Thanks For Last Night: A Guys Who Got Away Novel

by Lauren Blakely

  He arches a skeptical brow. “Before brunch with our friends?”

  I slap on a smile, my brain whirring through plausible activities that would send me skedaddling. “Yes. I have this shelf I wanted to organize. Plants to water. And I have to pick up . . . popcorn.” What a horrible, terrible liar I am.

  “Wouldn’t want to get in the way of you buying popcorn,” he says dryly.

  “It’s to take to work tomorrow,” I improvise. “Snacks for the meeting.”

  “Super important, snack time is.”

  “But hey,” I say, fixing on a smile, oh-so-happy. “Thanks for last night.” I plaster on my farewell grin when it threatens to slip. “It was super awesome. And now I should go. I’ll see you at brunch, and it’ll be fab.”

  “Teagan,” he says warily.

  “Yes?” It comes out chipper. Too chipper.

  His eyes narrow, not with distrust, but with concern. “Are you okay? Because you don’t seem okay.”

  I square my shoulders. I need to get out of here—my chest is tight with holding back my questions. I desperately want to quiz Ransom on his bathroom, but that is so not chill. That’s not what a friend would do. It’s what a girlfriend would do, and I’m not and won’t ever be his girlfriend. “I’m so good. I’m all good.”

  “And yet you just thanks-for-last-night-ed me.”

  “Right,” I say, keeping my cool as best I can. “Because we agreed to one night. It all goes back to normal today. So, this is me being totally normal.”

  I don’t sound normal at all.

  He walks over to me, slides a hand around my waist, and drops his lips to mine. He kisses me, soft and sweet and minty fresh. He must have slipped out of bed and brushed his teeth while I was gathering my clothes.

  Something about him wanting fresh breath both bothers me and turns me on. Like I’m just part of his routine with women.

  And like he also wanted to kiss me again.

  The first is irrational, I know, since I did the exact same thing. But that was before the vanilla honey and the hairbrush, and now it makes me furious to think he has a routine with women—brush teeth, check; kiss good morning, check—and I’m just part of his habit.

  But I like that he wanted to kiss me again. It turns me on for all the reasons racing through my head: He tastes so good. He feels amazing. His kisses make my bones sing and my blood hum. They make my heart pound fast.

  I like kissing Ransom too much.

  I like him too much.

  And I don’t know how to snap back to friendship. All I know is I have to try because friends don’t leave on a sour note.

  I slide a hand up his bare chest, and ohhh . . .

  That doesn’t help.

  His muscles are so defined, so firm, so delicious. He’s like a sculpture come to life. Touching him sends me to a hazy, buzzy feel-good world. But it’s not a world I can live in.

  I stop the path of my hand, taking a breath, and I woman up. “Why do you have spring lavender deodorant in your bathroom?”

  He screws up the corner of his lips. “Huh?”

  “And vanilla-honey lotion. And a hairbrush. Are you seeing someone?”

  A chuckle bursts from him. Loud and boisterous. And far too amused. He wraps an arm around me and yanks me close, tucking a finger under my chin. “Yes. Every Saturday, my sister comes over. She showers between shows.”

  I shake my head. That doesn’t compute. “What do you mean?”

  “She signs. For Hamilton. It’s kind of hot in the theater, and when you’re interpreting, you use your whole body. It’s a workout. She likes to freshen up for the evening performance. This is close to the theater district, and she’s in Brooklyn. Hence, her stuff is here.” He can’t stop grinning, and I can’t stop a grimace, or from feeling foolish.

  I am the worst. Slap on a sign and dog-shame me.

  I jump to conclusions.

  “Shoot. I’m sorry. I feel like an ass.” I might as well be six inches tall, that’s how low I feel.

  Tilting my chin back up, he makes me look at him, still smirking. “Your jealousy is the cutest thing ever.”

  “Ugh. Pretend I never said anything. It was wildly inappropriate.”

  “It was wildly adorable,” he says, then his expression goes serious. “But also a little insulting. I would never cheat. Never sleep with someone else while I’m seeing you.” He blinks, like he just realized what he said. “I mean . . . while we’re together.” But that doesn’t seem to be the correction he wanted either. He flubs his lips, giving up the search for the right cover-up. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” I say quickly. But I don’t. I don’t know what either of us means or wants. I don’t know why he said anything about seeing me or being together.

  All I know is he looks flustered, and I insulted him, and clearly, neither of us entirely knows how to act around the other.

  But I’m the one who tried to sneak out. I’m the one who ginned up tales of plants to water and popcorn to purchase. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest you’d do that. That was terrible. And I’m not even sure why it upset me. I think . . . I just saw those toiletries, and I felt . . . silly. Can we please rewind? Go back to an hour ago when I was chill?”

  He takes a moment to consider it, then nods. “You’re chill. We’re chill. It’s all good. Like we said last night, right?”

  “It’s so good.”

  “But you need to know I could tell you were upset. Want to know how?”

  “How?”

  “Because you kept trying to joke. And after what we talked about last night, I started thinking maybe that wasn’t just about you trying to be lighthearted. That maybe you were covering up something that hurt.”

  Damn him. He’s too observant. Or maybe I let him in too far. If he can see that about me, he can hurt me, like my ex did. The wounds aren’t fresh, but the scars last forever.

  But even with the scars, a part of me likes that he understood how I was feeling, maybe even before I did.

  “I was a little upset.”

  “And now? Do you feel better?”

  A small smile tugs at my lips. “I do.”

  He drops a kiss onto my forehead, sweet and tender. More tender than I deserve. “Good. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.

  His words float across my skin like a warm breeze in the summer. “I don’t want to hurt you either.”

  “Then let’s keep not hurting each other.” He steps back, lifts his hands, then signs something. I have no idea what he’s saying.

  I shrug, confused. “Help a girl out?”

  He slows it down, repeating the finger moves as he says, “I said, It’s all good.”

  I smile. “I like that. I’m glad you said that.”

  He signs again, then says, “Anytime.”

  After a goodbye, I leave, but I don’t feel all good.

  Because a part of me wishes I were staying.

  Wishes I were getting ready at his place.

  Leaving with him.

  That we were going to brunch together.

  But that’s not going to happen.

  When I arrive at the West Village sidewalk café, the whole crew is draped over chairs, shades on, laughing, chatting.

  Bryn waves broadly then stands and gives me a hug, whispering, “Tell me everything about last night.”

  I shake my head, mouthing Later and wondering if she can tell that Ransom and I slept together. Whether it’s written in my eyes, or she simply has best-friend X-ray vision. Likely that last one.

  Logan stands too, his brown eyes twinkling. “Good to see you, Teagan. What’s the report?”

  “You were there, goading us. You should know,” I say with a sassy stare.

  “But I wasn’t there,” Summer says. “Did he cost five bucks or ten?”

  “Did you use a coupon to save some money?” Bryn chimes in. “Or maybe a promo code?”

  “They don’t have promo codes for something that cheap,” Summer says.


  “I was a prize last night, assholes,” Ransom says, flipping them the bird.

  “I bet you were a prize. Like the kind at the bottom of a cereal box,” Oliver teases.

  “And she won me for a fuck ton of money.”

  Fitz pats his chest. “Thanks to us making sure you went for the most.”

  “Thanks, I think,” Ransom says.

  “Now tell us,” Dean says, lifting his tea, likely English breakfast, “where will you go on this special date? Statue of Liberty? Empire State Building?”

  Fitz laughs then drapes an arm around his fiancé. “I told you I’d take you to those places, babe.”

  “You’ve been telling me that for months. Still haven’t made it,” Dean remarks, lifting a brow.

  “Seems you’re just too busy,” Summer says, smirking at the two guys getting married next weekend.

  Bryn laughs, a wink in her tone as she says, “Nothing wrong with busy.”

  Then all my friends raise their mugs, lifting their coffees and teas high and clinking.

  Toasting to being too busy.

  Because they are too busy. With each other. With love. With being together.

  My heart squeezes like someone’s hugging it. This is what I love. This is what I need.

  These people. This gorgeous image of my newfound family.

  Not another round of hot sex.

  And not hot sex that gets ruined by my own strange bloom of feelings.

  Because hot sex and blooming feelings can destroy this second chance at happiness that I have with my friends.

  When I look at Ransom and he flashes a friendly smile at me, I’m sure he must be thinking the same: Thank God we didn’t blow this by wanting more than we should have.

  Because showing up here as the brand-new couple—the couple that will never stick because we aren’t serious people and neither one of us wants a lasting thing—would snarl this ball of yarn that we both need.

  Love might work for these other people.

  But for people like us? It’s not in the cards.

  After we order, the conversation returns to the auction, and Fitz clears his throat, his eyes locking with mine as he gestures to Ransom. “So, you won our guy. Well done. We knew Ransom would be the prize cat and beat out Carnale and Martinez.”

  I blow on my fingernails. “Meow indeed.”

  Oliver runs a hand across the back of his neck and tilts his head. “Question though. Who won the Yankees closer?”

  “I can only presume his grandma was phoning in a bid,” Fitz chimes in, then nods to Ransom. “Sound about right?”

  I laugh. “No doubt. Or maybe one of his cats.”

  “Puss? Boots?” Ransom offers. “Or Puss, backed by Boots?”

  We laugh, then proceed to guess who might have been angling for the closer, and I’m grateful that Ransom and I can talk like this, sliding right back into the crew on the morning after a night like the one the two of us had.

  Even though this brunch hurts my heart a bit more than I expected.

  Because when the meal ends, everyone else goes home together, arm in arm, holding hands.

  Ransom and I go home in opposite directions, alone.

  Last night truly was a one-time thing.

  I need to remember that last night was a hookup—one with a friend I care about but still a one-off—especially when Bryn messages me several hours later, demanding all the details from the auction.

  * * *

  Bryn: About that later. It’s later now, and I want details, and I’m pretty sure the details are going to be my favorite kind—dirty.

  * * *

  Teagan: Ah, yes, you do love that variety.

  * * *

  Bryn: I do, and therefore . . . gimme, gimme, gimme.

  * * *

  I’m dying to clutch a pillow, tuck into my couch, and serve it up with a glass of wine and a side dish of girl talk. But it’s best to keep the convo simple, since that’s how I’m keeping things with Ransom.

  * * *

  Teagan: In a nutshell, we got it out of our systems, and we’re back to normal.

  * * *

  Bryn: Out of your systems? Has anyone ever wanted less sex after having good sex? It was good sex, right?

  * * *

  When I don’t answer immediately, Bryn calls me two seconds later.

  “Spill.”

  I laugh as I empty my dishwasher, setting plates in the cupboard. “We went home together. We slept together. We agreed it wouldn’t change a thing.”

  She squeals. “How was it?”

  “Amazing.” My chest flips as I remember how it felt to be with him.

  “Did you just sigh?”

  “No! That was not a sigh!” I say, denying, denying, and then denying some more.

  “So it wasn’t sigh-worthy?”

  It was song-worthy, album-worthy, skywriter-worthy.

  And while a lady doesn’t kiss and tell, Bryn and I tell each other everything. Also, I know there’s a good chance the gist of this will get back to Logan, and I would never do Ransom the disservice of selling him short. Especially since there is nothing short about Ransom.

  “It was amazing, as in multiples, as in insert adjectives like toe-curling and sheet-grabbing,” I say as she squeals like we’re both curled up on the couch clutching our pillows. But I try to tell the story matter-of-factly. “And I slept over too. And the best part is, brunch proves that we did all that banging and it doesn’t have to change a thing,” I say, focusing on the deal Ransom and I made, adding a cheery grin for good measure as I slide a glass to the back of the cupboard.

  Bryn chuckles. “You said he rocked your world. That is the literal definition of changing things.”

  “I mean it won’t change a thing today. In the daytime. Not in bed,” I say, sticking to logic.

  “But why?”

  “Because we won’t let it. We don’t want it to,” I say.

  “At the risk of sounding like a Netflix glitch . . . BUT WHY?”

  “You know why,” I say as I finish with the dishwasher, then hunt in my fridge for something to cook for dinner. Maybe eggs and mushrooms? That is the decision of the moment, and I focus on it. The question of more than one night with Ransom is not up for debate.

  The sympathy in Bryn’s sigh puts my back up. But not literally, because my head is inside the fridge. “You truly don’t want to even consider a relationship?”

  I bristle at the idea. “Relationships have the potential to destroy your soul.” I find the mushrooms and grab a cutting board. “And I don’t want to ruin my friendship with him, and especially not the chemistry with our friends. Which is why it’s perfect that he’s not interested in anything more, and neither am I. You know that.”

  She huffs. “You guys say that now . . .”

  I shake my head, amused, as I wash the veggies then line them up to slice. “We say it now because it’s true.”

  “It might not always be true,” she points out.

  “It’s true enough for me,” I say, then segue to the topic of Fitz and Dean’s wedding next weekend.

  When I end the call and whip up the omelet, I repeat the words to myself. It is true.

  True enough.

  Because otherwise, I’ll want a man I shouldn’t have.

  A relationship that might rattle and rock all I hold near and dear—my found family.

  But when I finish dinner, clean up, and walk through my empty apartment, I miss him already.

  So much more than I expected.

  10

  Ransom

  Luna arches a dubious brow as she mixes a cocktail. It’s her is this a true story look as I recount the tale of the auction.

  Tempest laughs, nodding, then answers her in sign language. “It’s true. Someone actually wants to date him.” My sassy sister—well, one of them—finishes by pointing her thumb at me.

  “Stranger things have happened,” Luna says. She can speak, but she prefers to sign. She also prefers to make
the drinks, since she says we suck at mixing cocktails, which is why her speedy hands are occupied.

  From my spot on a barstool, I roll my eyes as Luna adds mint to the mojitos. We’re at her apartment, and her husband is picking up takeout Thai food.

  “I was the prize last night, ladies. I went for the highest donation, and that donation goes to the companion dog organization,” I say with my hands, gesturing to the big blonde Labrador sprawled on the floor.

  Angela raises her snout at the word and the sign for “dog,” since she knows both. “Yes, you, girl,” I say to the gentle beast. “I’m talking about you.”

  Luna puts down the glasses, rounds the bar to me, and wraps me in a hug, her blonde curls smushed against my face. When she lets go, she meets my gaze and says, “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” I say, making sure she can read my lips.

  She returns to her mixing, and I continue the conversation by hand. “Admit it. I’m irresistible.”

  They both laugh, then Luna signs, “In his mind, he’s a legend. So, who is this woman who bought you?”

  “Yes, tell us everything about the miracle of last night,” Tempest adds.

  Miracle.

  I laugh privately. Sex with Teagan was like a miracle of pleasure. It was a revelation of bliss.

  “She’s great. Teagan’s a friend of mine,” I explain.

  “And will she stay a friend?” Luna asks.

  “I thought you didn’t date friends?” Tempest asks.

  Ah, they know me so well. “I don’t date friends, and I don’t plan on dating her,” I say and sign, but the second those words make landfall, they feel a little off, a lot wrong.

  I’d like to date Teagan.

  I’d like to see her.

  But that’s not what we agreed to last night. We made a deal to do sex the right way, so it wouldn’t ruin anything. So we’d snap back like a friendship-shaped rubber band.