Chapter 2
TEAGAN
Here’s the thing New York City has done to my generation.
It’s made us connoisseurs of quirky Sunday Funday events and propagated them to every day and night of the week.
Fancy midnight mini-golf? You’ll find it in Manhattan.
Jonesing to make your own cheese? Why not make some wine with it too? You can definitely do both in Brooklyn.
You can even have a party where you make mittens, cover them in glitter, then compete to eat as many cupcakes as you can while wearing your new mittens. Head to Queens for that messy fiesta.
The city is a mélange of millennial activities. Some are eye-roll inducing, but they’re not all pointless. We have all experienced our fair share of shit in our lifetime—some more than others—so sooner or later, we desperately need some fun to drown out the drumbeat of bad news.
An oddball outlet for stress has become necessary for mental health.
Including mine.
That means, tonight, we don’t stop at laser tag.
We can continue the celebration of Bryn’s awesomeness at karaoke or choose darts or shuffleboard instead.
In the hallway, I tap out a quick reply to Nancy Fenester, one of the trustees who approves all my requests for fundraising, to let her know I’ll have a list for the third quarter soon. That sent, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and return to the bar, ready for our next activity.
Ransom is solo at the table. The hockey hottie tips his forehead to the dartboard.
“Favor of my choice if I beat you at darts,” he says, sliding right back into our competitive banter.
That’s how we are.
At the glitter-mitten party, we bet on who could make the most garish mittens. I won. At mini golf, we threw down greenbacks over who’d make the most holes in two. He nailed that odd victory.
But this wager has me curious and then some. Because a favor is a brand-new currency.
“A favor? What kind? As Sandy and Danny would say, tell me more.”
“It’s a good favor. One you’ll like,” he says, a little teasing in his tone.
“Tell me more now, then,” I say, pointing to the floor in a demanding gesture.
He shakes his head. “Only if I win.”
I shoot him an I’m not crazy look. “I’m not signing up for a favor if I don’t know what kind.”
He gives me flirty eyes. The gold flecks in his hazel irises twinkle with Ransom mischief.
Wait. Is he hitting on me? He can’t possibly mean sexual favors. Can he?
My traitorous body wouldn’t mind him laying one of those on me. Or two of those.
Or maybe stop counting and just go all night long.
After all, Ransom’s frame defines “chiseled,” and his face is the prime example of masterfully carved. His warm eyes probably grace the Wikipedia page for “soul-searing.” He’s the most tempting possible temptation the goddess of temptation could have placed in my path.
But there’s that little matter of how he’s never shown a bit of romantic interest in me.
Isn’t this a skeezy way of making a move though? Because . . . ew. “This isn’t, like, some Indecent Proposal thing, is it?”
He blinks, then flinches as the dots connect. “What? No. Are you kidding me? Fuck no.”
Okay. While I didn’t want him to be propositioning me, I didn’t want him to recoil at the idea either. “Fair enough.”
“Because that’s tacky, Teagan.” His tone has shifted to earnest, his gaze intent, and his use of my first name underscores that the clarification is important to him. “I’m not going to bet you for sex, because that’s fucking disrespectful. I have sisters. I was raised to treat women right.”
And . . . I’m going to pretend I totally never thought he would proposition me.
Especially since I’m not supposed to picture the horizontal mambo with him anyway.
I punch his shoulder and keep a lighthearted tone.
“I know. I was only teasing.” And hell, that was super convincing, even to my ears. I expect an Oscar to come my way soon.
“Good,” he says, then resumes our usual bantering. “Anyway, you’ll like this favor.”
I arch a skeptical brow. “How can you know that if you won’t tell me what it is?”
“Because if you know, then it’s no fun. And you like fun.” His expression says Am I right, or am I so right?
Damn him.
Because he is both those things. “True, but I don’t want to commit to darning your stinky, unwashed-for-weeks socks.”
He pulls a what do you take me for face as we make our way to the dartboard in the corner of the bar. “Please. I have a laundry service. I’d never ask for a favor that lame. And to ease your mind, why don’t you tell me some of your off-limits favors?”
I tap my chin, exhaling deeply. “For starters, I won’t mow your lawn.”
“Totally understandable.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “Also, since I live in the Village, I don’t have a lawn.”
“How convenient.” I snag several darts from a table, and he takes some too. I point one at him. “Here’s another favor on my no-go list. I won’t grab a mattress on the street that says ‘free’ and help you drag it into your apartment.”
He sets a hand on his heart. “I promise I will never ever ask you to haul any nasty, disgusting, bedbug-infested object from the curb into my home.”
I go full Alexis from Schitt’s Creek, making a cute little aww sound, then tap-dance my fingers up his chest. “You are, like, the sweetest guy ever.”
His eyes drop to my hand on his pecs. For a few seconds, his gaze seems to match mine. There’s a tiny flare of heat in it, but then it disappears so quickly I think I’ve imagined it.
I yank my hand away like I can erase that minuscule touch.
He clears his throat. “Continue. What are your other favor deal-breakers?”
“I won’t be your Scrabble partner. I know that’s hipness sacrilege when retro board games are the height of cool, but Scrabble bores me.”
“Ouch. Does that apply to Words with Friends too?”
“Obviously. Both suck.”
He exhales forlornly. “As a Words with Friends lover, that line in the sand hurts. But I’ll take it on the chin. And I’ll offer you this final proviso too. If you don’t like the favor once I tell you, you can trade it in for a karaoke song of my choice.”
“So I have nothing to lose except being subjected to Rush’s ‘Tom Sawyer’? Earworm of all earworms. All right. I’ll accept your wager.” I offer a hand for shaking.
He takes it. “Smart woman. But that is not my favorite song.”
I smirk. “I guess we’ll never know what your favorite is, since I’m going to crush this game.” I give a playful shimmy of my hips as I flash him a let’s do this smile.
Treating Ransom like I would one of the other guys makes it easier to deal with that cocky grin, those see-inside-me eyes, and that sculpted-by-the-NHL body.
Ransom is a pal is a pal is a pal.
With our wager in place, I take aim with a dart and let it fly toward the board. I wince in frustration when it barely grazes the outer ring, the sharp point stabbing the edge.
“You know the goal is that bull’s-eye in the middle, right?” Ransom asks dryly.
“Gee, thanks. Appreciate the tip.”
“I’m helpful like that.” He takes his turn, firing a dart straight down the line and notching it squarely in the center.
He smirks.
After a whistle of appreciation, I say, “That was beautiful, and I hate you.”
I fire the next dart. It scrapes the edge of the board and falls listlessly to the floor with a sad thump.
“Oh, bummer for you,” Ransom says, not bummed in the least.
I roll my eyes and pick up the little weapon. “There is still time for me to stage a comeback.”
We fire away a few more rounds until he easily wins the game, then I cross my arms and tap my toe. “Fine. You won. I guess I’ll have to take you shopping for your sister’s birthday, since I bet you detest shopping. That’s the favor, right?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “I don’t hate shopping. And that’s not the favor.”
“We’ll hit the boutiques tomorrow morning at nine just for fun, then.” I wiggle my fingers. “For now, tell me what you want.”
He licks his lips, drags a hand through that thick, dark hair I bet is as soft as a silky cat’s, then exhales like he’s prepping to dig down deep. “Do you happen to know anyone who’s a sucker for animal charities and who also maybe likes to help people too?”
“Hey. Don’t call me a sucker,” I say, but I’m smiling because he knows there is only one answer to his question. I do know someone. I am that someone.
“My bad. Wrong word.” He pats his chest. “Someone who’s a total pushover like me.”
“You’re forgiven. And yes, I might know someone who fits the bill.”
“Good. Because I have a charitable proposition for you.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.” I’m jazzed now, excited in a whole new way. This is my passion—I work to give.
Because I don’t have to work.
Which, on paper, sounds awesome. But, in reality, the reasons for it hurt like hell.
“The annual player’s charity auction is this weekend,” he explains. “The one for all the sports teams in New York.”
That piques my interest. I’d followed the auction last year because the pics set my social media feed aflame.
Well, they were of hot athletes in suits and tuxes.
Who doesn’t need a fire extinguisher with all the sparks lit by that imagery?
“The one where players pick different causes and compete to raise money for them?”
“Yup. So, all sorts of organizations benefit. Wounded Warriors, first responders, recycling programs, animal rescues, and, of course, my personal favorite—companion dogs,” he says.
I smile. “I didn’t know that was your favorite.” I’m curious why, but don’t want to get sidetracked when I’m dying to know what he’s getting at and where my favor comes in.
“So, in addition to the event funding some great causes, I’ve got a little bet going with some of the Yankees.
Whichever team brings in the most for their charity, the other has to match the total donation to the winner’s organization.
” The opening beats of “Love Shack” float over the bar from the stage.
Sounds like Oliver singing. “That’s some serious extra incentive to come out on top,” Ransom says.