busy, my world feels both full and a little empty too, because a certain someone is gone.

  Jason’s back in London, visiting his mom and sister, and I feel the weight of his absence in a way I didn’t expect.

  I don’t see him every day. I don’t even see him every week. But there’s the idea that I could see him. There’s the possibility. And as I head to work on the last day of December, I’m keenly aware that I’ve become accustomed to his face, to the very regular presence of him. He’ll stop by after a wedding, grab a beer or whiskey, or just chat. He’s here often, and that’s not because he’s a lush. It’s because this is where the gang hangs out after a softball game in the summer or during one of Malone’s shows in the winter.

  I won’t see him tonight when I host a huge 1920s-style bash. I arrive early and work my little butt off, prepping for the party.

  Fifteen minutes before we’re about to open, my phone
pings with a message.

  Jason: And a very Happy New Year to you from London!

  He adds a kiss emoji.

  Truly: Emojis are so not your style.

  Jason: My New Year’s resolution is to resign myself to the use of emojis.

  Truly: I feel like you’ve done a column on how men shouldn’t use emojis.

  Jason: Ah, my heart flutters every time you tell me you read my columns. Indeed, I do refrain from emojis. But sometimes, one must give in.

  I laugh when he sends another text with the eggplant emoji.

  Truly: You pervert. Also, it’s not midnight yet.

  Jason: Well, it’s midnight here, and I’ve had a few glasses of the good stuff.

  Truly: What’s that? Whiskey?

  Jason: My friends from uni plied me with champagne. I’m all pissed on bubbly. Shh. Don’t tell a soul.

  Truly: You’re a lightweight when it comes to champagne. Your secret is safe with me.

  Jason: Total champagne lightweight. Yes, I’m a little pissed.

  Truly: I never tire of your British charm. Even when you use terms that sound like they should mean something else.

  Jason: Oh, I have loads of charm. Also, that emoji was supposed to mean something.

  Truly: The eggplant one? Yeah, I know what that means.