Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HOSPITAL
“ O kay,” Lars says, nodding but not making a move. His violet eyes are fixed on my brother, but his massive frame remains glued to the chair.
From across the bar, Jackson stands motionless, his brow wrinkled, and his mouth stretched into a confused smile. No doubt, he’s perplexed by his sister and her date sitting across the bar, staring at him.
“Move it, wolfy”—I kick his shin—“or that guy in the corner checking Jackson out will make his move.”
Eyes narrowed, his head snaps to a tall, ginger-haired man smiling Jackson’s way. There’s little concern that my brother will reciprocate the redhead’s attention with how his focus is locked on his werewolf, but I’ll use it as motivation, nonetheless.
“The hell he will,” he grits. Attention zeroed in on Jackson, Lars prowls toward the axe ring.
My smile falters with Jackson’s at first shocked, and then annoyed expression.
The two of them go back and forth about something; Lars scrubbing his palm down his face and Jackson wagging a finger at him.
Features pinched, Jackson aims his free hand from across the room toward me.
It’s clear their argument isn’t about Jackson’s axe-throwing position. It’s about me.
Jackson may like Lars, but he’ll never go for it.
As brash as my brother is, his moral compass is due north.
In no world would he go for anyone that he thought I was interested in.
Even if he and Hope hadn’t sat beside me soothing away my tears after the truth about Lena and Will came out, my brother isn’t built to not think of others. He’s a protector.
“Jackson!” Arms flailing in the air, I scream over the crowd.
Several people turn to stare at me, including my brother. Confusion twists his features.
“Let Lars show you!” I cup my hands around my mouth to boost my shout.
A silent conversation plays between our expressions. His is confused. Mine is coaxing.
He likes you. Go for it , I mouth.
He just gapes until I give him a thumbs up.
Still a little unsure, he peers between Lars and me and then nods.
A tentative smile blooming, he then utters something to Lars.
With a hesitant, but hopeful expression covering his face, Lars places his big hands on Jackson’s waist. Aiming him toward the target, he towers over my brother.
His careful movement paints the picture of what’s happening.
Lars’s mouth is inches from Jackson’s ear, his gruff voice instructing him.
His strong hands coasting from Jackson’s hips to his arm, guiding him in the proper axe-throwing technique.
“Someone’s getting laid tonight,” I laughingly mutter to myself before twisting back in my seat.
As happy as I am for my brother and Lars, this does complicate things.
Something I hadn’t thought of until just now.
What if this isn’t just a little flirtation but something real between them?
If I undo the wish, what happens to Lars?
To my brother? And if I’m unable to undo it, do I pick Lars?
Will I have to marry him? How will my brother feel about that?
Stop spiraling! With a long breath, I pick up my cider. Things are already a mess, and I just keep making them messier. At least this will offer a little happiness to both Lars and Jackson, even if it may only be temporary.
“Did your date just leave you for your brother?”
Looking up, I find Davis, a furrow notching his brow, peering between me and my brother. Lars stands a few feet off to the side, his complete focus on Jackson as he throws his axe.
“Yeah.” I take a long pull of my drink. “But Lars is just a friend. One who’s clearly into my brother,” I chuckle, watching Lars lift Jackson into a swinging hug after he hits the bullseye.
“Clearly.” Laughter vibrates in Davis’s chest. “May I?” He taps the top of the chair Lars had vacated.
“Of course.”
He takes the seat. “So, Lars? Like in your book?”
“Yeah.” I take another quick pull from my drink.
Davis’s dedication to his romance education means he’s making his way through my books.
Last night, while Estelle kicked our asses at Uno, he’d shared that he was almost done with The Duke’s Darling .
Which means he may have started reading Lars’s book and may be able to clock the similarities between the books and the two men he’s met.
I don’t want to lie to him, but how does one explain that they made a wish with a lucky penny that accidentally brought three fictional men to life? Even I have trouble at times believing this, and I’m living it.
“You really do cannibalize your life for your books.” His chuckle is warm.
“You have no idea.” I huff a laugh.
“Was Lord James based on anyone?”
“He wasn’t, but now I’m not so sure.” Waving my right hand in the air, I blow out a breath that sounds like helicopter blades whooshing through the air. “Recently, I’ve discovered that I’ve pulled from people in my life without knowing.”
“Here’s hoping he was just a figment of your imagination because I’m not sure I’d care for him in real life.”
One eyebrow raised, my head tilts. “He didn’t grow on you after all?”
“No.” He crinkles his nose.
Somehow, even his look of distaste is adorable, eliciting a flutter in my chest. It may be the effect of that boyish grin.
Davis has this mix of sweet nerdiness and virile manliness.
Like someone who can do your taxes, change your tire, and press you up against a back gate, his masculinity rubbing against you until you see stars.
“So, you didn’t like the book?” I ask, slamming the rest of my drink, the liquid cooling my heated bloodstream from my more than-friendly thoughts about Davis.
“I didn’t say that.” His face scrunches.
“The book was great. Your prose is vivid. It transports you into the story and keeps you turning the page. The characters are layered and rich. I just didn’t like Lord James.
His sole focus is on destroying Lady Cecily’s father, and he doesn’t hesitate to manipulate her…
to play with her heart to get what he wants. ”
“Huh… Most readers find him dashing. They loved seeing his arc of letting go of his thirst for vengeance to be with Lady Cecily.”
“I want to believe that, but even in his pseudo-redemption arc, he still gets what he ultimately wants. Sure, he grovels and renounces the vendetta with her father, but he still gets everything in the end; his vengeance and the lady. A lady I don’t think he deserves.
” He clicks his tongue twice. “Is Lady Cecily based on you? She has some peachy qualities to her.”
“Peachy?” An obnoxious chortle bursts from me.
“Yeah, peachy.” He doubles down with a smirk.
“What are these peachy qualities?”
“Are we fishing for compliments?” He leans forward on his elbows and mischief sparks in his features.
“Just character research to see if I accidentally imprinted on Lady Cecily.” I bat my lashes like a brazen flirt, instead of being the un-batting-eye friend I should be.
“Feisty. Sweet. Witty. Beautiful,” he says, his low voice a little husky. “Loyal. Supportive. Sometimes a little too focused on everyone else’s happiness, instead of her own.”
Et tu, Davis? There’s no disguising the frown that replaces my flirtatious smile. He’s not wrong, but annoyance still festers inside me with the second mention of this particular proclivity of mine by two different men in a ten-minute period.
“Did I say something wrong?” He leans back, concern dipping his smile.
“No…” I sigh. “Not you. I’ve had a few people lecture me about that little character flaw. That my fixation on other people’s happiness is getting in the way of my own.”
“As far as flaws, it could be worse. There are already enough people focused on their own happiness with no regard for how it impacts others,” he says, sadness coats his words.
A twinge surges in my chest with the memory of Davis’s comment about most people disappointing you during our first date. Not just his dad who made promises that he never kept –because something was always more important than his son – but the many other adults along the way.
“And you’ve had a lot of that character flaw already. I can’t imagine what it must have been like,” I say, my expression soft.
“Yeah. Lots of people focused on getting a check for a foster kid until they found one with autism too challenging. Until my moms came along. They aren’t as self-sacrificing as Lady Cecily, but they care about others…
They care about me. Until them and my grandparents, I’d never felt like what I wanted mattered. That I mattered.”
“You matter.” Reaching across the table, I thread our fingers. The action was partly meant to comfort him, but mostly to soothe my own emotions. It physically hurts to think about this man in any pain.
“It’s okay—” He squeezes our joined hands. “I know. My sad story has a happy ending, remember?”
“I know, but it doesn’t mean that I’m not sad for what you went through.
No matter how things were with my parents’ marriage as a kid, I knew they were there.
That I was important. It hurts to think that you didn’t have that, and not just because you’re wonderful, but because every kid deserves that. ”
“You think I’m wonderful?” He strokes his thumb over the top of my hand, the skin hums under the caress of his rough pads.
“Now, who’s fishing for compliments?” I tease, biting my lower lip. “But, yes, you’re wonderful.”
“For the record, I think you’re wonderful too.” His throat bobs. “Which is why I’ll be obnoxious and say while your preoccupation with other people’s happiness may not hurt anyone but yourself, I don’t like the idea of you being hurt.”
His words caress me almost as sweetly as his fingers. They aren’t chiding like those of my brothers but pained. It’s as if somehow my hurt is his .