20. Shanay
Twenty
Shanay
“You’re glowing.”
I roll my eyes as Tara shoves another sparkly sash across my chest.
“She’s not glowing,” Brie says. “She’s sex-flushed. That man’s been rearranging her insides and you know it.”
I choke on my mocktail.
“I—what—”
“She’s not denying it,” Tara sings, twirling a feather boa around her neck.
We’re in a back booth at The Rusty Elk—half the tavern reserved for my hen night, the other half allegedly off-limits to Mike and his boys.
But I keep glancing toward the front door like he might come crashing through it, anyway.
“You guys are ridiculous,” I say.
“You’re the one who’s marrying Misty Mountain’s answer to a Viking,” Brie fires back.
“Have you seen his arms?” Tara adds. “You know they’re gonna be gripping the back of your thighs at that altar—”
I nearly spit out my drink.
Brie slaps the table. “Confess. Has he made you call him husband yet?”
“No,” I say.
“Yet.”
“Stop!”
But I’m laughing. My face hurts from smiling. My body’s warm, a little buzzed, and just on edge enough that every time my phone lights up, I pray it’s him.
—-
He’s been quiet tonight.
No texts. No calls.
Which is fine. Normal.
Except Mike Costa doesn’t do quiet unless he’s plotting something.
And my body? It’s already keyed up.
My panties are damp.
I keep crossing and uncrossing my legs.
I can still feel him from the other night—deep inside me, growling forever while he slid that ring onto my finger.
My body doesn’t know how to forget him now.
—-
Brie leans in, conspiratorial. “Do you think he’s out there… losing his mind?”
Tara fans herself. “He probably threw a chair already.”
“I hope so,” I murmur.
Because I need him right now.
My skin’s tingling. My thighs ache. I’ve been on edge since sunset.
And if he walked through that door right now, I wouldn’t even blush.
I’d crawl into his lap and let everyone watch.
—-
And then—
It happens.
The door swings open.
The noise of the tavern dips just enough for me to hear his boots on hardwood.
Then the entire room tilts.
He’s standing there.
Mike.
Big. Broad. Bearded. Eyes locked on mine like nothing else exists.
My mouth goes dry.
“Uh,” Tara whispers. “Is your man about to cause a scene?”
“He looks like he’s about to commit a felony,” Brie says.
Mike storms through the tavern like it’s empty.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t slow down.
Just walks straight to me, grabs me around the waist, and hauls me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
The whole bar gasps.
I squeal. “Mike—what the hell—”
“You’re done.”
“That’s my line!”
“Say goodbye.”
I’m breathless. Laughing. Wet.
My girls wave and hoot as he storms out of the bar with me slung over him like a prize.
“You’re not even letting me walk?” I gasp.
“Nope.”
He smacks my ass.
I moan.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re dripping.”
“Maybe I like being hauled around.”
He growls. “You’ll like what comes next more.”