CHAPTER 33 #2
“Let me get this,” Sebastien said, reaching for the breast pocket of his blazer. But Tyler didn’t flinch—she knew his game. He always waited for someone else to put a card down before swooping in with his grand gesture. Classic Sebastien: generous only when it didn’t cost him a dime.
“I’ve got it,” Cary said, and Sebastien put his wallet away without protesting.
After the meal—a choice between rubber chicken or slimy mushroom-stuffed peppers—Cary’s bandmates said their goodbyes and left. Tyler envied them. She was ready to go, too, but the gala would last another two hours—maybe three if people kept congratulating themselves.
By nine p.m. she was a goner. With every stupid story Tommy told she edged the butter knife closer to her wrist. Is it sharp enough? Sure the gala was punishment, but this was cruel and unusual. And potentially dangerous.
She held her phone underneath the table and texted Cary. Want to get out of here? Jets are playing. Game just started.
He replied, Please! Be right back. xo
How was she going to ditch her colleagues without being found out?
Cary stood from the table, and Vegas said, “I’ll come with you.”
“Thanks, I’ve got it,” Cary responded.
A few minutes later her phone vibrated. It was a text message from Cary.
Play along.
At that point she was game for anything.
Cary returned to the table and opened his hand. “It came off,” he said, revealing a black button in his palm like a magician.
“Again?” Vegas asked. “Tyler, you know how to sew, right?”
“I do,” she said nonchalantly.
“I don’t want to walk around like this.” Cary opened the middle of his shirt.
“Tyler!” Sebastien barked, making her flinch. “Go. Help him.”
“Fine,” she muttered, squeezing Kim’s hand.
She wasn’t the only one with an ingenious plan. Little did she know, Cary was as crafty as that girl in the Beastie Boys track.
“You’re still coming to the party, right Cary?” Tommy asked while stealing his seat. “There’ll be tons of hot chicks! Bring that little minx.”
Cary’s jaw tightened. “I’ll try, but I’ve got a speech to write.”
“I thought Tyler was helping with that.” Sebastien gave her a death stare.
“It’s my fault for procrastinating.” He placed his hand on his chest. “I should’ve done it before I got here.”
Sebastien pointed at Tyler. “Help him with his speech while you’re at it.”
Vegas had arranged a rideshare to get them back to the hotel, and truth be told, Tyler had never been so happy to see an Uber in her life. At that point, she would’ve settled for a rickshaw—pulled by Dave, of course.
“I’m assuming you took the button off your shirt?” she asked.
“It wasn’t the first time,” Cary said with a laugh.
“Cary! Did you—”
“Sorry, but I had to get you alone.” He laced his fingers through hers and kissed the back of her hand. “I’m not even superstitious, babe. I could’ve worn a different shirt that night.”
She shook her head, smiling. “I’m not superstitious either—except for Jets games and birthday wishes. How did you know I could sew?”
“Dylan. I figured it ran in the family.”
She gave his arm a playful squeeze. “You’re keeping secrets from me.”
“Ow!” he teased, rubbing the spot. “Just that one.” He crossed his heart.
“Really?” She raised a brow. “Vegas didn’t tell you—”
“About Kim? I just found out.”
She nodded. “What do you think?”
“I’m happy for them.”
“Me too,” she said softly. “Vegas and my bestie.”
Back at the hotel, they changed into their matching Winnipeg Jets onesies, crawled into bed, and flipped on the TV.
“What about your speech?” Tyler asked during a commercial break.
Cary smirked. “I’ve never written a speech in my life. Not about to start now.”
“What?” She sat up, scandalized. “You’re just going to wing it? I’d be on draft number twenty, color-coded and laminated.”
He chuckled and rubbed her shoulder. “Relax. I’ve got an idea of what I’ll say.”
“It’s back on!” she said, whipping her head toward the screen. “That’s goalie interference!” She pointed furiously. “He was in the crease.” She turned back to him. “Seriously, though—aren’t you even a little nervous?”
Cary ran a hand through his hair. “Why would I be nervous?”
She gave him a look. “Um, the crowd? The cameras? The millions of people watching?”
“Babe, I do this for a living.”
Right. You’re Cary Kingston.
She grabbed the remote control. “Want to watch SNL after this?”
“I haven’t seen it in years,” he said. “Probably since I was on it. Who’s the musical guest?”
She pulled up the schedule on the TV. “I love them!”
“I’m officially old.” He sighed. “I like the host, but I’ve never heard of this band.”
“That’s okay, I’ve never heard of the host,” she admitted. “We make a great pair, don’t we?”
“The best pair.” He laughed, although he seemed to mean it.
She sank into the pillows and sighed. “I wish John Mulaney or Dave Chappelle hosted SNL every week.”
Cary chuckled. “Like a residency?”
“Exactly. Or at least bring in a comedian to guest write. Not some actor who thinks mugging for the camera counts as a punchline.” She kept her eyes on the hockey game, gently rubbing her thumb along his. “Don’t forget to thank your parents tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m sure they’ll be watching on TV.”
She snorted, covering her mouth. “They’re sitting with us, Cary.”
His eyes widened. “Wait—my parents are coming? Here? To Saskatoon?”
She bit her bottom lip and nodded.
“You invited them?”
“Of course I did,” she said sweetly. “I’m in charge of your events, remember?”
“Ah, but you’re usually all talk.”
She grabbed the remote and shut off the TV. “You’re going to pay for that, Cary Kingston.”
He flashed a smile. “I knew I had money for some reason.”
She straddled him, grinding her hips with slow, deliberate pressure. One by one, she undid the buttons on her onesie, letting the fabric fall open to reveal a sliver of skin. When he reached for her, she batted his hand away and arched her back, her hair cascading down to brush the bed.
“Is this turning you on, Cary?”
With both hands, she cupped her breasts, teasing him while the hardness beneath her shifted and grew.
Once he was fully hard, she leaned forward, letting her hair fall into his face. His breath was warm on her skin.
“You’re right,” she whispered. “I’m all talk.”
“No . . . no! I was joking!” He writhed beneath her, desperate for more.
She grinned wickedly, buttoned up her onesie, and reached for the remote.
“As if, Cary. The Jets are playing.”