Chapter 23 Misty
MISTY
Talbot shoves the phone back in his pocket then kisses me slow and filthy like we’re just two teenagers.
I refuse to acknowledge that this was what I’d always fantasized about with Austen. This exact thing, that he’d see me skating and then kiss me at the bleachers.
There’s no way Austen was ever going to kiss me here, like this.
I cling to Talbot, wishing I could get rid of all the padding between us.
“Let me take you out,” he whispers, nibbling my ear.
“Like, you’re going to off me?”
He nips the underside of my jaw. “No, let me take you out on a date, Gumdrop.”
“But I don’t understand why he wants to take me out.”
Sienna bangs her head against my headboard. “Because he wants to fuck you,” she says slowly.
“Then why doesn’t he just do that?” I argue.
“Because he’s not Austen. Because decent men want to take a woman out on a date, not just sleep with her. And don’t,” Sienna warns, “offer to pay.”
“Well, if we go to the Tinsel it’s how you use it.” I come to his defense.
“Wow, this is really life-changing stuff,” Lucy says sarcastically.
“I miss when you were cute.”
“I miss when Sienna knew how to dress.”
Sienna gasps.
Lucy picks up the clothes Sienna chose and dumps them on the floor.
“Ouch. Misty looked cute!” Sienna protests.
“She didn’t.” Lucy surveys the clothes. “Pants. Boots. Cropped sweater. Headband—”
“She looks like a gutter punk from The Lizzie Maguire Movie,” Sienna complains and turns up her nose.
“I don’t know who that is, but she sounds basic.”
Sienna and I clutch each other and cry.
Lucy hands me a pair of loose black jeans that scrunch at the calves.
“Really? A headband, though?” Sienna complains.
I check myself out in the mirror.
“You look good. I’m sending you these TikToks on sex,” Lucy says, phone in hand. “Refresh yourself so that you can convince him to get rid of Austen. Also, see if he can add Tiffany to the list and maybe Giselle and Clementine. They made fun of you.”
“Off with their heads!” Gran hoists her mug.
“Talbot said no rich white girls.” I sigh.
“What about rich white boys?” Lucy asks. “I had a crush on Peyton from school, and I told him that I wanted him to ask me out, and he ghosted me and now ignores me in the cafeteria. I want to add him to Talbot’s hit list.”
“If we’re taking requests…” Granny Keagan raises her hand.
Knowing what she’s thinking, I cut in, “He’s not offing Grandma Pam.”
“What about—”
“Or Aunt Kathy.”
“Here’s that makeup tutorial.” Lucy flicks through her phone and pulls out an overstuffed makeup bag. She sighs and purses her lips. “You really need to be better about moisturizing. I sent you that ten-step facial-care plan. I don’t see evidence that you’re using it.”
“I’m starting to think GrandSpam is right and Lucy spends too much time on her phone.”
Talbot is staring out in shock at the Christmas market-goers.
I walk up to him. “This is nothing.”
I’m irrationally, deliriously happy to see him.
Not because I’m excited about our date. I’m not. I’ve never been on a real date. Austen didn’t take me on dates, and boys at school never asked me out. All of Lucy’s crazy videos didn’t help at all.
I was worried he wouldn’t show up, but here he is.
He leans in and kisses me, just a brush of his mouth against mine, soft and casual like he’s allowed to do that now. Like we’ve been doing this for a long time.
I feel it all the way down to my knees.
He cups his hand over my chin briefly, no gloves—he’s a real New Englander. Then he pulls back, returning to his strange, confused watching of the townspeople who are, and this is an understatement, absolutely shit-faced.
“Drunk people after lunch is normal,” I tell him, not sure what I should do with my hands.
It seemed Brielle, with her boyfriends, was constantly touching them, rubbing their backs, playing with their hair.
“During Christmastime in Maplewood Falls, you can start serving alcohol at eight in the morning as long as it’s holiday themed.”
“These people aren’t drunk; they’re completely plastered. I think I saw a guy in an elf onesie almost pass out in a snowbank.”
“We should get him out. It’s bad for business if people die at the Christmas market.”
His lip catches in his teeth at my joke. “His friends rescued him, but I’m sure he appreciates your concern.” His hands are back at my waist.
It’s cold, but Lucy insisted that I had to have my coat unzipped for the vibes. As my stomach flutters and does backflips, I see why.
I try to remember what the videos said on how to date—be friendly and fun and a good conversationalist. Ask him about himself; men love to talk about themselves.
I cling to Talbot’s arm then try to loosen my grip.
Keep your back straight, tits out…
“So, what do you do for work?” Wait, no! I’m drowning. I’m flailing.
“I mean, uh…” I try to remember the next question on the list. Or literally any question on the list. “I mean, obviously, you um…”
“Take out the trash?” One dark eyebrow raises.
“Right. Um, what do you do for fun?”
“Fuck. Snowboard. Play hockey.”
“Me too.”
He laughs. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I love winter sports.”
“And sex?”
“Um...” Gulp.
He tugs one of the curls under my headband. “I forgot you’re sheltered.”
I want to shake him and scream, Why are you interested in me?
We’re calm. “I need a drink,” I rasp.
“It’s only…” Talbot wraps his forearm under my neck to check his military watch. “One fifteen, Gumdrop.”
“It’s been a week.” I let out a breath then realize that’s not a sexy sound. “Sorry, I suck at dates,” I admit then cringe. You’re not supposed to tell the guy how clueless you are.
Talbot drapes an arm around me. He’s still in that leather jacket like it’s not freaking cold and snowing out here. He smells like smoke and leather and man.
“Let me guess, dates with Austen: Were you going to the ice rink and watching him flirt with female fans?”
“That would have been a step up. ‘Dates’ were more like sitting in his car, listening to him complain about how he’s not paid enough and not played enough and doesn’t have enough sponsorship deals and how it’s my fault.”
“He sounds charming. A real catch. Really makes it clear why every bottle blonde in the Northeast wants to hitch themselves to a pro hockey player.”
“They’re not all bad. Ryan West—”
“Is a god.”
“He could have played even longer, except my mother ruined his career.” I repeat what Grandma Pam and Aunt Kathy like to say.
“I think he would have played if he wanted to.” Talbot looks at me quizzically.
“He’d been playing over twenty years at that point, and that’s just pro, not counting all the major junior hockey.
I’m sure a person gets to a point in life where they look around and decides that maybe five Stanley Cups, three Olympic golds, and countless other trophies are enough, that maybe it’s time to do something different. ”
He seems suddenly pensive.
“Anyway.” He shakes himself. “Ryan West went out on a high note. Stanley Cup, mic drop, and walk off the ice? Legend.” His hand tightens on my arm. “Drink?”
“Hoping to get me drunk enough to let you finally complete your hit job?”
“Full disclosure, I’m hoping to get you drunk enough to let me eat you out the rest of the afternoon.”
I babble excuses and hold up Cocoa’s leash. “I have the dog.”