14. Girl Bosses
Chapter 14
Girl Bosses
Lo
The girls all decided we need to get together. They’re all staying over to “keep me company,” which is code for they want details. This would annoy me if I didn’t know for a fact I’d do the same damn thing. Plus … I get to talk up my guy!
Riley, Sydney, and Lily staying over, as Boone went to Hart’s, needing to be part of the play with the boys. We made a snowman with Evie and Lily, who are now best friends, and we’re getting ready to watch a movie that we’ve still not decided on.
My place smells like buttery popcorn and the cupcakes Sydney and Lily brought, and we’re almost unthawed. Riley’s curled up on the corner of the couch in one of Hart’s hoodies, her socked feet propped on the coffee table like she owns the place. Which, technically, she sort of does. Half, anyway.
Izzy and Mags are bickering in the kitchen over who made the better Spotify playlist for tonight’s “Girls Only: The Guys are Being Children” night. Spoiler: they’re both terrible. It’s a mix of angsty breakup ballads and the Barbie soundtrack.
Greer’s sitting on the floor with her legs tucked under her, folding construction paper with five-year-old precision while Evie and Lily sit at the coffee table covered in glitter glue and googly eyes. They’re making something I’ve decided not to ask too many questions about.
“Do we think Giraffe is a good name for a boyfriend?” Lily asks, holding up her drawing of what I assume is … a dinosaur?
“Absolutely,” Greer replies without missing a beat or somehow not looking away from her phone for more than a beat. Her life must be exhausting. “Especially if he has long legs and a stinky attitude.”
The girls all howl , including me.
Riley gives me a sideways glance and sips her decaf tea. “So,” she says too casually, “is Giraffe tall and broody and plays football for a living?”
“Oh, is that what we’re doing now?” I say, grabbing a handful of popcorn.
“I’m just saying,” Mags calls from the kitchen, “somebody’s been walking around, looking suspiciously well-smooched this week.”
“We all knew it.” Izzy points an accusatory glue stick in my direction. “That morning we walked in, that was the night. Don’t lie.”
“Not a lie.” I hold up three fingers, not even sure if that’s the Girl Scout promise or not. It was a long time ago.
Sydney gives me a wicked grin. “And you’ve been swooning.”
Greer raises a brow. “She swoons?”
“I do not swoon,” I defend.
“Wanna draw a spoon, Evie?” Lily asks, thankfully clueless about this conversation.
“Yep, I do,” Evie answers.
“You do swoon,” Riley says quietly through a laugh. “And we know this because it’s the total opposite of the stewing. And that’s all you used to do whenever Giraffe was around.”
“She’s not wrong,” Izzy mutters.
“I don’t see how any of this proves anything.” I grab a pillow and place it in my lap.
Evie looks up from her glitter glue chaos and whispers, “Are you talking about your boyfriend?”
I smile and shake my head. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Yet.
The girls all exchange a look, one of those wordless, psychic girl-code glances that says, We’ll see about that .
I lean back into the cushions, sip my cocoa, and try not to smile like a complete idiot. Because, yeah, maybe he’s not my boyfriend, but the girls aren’t wrong—there’s definitely a Giraffe in my story.
It took a little bit to convince Greer to let Evie stay the night and have the first official girl bossesses sleepover with Lily. Greer told us that even under her roof she kept a little Teddy cam in her room, which was at Micah’s insistence. That was the first mention of his name that Maggie didn’t look like she wanted to spit nails. After that, I dragged a tent out and set it in the corner of my bedroom, and they fell asleep within minutes.
* * *
“Now that we don’t have to talk in code”—Syd smiles, eyes gleaming with trouble—“tell us the truth—when did you two actually, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I deadpan, popping another chocolate into my mouth. “You’ll have to be way less subtle.”
“Did you do the horizontal touchdown?” Izzy says, absolutely zero shame in her voice.
“Oh my God,” Greer mutters, nearly choking on her tea. “The what ?”
“She means, did you have sex?” Mags translates with a grin, like we’re in fourth grade health class and I’m the poster girl for Finally Losing It.
Riley gasps dramatically. “Oh my God. Was it in the silo ? Did he climb the stairs like a farmer ready to enter your dell?”
“Is that what Hudson did?” Izzy asks.
Her face immediately turns red.
Iz rings an imaginary bell. “Ding, ding, ding!”
For a brief second, I think I’m off the hook.
“I’m thinking Grimes was more like a lumberjack of lust.” Izzy wags her brows.
“I hate you all,” I say around my laugh, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at her.
“You did , didn’t you?” Syd points a perfectly manicured finger at me. “I can tell by your laugh. You sound like a woman who’s had her walls repainted.”
“Okay, ew,” Greer groans, holding her belly.
“I am not confirming or denying anything,” I say, holding up my hands.
“I bet she rode him like he was late for kickoff,” Izzy mutters into her hot cocoa.
“I’m going to put glitter in your shampoo,” I warn.
“For real, put us out of our misery.”
“It wasn’t that night.” I smile, loving that they’re wrong … for once. “It was the night before, the night of the storm.”
“She limped the next night,” Mags throws in. “Just a little.”
“I did not! ”
The girls all erupt.
Syd fans herself. “On a scale of one to holy-hell-I-see-stars?”
I grin despite myself. “Somewhere between sweet mercy and full blackout.”
Izzy shrieks. “Yes! Lauren Brooks is alive! ”
And I laugh—full, and free, and so loud that Greer looks at the Teddy cam app.
“You went from despising him to boinking in—” Mags snaps her fingers.
“No, she called dibs on him from the get-go.” Izzy smiles softly.
“Who did you call dibs on again?” Mags asks.
Iz answers, “Cody Warren, now married, with triplets.”
“And in a thrupple,” Greer adds.
“Have you seen Dean Costello?” Iz fans herself. “I kick myself daily for fumbling that play.”
Riley and I exchange a glance, saying neither of us remembers it being Cody.
“So that was one hell of a storm.” Riley winks.
“I can’t wait till the storm comes for me.” Mags sighs dramatically.
“Gotta wait for the right storm,” I tell her.
Riley gives a soft demand, “Don’t settle for anything less than a perfect one.”
“Those wrong storms could cost you more than you’d ever imagined,” Syd says quietly.
I take her hand. “Love you, Syd.”
“All right, fuck this.” Riley bats away a tear. “I am not freaking crying tonight. Tell us something more.”
I nod. “Yeah, okay. Well, that first party he hosted after Kolby came here, we, uh … he was a breath away from kissing me, and I heard someone and freaked out, ducked into the kitchen and hid. After that, he found out I was kind of connected and?—”
“Jesus, talk about delayed gratification.” Mags laughs.
All five of us nearly snap our necks with how fast we look at her, but Syd, ever the mom, asks, “And what do you know of delayed gratification, Maggie Sawyer?”
“I … I … I’ve watched porn!” she defends herself … sort of.
“Do you love him?” Greer asks.
“Those words have not been exchanged,” I answer.
“Doesn’t mean the feelings aren’t there.” Syd winks.
I take another sip of my drink.
“That smile says enough. Let her”—Riley giggles—“keep riding that storm.”
* * *
I’m half-asleep with Riley all but spooning me when I get a text from an unknown number with a picture of a bedroom with soft sage green walls, fairy lights over the headboard, a framed photo of … me at prom with Lewis.
Unknown:
Should I be concerned?
Me:
No. Absolutely not. Tell me you’re not in my childhood bedroom.
I quickly put in his name as #68 .
#68:
I am 100% in the room where teenage you probably wrote angsty poetry about the prom queen going to prom with a kid who got a spray tan.
Me:
Jackson was supposed to take you to Hart’s. What the hell? AND, BTW, you leave Lewis alone. I love him!
#68:
He said the guys were already ten rounds deep into a video game bracket and offered a bed so I wasn’t stuck on a couch. Had dinner with your parents and Jackson, saw baby pictures. Actually, ALL the pictures. And question: you love Lewis?
Me:
He was my GBF. He’s in London on the West End now and married to his soul mate, Gregory.
#68:
I hope Gregory never sees this photo.
Me:
Not me wondering if you saw the photos of me pre-braces.
#68:
I plead the fifth. But if this comforter is the same one you had in college … you’ve got some explaining to do. Bieber?
Me:
Remind me to block my mom for putting you in my bedroom.
#68:
She’s amazing, Lo. They both are.
Me:
I would have agreed before she put you in bed with Bieber.
#68:
I’d say it’s just a bed, Lo, but it’s yours. Smells like you. This whole house does.
Me:
I wonder if my pillow stills smells like you.
#68:
Tell me if it does.
I send him a pic of Riley all but drooling on it, and then a message.
Me:
I’m not waking her.
#68:
Get some sleep.
Me:
U 2
* * *
Glasses clink. Forks scrape plates. A pair of regulars are arguing over whether they should try the seasonal Oeno brew or just go with the tried-and-true Touchdown lager. Maggie’s manning the register with her usual sass, Iz’s pacing between barback and social director, fielding questions from everyone hoping to get information on the goings-on at The Stables. Me? I’m pretending I don’t keep thinking about my morning text message and wondering when the next will come.
I wipe down the bar again—despite it being perfectly clean—and get stupid giddy when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. It’s not a message; it’s a weather update. I smile at the lock screen.
Kolby this morning. Shirtless. Muscles ripped even in the relaxed state. That chest, those nipples I want to bite but wonder how he’d react … He’s half under my blanket. Holding my childhood stuffed bunny as if that makes it any less hot, and I’m sure he knew exactly what he was doing sending it.
And he did . Because now, it’s my background. And I’ve looked at it at least a hundred times. Zoomed in. Zoomed out. Hell, I propped it in my shower while listening to the SportsNow podcast and, yes, I considered getting myself off, but that seemed like a waste of time now that I’ve experienced Kolby freaking Grimes.
I’m reaching for a new stack of menus when the door swings open and consider pinching myself when he walks in.
He’s flanked by half the damn team. Hart’s beside him, all golden-boy grin and casual charm. Skinner’s behind him, tossing a football in the air and catching it. And then there’s the rest of them—the commandos, a few O-line guys, even Coach Cox trailing in like they all made dinner reservations I never approved.
But it’s Kolby I see first. Always has been Kolby.
He’s in jeans that are probably resting too low on his hips for public safety, a long-sleeved tee that clings in all the right places, and his eyes sweep the room like he’s looking for something. When they land on me, I see it … I see that he found exactly what he was looking for.
Me.
His lips twitch, and my heart does that stupid half-flip like it’s auditioning for the cheer squad I never was interested in joining. Not gonna lie, I would have if he had played at Blue Valley High.
Jackson is beside me, handing me a drink napkin. “Should’ve sent a text to tell you we were coming.”
“What?”
“Wipe the drool off your mouth.”
I elbow him. Hard, too. He laughs.
“Did they need a reservation?” I ask, just to seem chill.
“No, but it would’ve saved me the pleasure of watching you scramble like it’s prom night and your crush just walked in.”
I shoot him a glare.
Kolby lifts his chin—barely a nod—before sliding onto a barstool. “Hey, Lo.”
“Hey.”
“You look beautiful.”
“ Ooo ,” comes from behind me.
I don’t look back. I know it’s Mags.
His eyes smile. “Good day?”
I nod as I grab a glass, fill it with sparkling water, add a lemon, and then set it in front of him. “You?”
“Yeah, except the whole missing you part of it.”
“You missed me?”
“Lo, I’ve missed you all my life.”
I open my mouth and close it several times before I feel my face turn red.
“When you have a minute, I’d like to talk,” he asks.
“She’s got a minute,” Mags says.
“I’m covering the bar.”
She lifts her hands in the air. “I have two hands—I got it.”
“You’re not old enough.” I glare at her.
“I am,” Greer offers.
“Where did you come from?” I ask, sounding just as frazzled as I am.
She smiles. “Go have your chat.”
“Don’t you have to work?” I ask.
“Lo, go.” She winks. “I got this.”
Kolby stands up like he’s in slow mo. “You good?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Yeah.”
“We can talk later if?—”
“No, no, I was just?—”
“A control freak.” Iz cuts me off.
“Am not,” I huff. “Our policy is?—”
“Stuuupid,” Iz drawls out, and then like she’s giving a disclaimer that she speeds through. “You must be eighteen years old to legally serve alcoholic beverages in New York State.” She quirks a brow as she looks at me. “Just. Not. Here.”
I huff as I walk out from behind the bar. “Seriously, what do you care? You’ll be twenty-one in a month.”
She calls after me, “Totally going on a week-long bender.”
“Sorry,” I whisper as I pass Kolby and head to the office.
“Don’t you dare be sorry.” He chuckles.
I open the door, walk in, and then turn to face him, and his lips crash against mine.