2. Annie
Two
Annie
M y best friend must have been secretly working out for months, because now that I get a good look at him… Wyatt is ripped. He’s a tower of sculpted muscle, and when he shifts, the rigid line of his abs presses against the soft cotton of his shirt.
I’m so used to seeing him bundled up in woolen sweaters in the winter, or in rolled shirt sleeves in summer. When was the last time Wyatt Kinnear wore an honest to God t-shirt? When we were teenagers? Even earlier than that? To be honest, it’s hard to imagine Wyatt dressed casually even as a little toddler, because surely back then he was waddling around in little suits.
My bestie has always been so adorably stuffy, with his pristine clothes and the medical journals he used to read for fun—back before he became a doctor and those journals turned into work.
Still. Wyatt in a t-shirt? He really is cutting loose tonight. Even when we used to lay out on the grass behind our houses and sunbathe after school, he’d be in a button-up.
“Follow my lead, Mister Groom-to-Be.”
Keeping our hands tangled, I pull Wyatt through the crowded bar. People glance over with alarm when they see the bag on his head, but they relax into grins when they see the feather boa and Wyatt’s fingers knitted with mine, his big body following obediently.
Yup, this isn’t a real kidnapping. This is the first of many bachelor night antics to come.
Cheers go up as we cut through the crowd, and hands clap Wyatt on the shoulders. He tenses visibly with each pat, but he says nothing as I pull him outside into the fresh spring air. It’s getting late, but the sun’s only just sunk below the horizon, leaving streaks of pink on the darkening sky.
“The first place is walking distance.”
Wyatt grunts, nodding his head inside the bag. It looks so silly, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Heavy leather boots thud against stone as we walk. Damn, the makeover really is full-body, and I peer at him out of the corner of my eye. It’s those worn jeans hugging his muscled thighs; the scratched-up work boots; the t-shirt. Those tattoos.
Is this an early midlife crisis? Should I be intervening somehow, telling Wyatt that Brent loves him as he is? They’re two perfect, stuffy doctors together, clearly made for each other.
Or should I go ahead and confirm that this look is a million times hotter than Wyatt’s usual vibe? Admit that I’m getting kinda hot under the collar, then laugh it off so it doesn’t get awkward?
Hmm. Tricky.
When we were younger, everyone always assumed we were dating. Wyatt-and-Annie, Annie-and-Wyatt. In fairness, we were practically glued together, always hanging out or watching movies together, bundled up on the sofa in the den.
Little did they know that Wyatt preferred other boys. Or that I harbored a secret crush of my own—on the other Kinnear twin. The dangerous one.
My heart squeezes in my chest, and I force those thoughts away. They won’t help. They never do.
“You trying to crush my fingers?” Wyatt murmurs, but he sounds amused. I clear my throat and force my iron grip to relax. We walk past a wall covered in climbing ivy, the tendrils reaching out to tickle my upper arm, but I barely even register the sensation. Too lost in memories.
“Sorry. I was just thinking about your brother.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” The air between us is tense suddenly, and shoot, if I could take those words back, I would. Here we are, strolling happily down a tree-lined city street, setting off on our bachelor party adventure—then I bring up Dean , the sore spot in both our psyches. What is wrong with me?
“But forget about him,” I say, filling my voice with forced cheer. “This night is about us. And Brent. And the start of your big marriage adventure. Are you super excited to say ‘I Do’?”
“Sure,” Wyatt says dryly. “Can’t wait.”
Even with a bag over his head, he steers me around a wide crack in the pavement. How does he do that? Are those some kind of heightened surgeon instincts?
I really should stop squeezing his fingers so hard. These hands save lives.
“Here we are.” Five minutes later, I tug Wyatt to a stop on the corner of a concrete lot. Past the rows of cars and trucks, a big warehouse is lit up, with electronic music thumping from inside. Screams drift out of the open windows, but they melt into laughter.
I whip the bag off Wyatt’s head with a flourish, leaving his dark hair all ruffled up and his cheeks faintly flushed.
“Laser tag,” he reads on the front sign, his expression blank. Another shriek floats across the parking lot, carried with the music on the breeze, and it’s so not Wyatt’s thing, it’s laughable.
“You said you wanted a traditional bachelor night,” I point out. “‘No strippers, but the real thing’. That’s what you told me.”
And that’s what I’ve planned. All the raucous, messy, non-Wyatt activities that make up a classic bachelor party. Minus the inflatable dicks and strip clubs, because those might give my prissy bestie a stroke. He asked, and I’m gonna deliver.
“Laser tag,” Wyatt says again, then he turns to me with a slow smile. The flecks of gold in his brown eyes glow in the lamplight, and a shiver rolls down my spine in response. What is with me tonight? I’ve never gotten flustered around my best friend before.
“Annie?” Wyatt says. “I’m gonna fucking destroy you.”
My spine snaps straight.
Oh, it is on.
* * *
Forty minutes later, the back of my cream silk camisole is damp with sweat and I’m crouched behind a stack of tires, breathing hard.
Technically, I’m not supposed to crouch down to hide behind the scenery in here. Just like I’m not supposed to run screaming every time Wyatt pops out from the shadows, or wave my gun around like a loon, spraying laser shots at the ceiling until I lose him again in the maze.
But hey, whoever made those rules didn’t account for Wyatt Kinnear. There’s no fair fight without my antics; no way for me to shoot the little pack on his chest before he’s sniped me with ruthless efficiency. Not a single one of his laser shots is wasted. Are those reflexes from medical school? Or maybe he played more video games than I realized as a teenager. Either way, god damn.
“No fair,” I yell when I sense Wyatt getting closer. Can’t hear the thump of his boots or the rustle of his clothes over the pounding music, but I don’t need to. The little hairs on my arms are standing on end, and that means he’s near. “You’re too good at this. Let me put the bag back over your head.”
A low voice answers, only a few inches from my ear. “If you like, Annie.”
I leap up with a shriek and swing my laser gun around, but he’s already gone. Disappeared into the haze and strobing lights.
It’s hot as hell in here, and it stinks like stale teenage boys’ deodorant. The music is so loud it buzzes my ear drums, and the haze itches my eyes. The weird plastic vest I’m wearing keeps chafing on my bare shoulders, and I don’t think I’ve hit Wyatt even once since we started.
It’s the most fun I’ve had in years. My goofy grin has stretched so wide my cheeks ache.
“Coward,” I yell, shooting randomly into the shadows. “Come and face me like a man.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when a strong arm snakes around my waist from behind. Wyatt knocks the laser gun from my grip in one easy motion and yanks me back against his chest, our plastic vests knocking together. The nozzle of his laser gun prods beneath my jaw, and his words vibrate against my temple.
“Surrender.”
A hot, vicious throb of arousal makes my thighs tremble. I squeeze my legs together surreptitiously, hoping my best friend hasn’t noticed the traitorous reactions of my body.
No, I will not rub back against him. That would cross every single line between us, never mind the fact that he’s freaking engaged, and gay to boot. Bad Annie.
“That’s not how that gun works,” I point out, fighting to keep my voice level. “You need to shoot my pack, not my neck.”
“Shame.” Even through two thick plastic vests, I can feel Wyatt’s heartbeat thudding against my back. His mouth hovers near my temple, his lips almost brushing my sweat-damp skin. “I like it better this way.”
My breath catches. My brain stalls.
And he uses my moment of distraction to spin me around and shoot my chest pack three times, sniping me at point blank range.
“Murderer!” I yell, snatching up my own gun and shooting wildly at him too, missing every time. Wyatt goes weirdly still for a moment, his expression strange, then he’s back in the game, crouching down and jerking his chin at the maze behind me.
“Run, little rabbit. Run.”
I poke out my tongue and go crashing through a doorway, ready to hide behind another pile of tires.
Best. Night. Ever.