31. Gwen #2
“Surprise!” everyone yells, popping up from beyond the island—except for Clyde, who’s seated on his usual stool at the countertop, rolling his eyes.
“You fools all parked in the driveway. She knew you were here.”
West clocks him playfully on the shoulder. “Don’t be such a buzzkill.” Then, “Happy birthday, Gwen!” as he ambles forward to give me a friendly hug.
Beyond him are Skylar, Ford and Rosie, as well as Rhys and Tabitha. Just off to the side of them is a sullen-looking Tripp. On the kitchen table is the discarded bouquet of roses and the box that contains a bracelet that I’d rather not know the value of.
He’s smiling, but it’s his fake smile. I don’t know what antics he’s been exposed to in the time he’s spent waiting, but something tells me it might have been awkward—not because anyone knows the most recent developments between Bash and me but because they know our origin story.
Tension hits me in my chest as I wonder if how we met ever came up. Tripp doesn’t know. Not that he’s asked. It’s not as though we’ve kept in touch since I found out that Bash was his father. But I’m desperately hoping that this subject doesn’t become a topic of conversation during this party.
That would make things a hell of a lot more awkward than they already are.
My worries are swept away as the rest of my friends rush forward, wrapping me in hugs, dropping the odd kiss on my cheek, patting my back, and wishing me a happy birthday.
It’s hard not to glow under their attention.
Most of my birthdays have been spent alone or traveling or doing something that fills my cup, but not generally being celebrated.
Today, however, feels different, and I kind of like it. I don’t bother heading over to Tripp. Not after the way he treated me this morning.
Truth be told, I don’t know why he’s still hanging around here. I thought he’d have left, and based on the tight set to Bash’s shoulders and the way his jaw pulses as his teeth grind, he didn’t expect him to come back either.
I wonder if he’s figured out all the ways this could go wrong while standing and watching everyone make their greetings.
Seeming to pick up on the tension, Tabitha claps her hands loudly, gathering everyone’s attention and really leaning into that executive-chef vibe. “All right, kids, enough milling about. Let’s get this party started.”
I smile at her gratefully, appreciating how intuitive she is.
With that, she whips everybody into shape.
Ford takes over curating the music for the get-together.
West opens the front patio doors, letting the warm air blend the indoor and outdoor spaces, then heads off to make drinks for everyone.
Rosie and Skylar retreat into the kitchen to keep Tabitha company.
Bash pulls Tripp out toward the front landing, and I watch them go while resisting the urge to follow and eavesdrop. I’m so desperate to know what’s being said that I nearly jump out of my skin when Clyde ambles up and bumps his bony shoulder against mine, startling me out of my snooping.
“He came back about an hour after you left. Said he wanted to talk to his dad. Told that little fucker to leave, but he wouldn’t.”
Anxiety courses through me as I bite down on my lip and nod, my mind replaying what Bash and I were up to while he waited here.
I don’t know what to expect when they walk back into the kitchen, but Tripp looking properly chastised wasn’t at the top of my list.
He heads straight for me, eyes lifting almost timidly from beneath his lashes. And then, right there in a room full of people, he says, “Gwen, I want to apologize for how I spoke to you this morning. I was out of line and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I’m going to back off.”
There’s an edge to his delivery and a level of agitation in his stance that makes me wonder just what Bash said to him. I force myself not to peek over at his dad for any sort of reassurance. It would be too obvious.
And this is all too damn fragile to be taking risks like that.
Instead, I dip my chin and reply softly, “It’s water under the bridge.” Because the truth is that it has to be.
If Bash and I have any hope of making a future, it has to be.
Tripp offers me a tight smile. “Good. I told Bash I wanted to stay and hang out, get to know his friends a bit. But he said I’d have to take that up with you.”
I almost wince. Awkward . What am I going to say— no ? When the man I’m falling for wants a relationship with his son so badly? What kind of woman would that make me?
So I channel every ounce of my inner maturity and give him a casual shrug. “Of course.”
Strangely, Tripp looks almost grateful. “Thanks,” he says quietly before turning away to join his dad and the other guys on the patio.
His reaction only adds to my confusion, but I brush it off and join my friends.
The afternoon flows from there. Clyde maintains his spot, everyone taking turns coming up to chat with him.
They give him an affectionate pat on the head or a side hug, bringing him drinks or snacks, doting on him like he’s royalty.
What started out as a look of annoyance on his face morphs into one of contentment as the party wears on.
Tabitha cracks open a bottle of wine, and of course, I’m not one to say no. On a hot, sunny day, there’s nothing better than a crisp glass of pinot grigio. The four of us—Tabitha, Skylar, Rosie, and me—all get into it, laughing and chatting.
Tripp sticks around. If he weren’t so well trained for these types of gatherings, he would be completely out of the loop. Instead, he somewhat gracefully inserts himself into conversations, makes polite small talk, and asks engaging questions.
Still, I catch him eyeing both Bash and me now and then, and I wonder if he can tell something .
As I’m sidling up to Clyde, making sure he has everything he needs, Tripp pops into the kitchen in search of another drink.
“And how was your flight?” he asks, affably holding his bottle of beer up in a toast.
Clyde scowls at him, and Tripp just smiles back. I can’t tell if he’s oblivious or being an asshole by continuing to needle Clyde with his presence. Either way, the strangest thing about the interaction is that he’s behaving as though we had no confrontation at all this morning.
I’m inebriated enough to play along. “It was great.” I shrug. “I’ve never done that before. Definitely one for the record books.”
“You liked it?” Clyde asks, turning to me with a look of satisfaction on his face.
I grin back at him. “I loved it.”
“Ah, well, good. Maybe Bash can take you up there more often.”
I take a sip of my wine, humming my assent, because yeah, I’d love to fly with Bash more often. But I can feel Tripp’s gaze burning into the side of my face.
He scoffs. “I mean, she’s here working with you. Why would my dad take her up in his airplane just for fun?”
I freeze with my glass lifted, my eyes sliding toward Tripp. Dad? He never calls Bash his dad. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I play it off casually. “I’m too busy for that anyway. Between Clyde and the yoga studio, my days are pretty packed.”
“Ah, yeah, but the two of you have forged a nice little friendship,” Clyde says. “It’s good for you to get out a bit.”
Fucking Clyde is like a dog with a bone right now. I shoot him a grim smile, inclining my head in his direction as though to say, Yep, now drop it .
But Clyde, being Clyde, does not in fact drop it.
Instead, he tips his chin toward the open sliding doors of the balcony. West and Bash both have a hip propped against the railing—the same railing where Bash kissed me for the first time. Beers in hand, they chat away without a care in the world.
I try not to let my eyes linger for too long, but there’s something so easy about the way Bash is standing out there.
His usually furrowed brow is relaxed, and his typically downturned lips have taken on more of a natural resting position.
Now and then, West says something, and I watch Bash chuckle .
I catch myself shaking my head at him, like I can’t quite believe the change in him.
Then I snap my eyes away, realizing I’ve been staring too long.
I reach across the kitchen counter for a tortilla chip and scoop up a healthy dose of guacamole.
Maybe if my mouth is full, I won’t have to contribute to this conversation.
“Bash needs a little fun too, you know,” Clyde says, looking out toward him and drawing Tripp’s gaze in the same direction. “It’s nice to see him like this. He works so hard. He’s so tightly wound sometimes. Now he’s out there getting all wild. Bare feet, shirt buttons undone one too far…”
I smile and nod along with Clyde’s assessment until I realize that, without his corduroy jacket, the skin on Bash’s chest and neck is far more visible than I realized.
Clyde continues like a steam engine down the tracks. “A beer in his hand, big old hickey on his neck.”
I freeze, but only for a beat, willing myself to act as naturally as possible. Because yes, there is a big hickey on Bash’s neck, and yes, I’m the one who left it there.
I came so hard the first time that I thought I was going to scream.
So in an attempt to keep my voice from echoing through the airplane hangar I bit down on his neck.
I thought it was more toward his shoulder, but in the heat of the moment, I must’ve shifted up higher.
And now he’s standing there, talking to his friends with a teenager-style hickey on his neck.
Tripp’s brows drop low, eyes squinting as he focuses on the exact spot.
“Huh,” Clyde says. “I wonder where he could have gotten that from.”