Chapter Thirty
Wedding Guests
Sydney
The wedding is in a barn upstate, which sounds rustic until you see it—white lights strung from every beam, candles lining the aisle, and pine boughs and winter roses everywhere.
It’s the kind of barn that costs more to rent than most people’s houses, and someone has heated it to a perfect seventy-two degrees, despite it being December in New York with snow on the ground outside.
Tori looks stunning. Her dress is simple and fitted, her hair is down, and when she appears at the end of the aisle, Zayden’s face shows something I’ve never seen before—something tender and sweet. Definitely not the normal expression I’m used to seeing on him.
I sit next to Archer in the third row. He wears a dark suit, clean-shaven for once, and he looks so good it’s actually a little distracting.
His hand rests on my knee under the program, his thumb moving in slow circles against my tights, and I don’t think he knows he’s doing it, which makes it worse.
The twins are with Bree for the weekend, which means Arch and I are going to be alone at the hotel for some much-needed adult time.
The vows make me cry—not because they’re particularly poetic—Zayden is a hockey player, not a poet, and his vows are simple, earnest, and he stumbles slightly.
He tells Tori that she made him better without trying to change him, and that Maisie asked him last week if Tori was going to be her mommy forever.
He said yes, and that’s the only promise he’s ever made that he’s never been afraid of.
I wipe under my eyes, and Archer reaches into his jacket and hands me a tissue. I take it, blot it against my face, and his hand squeezes my knee once.
After the ceremony, we move to the reception in the main hall. There are more lights, more candles, and a band setting up in the corner. Archer pulls my chair out, which is still new enough to make me give him a look.
“Don’t start,” he says.
Banks and Winnie are at our table. Ollie is at the bar, already working on his second drink. Logan is in a suit that fits too well, dancing with someone’s aunt and looking thrilled about it.
Dinner is good, but the speeches are long.
Banks gives a toast that’s exactly four sentences long, which is the most he’s spoken in public in his entire life.
Winnie squeezes his hand under the table when he sits down.
Maisie stands on her chair and yells, “THAT’S MY DADDY!
” when Zayden kisses Tori, and the room erupts.
Then the band starts, and Archer looks at me.
“No,” I say, laughing before he can open his mouth.
“I didn’t say anything.” He holds both hands up, innocent, but his eyes are already on the dance floor.
“You were about to ask me to dance, and the answer is no.” I take a sip of my wine. “I’ve seen you dance. It’s not something I can unsee.”
He leans closer, his arm resting on the back of my chair, his mouth near my ear. “I can slow dance.”
“Can you?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I can hold you and move in a circle.” He shrugs one shoulder, as if this is a perfectly reasonable offer. “That counts.”
He stands and holds out his hand. I look at it—his big hand, open and waiting—and I take it. We’ve never slow danced before.
The dance floor is small, and the song is slow. He pulls me in close, one hand on my lower back and the other holding mine against his chest. My heels give me three extra inches, but I still barely reach his shoulder, so he bends his head down, bringing his mouth near my ear.
“You look incredible tonight,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.
I’m wearing a deep red dress that Winnie helped me pick out, and the back is low enough that his hand rests on bare skin.
Every time his fingers shift, I feel a thrill radiate up my spine.
We move in slow circles as I press my face against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head.
Part of me still can’t believe this is real. That I get to touch him like this.
Ollie passes us on his way back from the bar and raises his glass. “About damn time,” he calls out.
“Shut up, Ollie,” Archer replies, without lifting his head from mine.
“Shutting up. Enjoy your dance.” Ollie grins and walks away.
The song ends, and another one starts. And we stay on the dance floor, moving together, holding each other.
The hotel is a small inn attached to the barn property. There are old stone walls, creaky oak floors, a fireplace in every room, and a folded quilt at the end of the bed. When Archer opens the door and I walk in, the reality of what tonight is hits me all at once.
One bed. One room. No twins down the hall. No guest room to retreat to. No reason to stop.
Archer closes the door behind us and loosens his tie. I stand by the window, looking out at the snow falling on the parking lot and at my reflection in the glass—red dress, flushed cheeks, a woman who has been waiting for this night for a very long time.
“Hey,” he says from behind me.
I turn around. He’s pulled off his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and is leaning against the door as he watches me. The look on his face makes my breath catch.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just—” I press my hand against my stomach. “I’m nervous. Which is stupid, I know.”
He crosses the room, his hand coming up to my face, his thumb tracing my jaw. He tilts my head up until I’m looking at him.
“Syd, we don’t have to do anything tonight. We can go to sleep. We can watch TV. We can raid the minibar and eat overpriced cashews. There’s no pressure.”
“I don’t want cashews, Archer.”
“No?” He lifts one dark eyebrow. “What do you want?”
I grab the front of his shirt with both hands, pulling him down to me and kiss him. He makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, relief, want—and his arms wrap around my waist as he lifts me. My legs go around him, and he carries me away from the window.
He sets me on the edge of the bed, and I look up at him, my hands still gripping his shirt. He’s standing between my knees, his chest rising and falling.
“Zipper’s in the back,” I say.
He leans down, one hand braced on the mattress beside my hip, and reaches around me.
His fingers find the zipper at the nape of my neck and pull it down slowly.
I feel the cold air hit each new inch of exposed skin, his warm, uneven breath against my temple.
The dress loosens around my ribs, my waist, my hips.
I stand up, let it fall, and step out of it.
I’m in a black bra, tights, and heels, and Archer gazes down at me as if he’s forgotten every word in the English language.
“Hi,” I say, because someone has to talk, and it’s clearly going to be me.
“Hi.” His voice is about an octave lower than it was five minutes ago.
“Your turn.” I reach for his buttons, starting to work my way down, my fingers shaking slightly.
I push the shirt off his shoulders, placing my hands on his chest as I just look at him.
He’s bigger than I remember. Obviously. Seventeen-year-old Archer was tall, lean, and still growing into his frame. Thirty-one-year-old Archer is broad and solid, his abs defined in a way that makes me want to trace each one with my tongue.
I run my hands down his stomach, feeling his muscles tighten under my fingers. He exhales hard through his nose. “The NHL has been very good to you.”
“Glad you approve.”
“I more than approve.” My fingers find his belt; I undo it, unbutton his pants, and push them down. He steps out of them, revealing boxer briefs, and—oh.
Oh.
I mean, I knew. Logically. But standing in front of him now, in a lit hotel room, the outline of him very visible through black cotton, I’m having a moment.
“Syd.” He tilts his head, watching me watch him. “You good?”
“I’m great. I’m just, uh—” I pause, trying to form a coherent thought. “There’s more than I was expecting.”
He laughs, surprised and genuine, and the tension breaks. “Is that okay?”
“Very.” I smirk.
He pulls me against him and kisses me. I can feel him through the thin fabric of my tights, and my earlier observation was correct—he’s big. The press of him against my hip sends heat flooding through me so quickly that I grab his shoulders to stay upright.
He unclasps my bra with one hand—when did he learn that?
At seventeen, it took him four tries and an apology—and draws it down my arms, tossing it somewhere behind me.
His hands come up to cup my face as he kisses me again, then pulls back to look at me, and the expression on his face makes my eyes sting.
“You’re beautiful, Syd.”
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely.” His thumb traces my collarbone. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
He eases me back onto the bed and settles over me, braced on his arms. The weight of him is warm and solid. I run my hands up his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath my palms. He dips his head and kisses my neck, my collarbone, the space between my breasts.
“Arch—”
“Hmm.” His mouth trails down my stomach, his hands hooking into the waistband of my tights. He looks up at me from around my navel. “Can I?”
“If you don’t, I’m going to lose my mind.”
He pulls them down my legs slowly and presses his mouth to my hip. Then the inside of my thigh. Then higher. When his mouth moves to where I need it most, my brain goes quiet in a way it hasn’t in years.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Oh my—ah.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Archer, that’s—don’t stop, don’t stop—”
He doesn’t stop. His grip on my thigh tightens, and his other hand slides up my stomach, splayed wide and warm, like he’s holding me together.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against me.
When I come apart, it’s sudden and total. I say his name so loud that whoever’s in the room next door definitely hears, and I don’t care. I don’t care at all.
He kisses his way back up my body—my stomach, my ribs, the hollow of my throat—and when he reaches my mouth, I pull him in, kissing him hard, rolling my hips against him because I want him now. The sound he makes against my lips is wrecked.
“Syd, I need—”
“I know.” I push his boxers down and wrap my hand around him, and he drops his forehead to my shoulder with a groan that I feel everywhere. He’s hot and heavy in my palm, and my head goes a little swimmy. “Condom?”
“Wallet. Nightstand.” His voice is gone.
I reach over while he buries his face in my neck, breathing hard against my skin. I find the condom, tear it open, and he takes it from me with hands that aren’t quite steady.
He settles between my legs, braces above me on one forearm, and meets my eyes.
“Hi,” he says, and I almost laugh because we keep greeting each other like we’re arriving somewhere new. I guess we are.
“Hi.”
“You sure?”
“Archer, I swear to God—”
Archer
I push into her, and the world stops.
She’s warm and tight, and the sound she makes—my name, broken in the middle—does something to me I can’t put into words. I hold still, arms shaking, forehead against hers, giving her a moment to adjust. Though staying still right now is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
“You okay?” I get out.
“I’m so much better than okay.” Her hips shift, taking me deeper, and I have to close my eyes because if I look at her right now, I’m done. “Move, Arch.”
I move.
Slow at first. I watch her face the way I watch everything—her breath, her hands, the flutter of her lashes when I find the angle that makes her gasp. She wraps her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back, pulling me in. Her nails bite into my shoulders, and damn.
“You’re killing me,” I breathe, dragging my mouth along her jaw. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
“Right there,” she breathes.
I stay right there. Steady. I’m a goalie. I know how to find my position and hold it.
She arches up to meet me, and we find a rhythm that’s ours.
Her hand searches for mine on the mattress, our fingers lace, and she holds on.
I look at her face—flushed, open, looking up at me like I’m the only person in the world—and I think, this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
Every moment before this one was a rough draft.
“Arch, I’m close.”
“I know.” I can feel it, the way she’s tightening around me, the catch in her breath. “Let go, honey. I’ve got you.”
She arches, her grip on my hand tightens, and she murmurs my name. I watch every second of it because I never want to forget what Sydney Lane looks like when she comes apart underneath me.
I follow her about thirty seconds later, and it hits me like a wall.
I bury my face in her neck, my hips stutter, and I’m shaking apart against her while she holds me—arms around my back, lips at my temple, fingers in my hair.
And the thought lands clean and a little brutal: I wasted so much time being afraid of this.
We lie there tangled together, breathing hard. Her hand traces lazy circles on my back, and I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, slowing.
I lift my head and look at her. Her hair is messy, her eyes bright, and she’s smiling at me with a smile I want to wake up to every morning for the rest of my life.
“That was worth the wait,” she says.
“Yeah?” I grin, kiss her forehead, roll onto my back, and pull her against my chest. She tucks in, head on my shoulder, hand over my heart, our legs tangled. Outside, the snow keeps falling. The room is quiet and warm.
“Hey, Arch?”
“Hmm?”
“I don’t think I need the apartment.”
I look down at her. She’s tracing slow circles on my chest, her eyes half-closed.
“No?”
“No.” She tips her face up. “I think I’m already home.”
I tighten my arm around her and press my mouth into her hair. The snow taps the window. Her breathing slows against my chest.
Yeah. She is.