26. Briggs
brIGGS
“I thought you said a couple of friends.”
Tucker Hale doesn’t smirk or smile, just extends a hand for me to bro-hug it out with him, and I return the gesture because it’s been years.
Years since I’ve seen him.
Years since we’ve talked.
But Tucker isn’t the guy who constantly needs to check in on folks. If you text him, he’ll respond. If you need him, he’ll come. And, if you stare too long at pretty curly-haired brunettes, he’ll call you out.
“I guess it depends on your definition of a couple,” he replies flatly. “Few people wanted to get together and hang out, see you, you know, because you’re famous and all.”
I’m at his home, in the middle of twenty acres, where a full-blown get-together is in full swing because his barn is lit up in white lights with a country song blaring from it.
I notice a lot of the people present. I went to school with almost all of them. And, I’m not going to lie, it’s refreshing not to have a bunch of middle-aged women wanting to corner me to get answers about Layla Jean and me.
“Beers are in every cooler,” Tucker tells me. “There’s food. Just enjoy, man. It’s nice to see you.”
He begins to walk away, but I grab him by his shirt. “Did Cruz Weston leave town today?”
“This mornin’, I hear. You gonna have a problem?”
“Threatened my agent about revealin’ my marriage to Layla Jean to the public. I’m trying to prevent that from happenin’.”
“If that does happen, we have ways to keep the press out.”
I lift a brow. “How?”
“Well, we have our own celebrity in town who loves baseball and has a knack for annoying folks.” I make a face because I have no idea who he’s talking about. “Micah Wolfe.”
“Micah?”
Micah.
Micah.
Micah.
My head flies forward as a hand cracks along the back of it, and I immediately glance over my shoulder to see who the fuck just did that.
And it resonates.
Micah Wolfe.
He’s gotten me out of so many jams in this town as a kid; I don’t know if I should be slightly frightened that he remembers me or relieved that he has power in this town.
“Was hopin’ I was gonna see you tonight,” he hedges, holding a beer in his hand as he casually looks at me like he didn’t openly just hit me. “I need you to stop by the Marshhogs and motivate my kids.”
Kids?
But, instead, I blurt out while my palm runs along the spot he plummeted, “What the fuck is a marshhog?”
“My little league team.” He extends a hand. “It’s good to see you, Kerrigan.”
Reluctantly, I take his hand and shake it because the smack to the head jostled some annoyance and, fuck me, decorum. “Still doesn’t answer the question.”
He shrugs dismissively. “I dunno, town voted. That’s what it is.”
Okay…
“Kerrigan over here might be runnin’ into a media frenzy,” Tucker informs him without hesitation. “Personally, I don’t want a bunch of city assholes here, so ideas?”
“I’m sure I can come up with a few.” Micah looks back at me. “When?”
“Not sure. Waitin’ to see if Cruz decides to fuck around and find out.”
He lets out an exaggerated scoff. “Why didn’t you go for the legs? Breakin’ his arm means he can still walk around.”
“Was in the moment,” I deadpan.
“Don’t worry about Layla,” Micah confirms without the whole backstory. “She’s covered here. And drinking heavily.”
My eyes snap around, looking for curly brown hair and some fuckable dress I know she’s wearing. “Where? Here?”
“Did you ever figure out the bus situation?” Tucker asks Micah. “If not, we can get a few people together to drive the kids to—”
“Where’s my wife?” I bark out a little, sending a searing glower in Micah’s direction, but all he does is smile.
“With my girlfriend. Tossin’ horseshoes—wait, no. She’s playin’ wine pong. My girl isn’t a huge fan of—”
“Shut the fuck up, Wolfe,” I ground out, taking a step to get around his body when he mom-arms me to a halt.
“My kids,” he repeats. “It’d mean a lot to them if you could swing by before you leave. Some of them want to go professional. You’re exposure they’ll never have again.”
I frown. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He mocks my expression. “You’re not playing anymore?”
“No, I am, but this won’t be my last visit.”
“Could’ve fooled us,” Tucker returns. “Ya haven’t been home since you left. Bought a house but never came back.”
“I bet you’ve had a field day explaining to everybody why,” Micah replies. “You have a wife here but no—”
“It’s her Uncle Ben,” Tucker explains. “It was a secret.”
Micah’s eyes widen a little. “Damn. And I thought our little secret was a big one.”
Eh.
I was seventeen and snuck into a bar a few towns over. I was pissed over the Layla/Cruz thing, nothing too out of the ordinary for me at that time.
There was a drunk guy on the dance floor, feeling up some girl, and she was trying to get away from him.
She had dark curly hair, like Layla’s, and the disrespect and lack of personal space set me off the edge. All I could think about was Cruz doing that to my girl, and I just started whaling on him.
Micah was there, a few years older than me, with a few of his buddies, and they got me outside and on the way back to Magnolia Ridge before the owner could call the cops and press charges.
If he hadn’t been there, I could’ve gone down for assault and lost my chances at a baseball career.
“You’ll always be my first,” I vouch. “I appreciate you, man.”
“Anytime, brother.” He jerks his head toward the barn. “She’s in there. Tucker will text me your number. We’ll stay in touch.”
“Will do.”
He drops his arm and allows me free passage. The barn is full of people bullshitting and some dancing around.
When I get inside, there are several tables set up with red Solo cups and games commencing, but it’s Layla Jean and those goddamn floral dresses that receive the sole spotlight.
“Put it in,” Fallon yells at Layla from the other side of the table. “Nice and slow, baby!”
Layla positions a neon yellow ping-pong ball in the air and aims while Fallon bends over, getting her face near the cup. “Fall, get away from the area.”
“Just pretend you’re going to hit me in the face.”
“I don’t want to hit you in the face.”
“You’re not. It’s just going to help you out…with missin’.”
Ah, so she’s not on Layla’s team.
My focus searches for her partner, and it lands on some redheaded dude with the whole nine. Freckles, dimples, one of those boyish smiles, country charm, and soon-to-be a fist in his face if he thinks teaming up with my wife was going to be something he was going to flirt with tonight.
Craning my neck to thin out some of my temper, I impatiently wait for Layla to toss the damn ball before I approach her from behind.
But she takes her time.
And more time.
“Layla, while we’re still young, woman.”
Woman?
That’s coming from Freckles, and I can’t help but glower at him.
However, it’s for shit because he doesn’t even notice me, which is beneficial if I wanted to jump him, but we’re in Magnolia Ridge.
Things just aren’t normally that violent.
Unless I’m in town.
An eruption of cheering commences then, and Layla Jean begins bouncing around with her arms in the air before she rounds the table and closes the distance between her and Freckles.
They hug, and I watch his hands, which stay in mannerly places on her body, before she turns around and her hazel eyes immediately connect with mine as if they can’t not notice I’m here.
Then she beams at me, and I’m struck speechless and immobile.
“Briggs,” she quips, practically skipping over to me. “You’re here.”
And she’s drunk.
Her hazel eyes are glossed over, hiding all transgressions about how she didn’t want me around in the first place. Her cheeks are a pretty pink, and the smile she’s wearing is definitely alcohol induced.
I steal a look over her head at Freckles, wondering if he’s the reason why she’s toasted when she tugs on my t-shirt and receives my immediate attention.
“Why are you glaring?” she poses innocently, and she would because she’s Layla. No one has any bad intentions until they show them outright, and there’s no denying them. That was the problem before with her and Cruz.
“Why are you blitzed?”
She makes a face. “I’m not. I’m…well, maybe a little buzzed, but I’m fine.”
“What are you doing here?”
That has her expression heaving in response because, technically, this is more her town than mine, more her friends, and more her space than it is something I can claim.
“Tucker invited me,” she shares evenly. “Said he was having a little shindig for you since you were in town. Was I not allowed?”
“I didn’t say that. But my name was attached, so I figured you would’ve run the other way.”
Layla looks heavenward and shakes her head at me. “It’s not that deep. Besides, I’m your alleged wife—”
“There’s no alleged,” I retort with a bit of grit. “We’re married.”
“And so I should show face,” she continues as if I didn’t say anything. “So, here I am.”
“Briggs,” I hear Fallon holler over the music and chatter. “Leave her alone. We’re not done playin’ here.”
And I don’t really care.
However, Fallon has a big mouth, and I’m not looking to go a few rounds with her, so I silently concede.
“That’s so touching that you came for your reputation,” I assert, giving her an unimpressed stare. “Remind me to show you how much you missed me later.”
I fully expect her to send me an equally indifferent look, but fuck me, she smiles at me again.
“Hold that thought, Kerrigan,” she replies with a little sass. “I have a game to win.”
Then she twirls on her heels and goes back to her table to continue her game.
And that’s fine.
I wait.
She wins after about six more rounds of back and forth, tests my damn patience again when she goes to hug Freckles, and I breathe.
Hard.
In and out.
He didn’t hit me with something four times; I can’t randomly knock his shit out.
When she’s done with her mini-celebration, I’m still in the same spot she left me, and she’s glowing with happiness that I have not had the pleasure of seeing in a really long time.
“You’re still here.” I narrow my eyes at her, and she genuinely laughs from her own joke, but damn, it sounds so good on her. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” I deadpan before she wraps her fingers around my wrist and guides me over to several tables brimming with food. “You gonna introduce me to your friend?”
“Nope,” she replies impassively when she drops my arm and plucks up a large paper plate. I go to grab my own when she slaps my hand out of the way. “I got it.”
K, I’m never going to turn down Layla Jean taking care of me.
So I bide my time, while she overfills it with a multitude of food, and I follow her out of the barn. She finds a wooden picnic table and settles us there, gently placing two sets of plastic silverware down.
Then she pats the same side of the bench seat for me to sit next to her, and I’ll admit, it puts me in a bit of a daze.
She loves me.
She loves me not.
“I grabbed everything so we didn’t have to choose.”
Grilled chicken, ribs, potato salad, baked beans, corn bread, coleslaw, a burger, and corn on the cob.
I’m impressed with how she balanced everything on the plate when she immediately begins to dive in.
“So, the guy?” I press. “Who is he?”
“We’re still on that?” She shoves a forkful of potato salad in her mouth and immediately goes for more.
That’s what I always liked about Layla Jean. She wasn’t scared to eat. And she didn’t care if she looked like a little goblin when she did because she’d still have her mouthfull half the time, as she does now, before going for another bite.
“We’re still on that,” I claim. “Doesn’t look familiar.”
“It’s Fallon’s brother, Briggs,” she drawls. “You didn’t put the two redheads next to each other together?”
No.
I’ve never paid much attention to Fallon, even though she’s been Layla’s friend since grade school. She’s always been outspoken, stood her ground, and she’d check you so damn fast you wouldn’t have a readily available comeback, but she was always loyal to Layla.
So, she’s fine in my book, but no, I didn’t throw two and two together.
“Never met him,” I reply honestly.
“He’s a few years older. Went to college, almost got married, and came back.”
“He helpin’ Fallon with the farm?”
She nods. “Yeah. They’re havin’ a hard time.”
“What can we do to help?” Her eyes flick up to mine mid-chew. “What?”
Layla covers her mouth. “We? Boy, I need you to get into the playoffs, not worry about what’s goin’ on here.”
“You’re here.”
“I’m fine.”
“But you’re going to get involved with Fallon’s shit because I know you, and Freckles is going to be around.”
She gives me an annoyed stare. “Are we still on Finn?”
“Aw, so he has a name now.”
“I’m married.”
“Oh, are you?” Her fist flies out and punches me in the chest, not too hard, but hard enough to tell me to shut the hell up.
“Here.” She picks up a cob of corn and tosses it at me. “Eat.”
I do what she tells me to do and keep the rest of my riling comments to myself because, sure, jealousy might be something that sparks hard when there’s another man around her, but I truly like aggravating her sometimes.
When she gets pissed, I get hard.
We eat in silence, Ella Langley playing in the background before she plucks the corn out of my hands and starts eating it.
“Hey,” I carp out while she shamelessly eats what she gave me.
“You need to share,” she retorts. “The chicken is good.” I’m sure it is, but it’s not exactly what I’m interested in right now. “And stop gapin’ at me.”
“Can’t help it.”
“Learn.”
“Out of my scope of learnin’ abilities.” Her lips quirk behind the corn cob, and I take a piece of chicken and take a bite. “I want to show you something.”
“The dessert table?”
“Our house.” She stops mid-chew and looks up at me like a deer in headlights. “It was going to come to this eventually, Short Stop. I didn’t buy it to sit.”
She takes several moments before she mutters, “I have a house.”
“Not this one.”
Pulling the corn cob away from her lips, her tongue darts out to lick some of the butter off, and I am not immune to anything this woman does.
“I don’t wanna look at it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a reminder of where we’re supposed to be and aren’t.”
My chest tightens because it can be. It will be. Because I’ve never given up on Layla Jean and I don’t plan to for the rest of my life.
“When are you gonna realize, Mrs. Kerrigan, that this is it? You with your sass, me with my obsession, us sharing plates of food in the middle of a town that’s barely on a map. I may be gone a lot, but I still want you in every capacity. You’re the love of my life. And I’m yours.”
She takes another bite of corn, then another, buying herself some time. I don’t mind; she can take all the time she needs while I clear this plate.
“Alright,” she finally responds. “I’ll look at it.”
Perfect.
Because you’re going to move into it, too.