Chapter 9 Teagan
TEAGAN
We got this.
When I wake up the next morning next to a still-sleeping Ransom, I reach for my phone out of habit. A message flashes across the screen—a text from Bryn.
When I slide it open, I smile.
It’s a group text, and Ransom has already responded, so he must have woken up long enough to read it and reply.
Bryn: Brunch today? Fox and Gavel. Yes, it’s one of those ultra-trendy brunch spots, but Dean knows the owner and got us in, and the French toast is supposed to be divine. See you at noon. Be there or else.
Like a slot machine payout, the group thread is bursting with replies.
Fitz: Obviously, we will be there.
Logan: Hey, Bryn, since you’re right next to me, you know I’m going. But this is me, chiming in anyway.
Oliver: Aww, aren’t you cute with your bedside chime-ins. I’ll be there. So will your sister, Logan. There, I chimed in for her.
Summer: Hey! I can speak for myself. I’ll be there.
The last text in the thread makes my heart glow.
Ransom: I’m in.
It’s just a reply. Nothing special. But seeing that it flew across the internet at five forty-five a.m. tells me something. Ransom woke, saw the invitation, and answered it while I was asleep, knowing he’d want to go to brunch with our friends—and, potentially, me.
And now it’s my turn, and I write back with my official RSVP.
Teagan: Divine French toast is calling my name.
There. Done.
That was surprisingly easy—all of it.
Sex. Talking. Sleeping.
Then returning to normal.
Staying part of the crew.
Scrolling through my Instagram feed, I replay the simplicity of all those things, as I lie here in bed with a sleeping sports star next to me.
Wait. Forget Instagram.
The live view is way better. I’ll just ogle Ransom for a bit. Yup, I’m a perv, but no one can blame me.
Because . . .
His carved pecs. His sculpted abs. His most excellent ass, courtesy of the NHL. Thank you, hockey, for giving him a great butt.
That butt was fantastic to hold on to last night while he fucked me.
I shiver as the memory rushes through me. It feels like a dream. An intense, fevered one, but a dream nonetheless.
Three orgasms.
Then a long, deep conversation, filled with laughter and truths.
And it wasn’t weird.
Neither of us wants anything more than this—the utter simplicity of waking up next to someone who gets you and who doesn’t ask anything more of you.
Who won’t hurt you.
Who won’t take away the things you love.
A small yawn escapes my lips, and I wince.
Because . . . morning breath.
That is not acceptable.
No way can I let Ransom smell me in the morning. I wriggle around him, sliding toward the end of the bed and quietly swinging my feet to the floor.
I pad across the hardwood to the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.
Whew.
Inside his very manly bathroom—where it’s all chrome and white, ocean-spice deodorant, black bottles of shampoo, and manly lotions and potions—I pee then track down some mouthwash. As I gargle, I hunt for toothpaste then scrub with my finger like a toothbrush.
I exhale, breathing a sigh of relief.
There. Fresh as a daisy.
When I turn around to reach for a hand towel, my gaze snags on a shelf of toiletries—including a mint-green stick of deodorant. Spring lavender. My brow knits. Next to it is body lotion. Vanilla honey. And a hairbrush.
My throat tightens, and my chest convulses.
These are for women.
Are they for hookups?
He is known for enjoying the ladies, and there’s nothing wrong with that, since he’s single.
Wait, is he single? These things—the lotion, the brush—belong to someone. Is he seeing someone and fucking me?
My stomach recoils.
A wave of panic rolls over me.
When I leave the bathroom, my shoulders are tight and my pulse is racing with the hope that he’s still asleep.
I need to get out of here. I need to let go of these warm, fuzzy feelings and return to some kind of normal before our brunch.
I gather my clothes, head to his living room, then get dressed in record time. With my shoes in hand, I tiptoe to the door, unlatching it.
“Hey, you.”
I wince.
“Hi.” It sounds icy. I try again, injecting some warmth in my tone. “Hi there.”
I turn around to find the gorgeous man clad only in black boxer briefs. He’s scratching his jaw. “Hmm. Looks like you were making a dine and dash.”
Against my better judgment, a laugh bursts from me. I collect myself, trying to go for a cool and casual vibe. “I just need to go. Stuff to do before . . .”
Yeah, this isn’t working as well as I thought, and he knows it.
He arches a skeptical brow. “Before brunch with our friends?”
I slap on a smile, my brain whirring through plausible activities that would send me skedaddling. “Yes. I have this shelf I wanted to organize. Plants to water. And I have to pick up . . . popcorn.” What a horrible, terrible liar I am.
“Wouldn’t want to get in the way of you buying popcorn,” he says dryly.
“It’s to take to work tomorrow,” I improvise. “Snacks for the meeting.”
“Super important, snack time is.”
“But hey,” I say, fixing on a smile, oh-so-happy. “Thanks for last night.” I plaster on my farewell grin when it threatens to slip. “It was super awesome. And now I should go. I’ll see you at brunch, and it’ll be fab.”
“Teagan,” he says warily.
“Yes?” It comes out chipper. Too chipper.
His eyes narrow, not with distrust, but with concern. “Are you okay? Because you don’t seem okay.”
I square my shoulders. I need to get out of here—my chest is tight with holding back my questions.
I desperately want to quiz Ransom on his bathroom, but that is so not chill.
That’s not what a friend would do. It’s what a girlfriend would do, and I’m not and won’t ever be his girlfriend. “I’m so good. I’m all good.”
“And yet you just thanks-for-last-night-ed me.”
“Right,” I say, keeping my cool as best I can. “Because we agreed to one night. It all goes back to normal today. So, this is me being totally normal.”
I don’t sound normal at all.
He walks over to me, slides a hand around my waist, and drops his lips to mine. He kisses me, soft and sweet and minty fresh. He must have slipped out of bed and brushed his teeth while I was gathering my clothes.
Something about him wanting fresh breath both bothers me and turns me on. Like I’m just part of his routine with women.
And like he also wanted to kiss me again.
The first is irrational, I know, since I did the exact same thing. But that was before the vanilla honey and the hairbrush, and now it makes me furious to think he has a routine with women—brush teeth, check; kiss good morning, check—and I’m just part of his habit.
But I like that he wanted to kiss me again. It turns me on for all the reasons racing through my head: He tastes so good. He feels amazing. His kisses make my bones sing and my blood hum. They make my heart pound fast.
I like kissing Ransom too much.
I like him too much.
And I don’t know how to snap back to friendship. All I know is I have to try because friends don’t leave on a sour note.
I slide a hand up his bare chest, and ohhh . . .
That doesn’t help.
His muscles are so defined, so firm, so delicious. He’s like a sculpture come to life. Touching him sends me to a hazy, buzzy feel-good world. But it’s not a world I can live in.
I stop the path of my hand, taking a breath, and I woman up. “Why do you have spring lavender deodorant in your bathroom?”
He screws up the corner of his lips. “Huh?”
“And vanilla-honey lotion. And a hairbrush. Are you seeing someone?”
A chuckle bursts from him. Loud and boisterous. And far too amused. He wraps an arm around me and yanks me close, tucking a finger under my chin. “Yes. Every Saturday, my sister comes over. She showers between shows.”
I shake my head. That doesn’t compute. “What do you mean?”
“She signs. For Hamilton. It’s kind of hot in the theater, and when you’re interpreting, you use your whole body.
It’s a workout. She likes to freshen up for the evening performance.
This is close to the theater district, and she’s in Brooklyn.
Hence, her stuff is here.” He can’t stop grinning, and I can’t stop a grimace, or from feeling foolish.
I am the worst. Slap on a sign and dog-shame me.
I jump to conclusions.
“Shoot. I’m sorry. I feel like an ass.” I might as well be six inches tall, that’s how low I feel.
Tilting my chin back up, he makes me look at him, still smirking. “Your jealousy is the cutest thing ever.”
“Ugh. Pretend I never said anything. It was wildly inappropriate.”
“It was wildly adorable,” he says, then his expression goes serious.
“But also a little insulting. I would never cheat. Never sleep with someone else while I’m seeing you.
” He blinks, like he just realized what he said.
“I mean . . . while we’re together.” But that doesn’t seem to be the correction he wanted either.
He flubs his lips, giving up the search for the right cover-up. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” I say quickly. But I don’t. I don’t know what either of us means or wants. I don’t know why he said anything about seeing me or being together.
All I know is he looks flustered, and I insulted him, and clearly, neither of us entirely knows how to act around the other.
But I’m the one who tried to sneak out. I’m the one who ginned up tales of plants to water and popcorn to purchase.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest you’d do that.
That was terrible. And I’m not even sure why it upset me.
I think . . . I just saw those toiletries, and I felt .
. . silly. Can we please rewind? Go back to an hour ago when I was chill? ”
He takes a moment to consider it, then nods. “You’re chill. We’re chill. It’s all good. Like we said last night, right?”
“It’s so good.”
“But you need to know I could tell you were upset. Want to know how?”
“How?”