Chapter 15
RANSOM
Normally, when it comes to weddings, I’m a take-it-or-leave-it kind of person.
Weddings are . . . fine.
They’re full of people milling about, talking, eating.
They’re perfectly acceptable.
Not my first choice for a weekend activity. Not when there are things like pickup basketball, comedy clubs, concerts, barbecues, soccer, and any other type of reasonably organized sports as options.
But this wedding is cool as hell.
It’s relaxed. It’s easy. It’s just two people getting hitched, having a meal, and sharing it with their friends.
I indulge in some fantastic appetizers, like stuffed mushrooms and sushi rolls, along with a couple of glasses of champagne. Most of the time, I’m a beer guy, but when there’s champagne, I can’t resist.
And this shit is just so damn good.
I raise my third glass of bubbly to Teagan as we lean against the bar. Before I can offer up a third toast—our prior toasts were to playlists from teen-centric TV shows (her idea) and to comedy albums from sarcastic, offbeat comedians (my idea)—a booming voice lands on my ears.
“Ah, don’t let me interrupt another delicious momento romántico.”
It’s Martinez. Of course—he’s buds with Fitz.
I roll my eyes. “But you’re so good at it, Marty Boy.”
He parks an elbow on the bar and looks at Teagan. “You weren’t really going to kiss a man who doesn’t have a ring, were you?” He waggles his fingers, displaying his championship ring from when the Yankees won the World Series a couple of years ago.
Damn good series.
And I burn with jealousy, since I don’t have a championship yet.
So I need another way in. “I get it. All those endless innings twiddling your thumbs on the bench have you confused. But let me clarify. We have cups—they’re bigger and better.”
“Ah, thank you,” he says, with a faux appreciative nod. Then, in an innocent tone, he asks, “And where’s yours?”
Teagan turns to me, hands on her hips, sass in her eyes. “Yeah, where is your Stanley Cup, North? Because this time next year, I want to be drinking champagne from it.”
I laugh and haul her in close. “Me too, King. Me too,” I say, and at this moment, we are friends. But we’re something more too, and it feels good to laugh like this, all of us together. I like it a lot.
“By the way, thank you for that cut fastball last night,” Teagan says to the closer, “striking out the side with the bases loaded. I hate Boston with a deep passion.”
Martinez brings his hand to his heart. “That is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said. I, too, despise them to the depths of my soul. Beating them is my joy, as I was telling—” He cuts himself off, shifting gears suddenly. “Did you enjoy the wedding, Teagan?”
“It was wonderful—every second. And who were you telling about your disdain for the Red Sox?” she asks, something about where he stopped catching her curiosity.
With a light laugh, Martinez waves a hand, dismissing the question. “Just someone I was chatting with this morning.”
Her eyes light up. “Was it your mystery bidder? Did you ever find out who your phone bidder was?”
A hint of a smile flashes across his features, but he quickly erases it. “I’ll find out tomorrow. Until then, I need to go mingle. Have fun, tortolitos.” He winks, then adds a translation, “Lovebirds, that is.”
Teagan’s cheeks flush pink. It’s a good look on her.
Martinez leaves, heading to join the other guests, going to talk to Fitz’s sister. “Maybe one of Fitz’s sisters was the mystery bidder,” I suggest.
“He only has one single sister—Emma, the one who studies art.”
“Oh yeah. She’s a hoot. We used to mess with Fitz and pretend we were going to be a thing.”
Teagan’s eyes turn fiery. She breathes through her nostrils.
I try to rein in a grin. “Are you jealous?”
“A little.”
I laugh. “Holy fuck, that’s adorable. Jealousy looks good on you, Teagan.” She folds her arms, and I bump my shoulder against hers. “As I said, it looks good on you.”
She rolls her eyes, then picks up her glass, lifting it. “To friendships and good-looking jealousies, then.”
“To friendship, rituals, and wild unknowns.”
I clink my glass to hers, take another sip, then set the flute on the bar, gazing briefly at the New York City skyline visible through the windows of the Loeb Boathouse. Not a bad way to spend a night.
This isn’t the first wedding I’ve been to in the last two years. I attended Summer and Oliver’s a few months ago. But this is the first one where I’m not mulling over what-might-have-beens.
I’m only thinking about my life right now. About what might happen tonight. And tomorrow. And the next day.
I feel unburdened for the first time in a long while, and it’s a great feeling.
Teagan takes a sip, then puts her glass down next to mine. “So, how would you rate this wedding?”
I rub my palms together, ready to dive into the review. “Bring it on. What’s the scale? I need to know exactly how I’m grading it.”
She gazes at the ceiling, as if deep in thought. “On a scale of one to . . . better than a chocolate milkshake.”
I pretend to stumble backward. “Whoa. Those are fighting words, Teagan.”
She maintains a straight face. “I know. I’m asking you to make a very tough choice.”
I draw a deep breath, like I’m seriously considering this. And I am. I do love chocolate milkshakes fiercely, and that gives me an idea. “There’s only one way to find out.”
She arches a curious brow. “How good this wedding is?”
“Yes,” I say emphatically.
“Okay, enlighten me. How do we find out how good this wedding is?”
I roll my eyes like it’s so damn obvious. “We should get a milkshake after this.”
“Nope. My question. My rules. You have to judge before you get dessert.”
“Woman, you are a fierce competitor.”
She wiggles her brows. “I know. Now answer the question.”
Before I can, Fitz wanders back in from the deck of the boathouse, Dean by his side. My teammate catches my eye, a knowing glint in his eyes as he glances from me to Teagan and mouths, Go for it.
I mouth back, I can’t hear you, just to fuck with him.
I turn back to the redhead who is under my skin and in my head. She’s tapping her toe, pursing her lips. “I know you guys were just exchanging words about me,” she says, but she’s laughing, and I love that about her.
She gets me.
She understands how I am with my friends. She doesn’t judge me for how I like to have fun with the guys.
She doesn’t want to change me.
She’s cool with who I am.
Yes, the bitter kernel I’ve nurtured, I’ve watered, I’ve held on to—it’s all gone. And I’m so damn glad.
I lift my hand, set it on her shoulder, then slide it down her arm.
“Actually, here’s my answer to the is-it-better-than-a-milkshake question.
There’s only one thing that’ll make this wedding better than a chocolate milkshake,” I say, my voice a little low, a little rough, emotions seeping into it that I didn’t entirely expect.
But ones I don’t want to stop.
She shivers, her gaze drifting to my hand on her arm. Her eyes swing back up to mine. “And what’s that?”
I lean in close and whisper in her ear, “If you’ll dance with me.”
Perhaps this was always inevitable tonight.
It feels like it can’t be any other way as she brushes her lips against my neck, up to my ear, softly, sweetly, saying, “Yes. That would make it the best.”
“Pillowtalk” plays by Zayn, and I’m not a fifth wheel.
I don’t give a fuck what anyone else is doing as I take Teagan’s hand and guide her to the dance floor.
Her body glides against mine. We fit together like we don’t have to think about where hands go, where arms go.
Because everything feels natural with her. Everything feels real and true.
My arms loop around her waist. Hers rope around my neck. The lights twinkle, the music pulses, and our bodies sway.
We’re on the edge of the hardwood floor, moving in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. My hand travels up the small of her back. Somehow she snuggles closer. “That feels nice,” she murmurs.
“Nice? Just nice?” I tease.
“Nice isn’t good enough for you?” she taunts in a flirty whisper.
“Nice isn’t how I’m feeling right now,” I say as I bend my face into the crook of her neck, whispering those words in her ear.
“Mmm.” She tugs me closer, her hands tightening around my neck. “How are you feeling, Ransom?”
I press against her, the evidence hard and clear as my pelvis aligns with her body. “How do you think I feel?”
Her breath hitches. “I could guess, but maybe spell it out.”
I laugh lightly, pull back to meet her gaze, then break our hold for a few seconds to spell it out with my hands.
“What did you say?” she asks, as I circle my hands back around her.
“Something dirty,” I murmur.
“I figured out that much,” she says, her fingers tangling in the back of my hair in a way that drives me crazy.
“I love that,” I whisper.
“When I touch your hair?”
I nod against her. “Yeah, it turns me all the way on.”
“That is very good to know, since I kind of love having my hands in your hair. It’s so soft and lush, and it gets me excited,” she says as she runs her hands through my hair again.
My breath catches from her soft, nimble touch. “Now I’m getting more aroused,” I say roughly.
“I can tell, and I like it.”
“I think it’s chocolate milkshake time.”
Her lips dust across my neck, journeying to my jaw. She leaves kisses there, and it feels like she’s marking me with gentle but still possessive kisses. “Are you sure you want to get a milkshake?”
I slide my lips along her neck, traveling to her ear. “I feel like we could skip it. You?”
She nods quickly, purposefully. “Yes.”
We barely bother to say goodbye to our friends.
I’m confident they won’t care.
Actually, that’s not true.
I’m confident this is what they want.
And it’s what I want now too.
Without reservations, without rules.