Chapter 3
Blaire
“Are either one of you left handed?” a woman wearing a silk red blouse and name tag with the name Maggie, Event Coordinator surrounded by little hearts asks as she approaches us at the bar.
I’m still a little uneasy being out in public after a week of hibernation, but I did desperately need a shower.
And to throw my Cheeto-stained sheets in the washing machine.
Plus, for some stupid reason, I couldn’t say no to Thatcher when he confessed his plan to make his ex jealous.
I felt some stupid compulsion to help the guy.
We do go way back. Or maybe it’s because I too want my ex to think I’m out living my best life and not mourning the life I thought we’d have together.
“I am,” Thatcher says at the same time I say, “He is.”
“Oh good! I hope you two don’t mind a little extra challenge,” Maggie says, looking entirely too excited about this random bit of information.
I’m about to ask if she works at the brewery when she slaps a fuzzy pink handcuff over my right wrist. Before I can clarify what the hell’s happening, the other cuff is secured on Thatcher’s left wrist. He looks just as dazed as I feel.
“Here is your official card for the Cupid’s Crawl,” Maggie says, handing me a postcard.
“I thought we were just observing,” I say to Thatcher.
“But you’re signed up,” Maggie says, looking between the two of us with eyebrows drawn in what I can only assume is confusion.
Thatcher clears his throat, reaching for his beer and taking a slow sip. Once he sets the mug down, he stares down at the bar and says, “I, uh, signed us up actually.”
“You didn’t know?” Maggie asks me.
“No, I didn’t realize we were participating.” I try glaring at Thatcher, but it’s not nearly as effective since he’s refusing to look at me.
Getting me out of the house so he could take a couple of social media pictures to post on Valentine’s Day is one thing. But spending the afternoon completing some kind of small town couples challenge is taking it a step too far. When we get back to the cabin, I’m going to kill Thatcher.
I lift my wrist, dragging his with it, and wave it at Maggie. “Can you please uncuff us?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Come again?” I ask.
“I don’t have the keys.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“If you want the key, you’ll have to complete the crawl. Those are the rules.”
“I didn’t agree to any rules,” I protest.
“But I did,” Thatcher says, flashing me a please don’t murder me in my sleep grin. “C’mon, Blaire. It could be fun. Considering he nearly chokes on that last sentence, I’m not convinced he really thinks so.
It’s Maggie’s eager presence that forces me to skim the postcard.
Several boxes contain various assignments around Caribou Creek.
Create a snow heart using teamwork—the Caribou Creek Lodge.
Feed each other chocolate dipped strawberries—Baked by Andie.
Tie a ribbon on a miniature highland cow while wearing an oversized mitten—Stark Farms. Okay, that last one doesn’t suck.
I am a little obsessed with those furry little cows.
“We get the key as soon as we complete this list?” I ask Maggie.
“Yep. And the first couple to complete all the tasks wins a romantic getaway for two at a remote cabin, fully stocked with everything you need to ignore the world for three whole nights.”
I glance at Thatcher, wondering which one of us will take the prize should we win.
I decide it’ll be me since he roped me into this without my knowledge.
I’ll tell him later, when the event coordinator isn’t hovering.
She probably thinks we’re a real couple.
Maybe we get disqualified if we’re not. Now that such a grand prize is at stake, I’m a little more inclined to play along.
“I’ll explain everything once we have all our couples handcuffed together. But I’d finish your drinks sooner rather than later.” With that statement and a wink, Maggie whisks off to chain another couple together.
“You lied to me,” I hiss at Thatcher.
“More like omitted some key information.”
“When we win—and I’m competitive, so we are going to win—that cabin trip is mine.”
“I figured you’d be dragging me to the door about now,” he says, looking a bit taken aback. “You’re really up for this?”
“Doesn’t really look like I have a choice unless I want to spend Valentine’s Day cuffed to you in my bed.”
Thatcher glances at me then, something flashing in his eyes. Is that…heat? I brush away the thought. It’s never been like that with Thatcher and me. It won’t be like that. Even if he did turn into one of the ruggedly sexy mountain man types all my romance novel reading friends are obsessed with.
Sleeping with Thatcher, especially under the current circumstances, would be a very terrible idea. But tell that to my traitorous, tingling nipples.
“When we win, you can have the prize,” Thatcher says.
“Wait, just like that?”
“What do I need a cabin getaway for? I live in Alaska.”
“Good point.”
“Do you miss it at all?” he asks, drawing my attention away from the postcard, back to his brown eyes. I’ve never noticed before how much they remind me of fine whiskey. “Alaska? Caribou Creek?”
“Yes, although I can’t say I miss the winters.
” There were only two family vacations to visit the Banks’ during the cold months while I was growing up, and that was because Mom was determined to photograph the northern lights.
Something I’ve no doubt missed since I barricaded myself in the guest room and ignored everything outside those four walls.
Shit, maybe this getting out of the cabin for a day thing isn’t the worst idea.
“Would you ever consider—”
“All right, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to welcome you to our first of what I hope will be many Cupid Crawls. Who’s ready to get this friendly couples competition started?”
I stare at the fuzzy pink handcuff clamped around my wrist, so confused how this is my life now.
A week ago, I thought I’d spend Valentine’s Day at a two-Michelin-starred restaurant at the top of a high rise.
Instead, I’m handcuffed to my best friend’s twin brother—a man I would’ve sworn hated me—about to play small town Hallmark movie.
The way he was looking at you doesn’t exactly say Hallmark movie.
“Hey, shouldn’t we take a selfie or something?” I ask Thatcher, desperate to push away these newly forbidden thoughts popping up in my head without permission. “Before she yells go?”
“Let me take it,” he insists, scooting closer. I think he means to drape his arm around my shoulder but quickly realizes it’s not possible. Instead, he leans in until his shoulder presses against mine, and a hint of cologne drifts to me as we lift our joined hands toward the camera.
“What are you wearing?” I ask, sniffing toward his neck. It’s spicy with a hint of pine, and for some reason, it has me acting like a dog in fucking heat. My nipples tingle with desire I haven’t felt in ages.
“You like it, huh?” he asks in a tone that is beyond friendly.
I meet his gaze, mildly aware that our shoulders are pressed together, creating enough heat between us to melt the snow outside. There’s no mistaking the desire lingering in his whiskey gaze now. Not when the intense look sends a zing of pleasure straight between my legs.
Shit.
Am I…attracted to Thatcher Banks? This could be problematic.