Chapter 18
eighteen
brIDGET
“What did y’all talk about?”
I’m not ready to revisit the conversation in the greenhouse, yet. It seems safer to wheedle him for information about my brother-in-law.
I can’t believe Ella had Luke pull Weston aside. I mean I can . She’s the oldest of the three of us and embraces the oldest daughter role without even trying. She’s always trying to make sure that we’re okay.
There’s so much she doesn’t know about Andrew, because I’m still coming to terms with it myself. Maybe she saw more than I realized. Or just saw more than I did, period.
It’s hard to focus on red flags when you’re constantly being redirected or gaslit into thinking you’re wrong.
“He threatened to do scary things with his farm machinery if I hurt you,” Weston says, dipping a pretzel into the bowl of beer cheese.
“That’s a little horrifying.” I chuckle.
But I don’t think Luke would actually follow through with it. He’s got some bite until you realize he’s a gooey cinnamon roll beneath it all.
“He also asked if I could provide for you. If I had plans beyond football.”
This isn’t exactly in line with our earlier conversation, but it’s not casual either. It’s also entirely too early for two people that have barely known each other a week.
Isn’t it?
I swallow heavily because it feels unavoidable. Fear of not being enough and carrying too much baggage—Louie notwithstanding—wouldn’t be crossing my mind if there wasn’t more at play.
“I mean… I guess it’s probably something we should talk about. The future and all that.”
But it’s not just our relationship he’s referring to, and I’m not sure how I know that for certain other than I can feel it. Something has shifted these last few days and being stuck in that house has been like a crash course on Weston.
Shadows of the man sitting in front of me existed on St. Brigid's Eve. He tried hard to hide it and did a pretty great job—but I could see it peeking around the edges. His heartache matched mine, even if we didn’t know it yet.
Only his related to his job, and mine included a relationship. We have a common ground here, and I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.
He doesn’t know what the future holds for him. But that’s okay because I don’t either.
“Bridget—I don’t know what’s beyond football.”
He gazes at me with such sincere honesty I stand, and move my barstool closer to him, right up beside the high top table.
“I don’t know what I want to do, either.” I shrug. Maybe he’ll hate that about me, but he deserves to know that. It’s time we shy away from the hard conversations. “Wedding planning was my life pretty much since I started to work. Even before. It was my mother’s legacy.”
“Football is mine.” He sighs. “Is she?—”
“No.” I shake my head. “She’s not dead. We’re just… not speaking right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He’s earnest in his apology and I suspect he must have wonderful parents to feel that way. But I’m not sorry—not really. She did some unspeakable things and I needed out from beneath that.
I chew on my lip thoughtfully. “Sometimes you have to protect your peace. I tried to stick it out, but it wasn’t worth the misery she caused.”
“And Andrew?” One hand cradles the other as he absently fidgets with his hands just below the surface of the table.
“A call I shouldn’t have answered. I panicked. He’s licking his wounds because I caught him in a lie and finally stood up for myself.”
And he’s too busy with his secret relationships he thought I didn’t know about. I can’t imagine a marriage where people aren’t committed to each other, but clearly they exist. He’s welcome to that kind of life.
I deserve more.
Weston is quiet for a long moment, so I reach out and cover his hands with mine. Something to help him know that he’s not fighting these feelings alone. Quietly, he lifts our joined hands to his lips and kisses mine.
“I meant what I said earlier, Bridget. You’re enough.”
“I’ve got a lot of baggage. A lot. It’s going to require unpacking and sorting through and a heavy trash day.”
He chuckles. “We all have baggage. It’s life. Are you afraid of any baggage I might bring with me?”
“No.”
I’m surprised at how easily I can answer that. But again, Weston doesn’t hide anything.
“Do you think I’d be afraid of yours?”
“No.” Again, such an easy answer when I’m not overthinking the question.
He pauses, his thumb stroking my hand nervously.
“Would it bother you that I might not be the same if I go back? My career might not be the same. That I might have to retire early?”
In this moment, I regret not being more knowledgable about his career beyond what I’ve googled late at night when I can’t sleep. I should be watching clips and asking more questions so I can understand how deep football goes in his life.
So I chew on my answer carefully because I want him to know that it’s not important to me, not beyond the fact that I know it’s important to him. But I don’t want it to sound callous.
“Weston—I know football is important to you. I want you to feel fulfilled, but I also want you to be safe. You’re more than football.”
Maybe I didn’t see that when we first met, but I had blinders on. In so many ways.
He shutters out a breath and smiles. “We barely know each other, Spitfire. Is this crazy?”
I roll my eyes. “I know you better than I know some of my friends.”
“I can’t decide if this is a compliment or if I should feel bad for your friends.” His smile widens, and I relax a little bit more. The more we talk, the more I’m convinced that maybe Weston is the adventure I’ve been yearning for.
The forever kind. And that’s terrifying.
We’ve done weddings for people who fell in love fast. And some have lasted. But I’ve always scoffed at the idea because how can you possibly get to know someone that well that you know you want to spend the rest of your life with them in such a short time period?
But maybe that’s what I’ve been missing. The indescribable feelings that you’re connected to someone in ways you can’t understand and don’t make sense.
Logic says it’s too soon.
But it also says I need to be as open and honest as he’s been to give it a fair shot and see if that feeling is right.
“We’ve spent a lot of time together this week. You learn a lot about people when you do that.”
He watches me, unconcerned by the chaos of the pub around us. We only have to talk a little louder as the crowd gets louder with the band.
“Are you saying you’re okay with a potential future with someone who doesn’t know what the future holds?”
“Are you?” I volley the question directly back to him. “Honestly Weston—does anyone? I thought I had my future planned before I found out things about my mother and my engagement fell apart. I’m sure you thought the same before your injury. What’s the point?”
With that question, I’m completely exposed. Again.
That’s the other question that’s been plaguing me in the deepest parts of my soul. I’ve been afraid to actually ask it out loud, but it slipped out before I could stop it.
“Adult responsibilities,” he says with a crooked grin. “I think that’s why we’re driven to care.”
“It’s a pretty convincing reason.”
“What if I don’t do anything but coach high school football?” he asks.
His identity is just as shaken as mine, and I hate that I haven’t caught onto that. He’s practically begging for reassurance that he’s worth more than his career, and as we sit here, I wish I could climb onto the table and scream it at the top of his lungs.
He could never play football another day in his life and it wouldn’t change how I see him.
“Then the Phoenixes are lucky to have you. Or whoever.” I take a sip of my Lucky Toad Lager. “The point is, you could also be asked to be an announcer for ESPN.”
“You’ve got some big ideas over there.”
“I’m just saying it’s possible.” I study his face, and decide since we’re on the subject I might as well jump all in with my own questions. “Were you here last time to hide from the Super Bowl?”
“Coming in guns blazing, I see. Alright.” He swipes another pretzel. “I totally was. I missed every game in January and I felt like I let my team down.”
“That could’ve been Cade though,” I say. “You took that hit to protect the quarterback. How would that disappoint your team? You were practically a sacrifice.”
He tips his head. “I thought you didn't watch football.”
Busted. But to be honest, I’m glad he knows now. The only reason I didn’t say anything before was to not feed his ego. Which I sorely misjudged and I feel like crap about. But I’m trying to fix it.
“I never said that.”
He studies me, like he’s seeing me for the first time again.
“You surprise me, Spitfire. Like every day .”
“You’re nothing like I expected,” I agree. “A definite surprise.”
“This week I’ve spent with you—it’s the first time since the injury that I’m not hyper focused on how much it’s changed my life. Or what it might’ve cost me.”
My life was flipped upside down, but not to the degree Weston’s was. If we keep talking about this, I’m sure I’ll learn how much, but I can’t fathom it. It would be hard to not fall down that rabbit hole of questions.
This week with Weston is the first week I’ve seen a glimpse of what it’s like to find someone who likes you in spite of your flaws. Who encourages you to be a better version of yourself instead of trying to change you.
“You’re still Weston, whether or not you’re a professional football player.”
“Thank you for reminding me of that,” he says softly.
“Just returning the favor.”
We switch to lighter conversation for a while, and it truly drives home how much I enjoy time with Weston. No matter what we’re doing, who we’re with, or how long we do it. I’m not just catching feelings for the man, he’s becoming my closest friend.
I didn’t realize how much I needed that since Ella and Laila have moved on with their lives. Sure, they’re around and we talk but it’s not like before. I didn’t realize how far behind I’ve felt until all the time he and I have had this week.
With a start, I realize we’re nearing the end of the Shamrock Shuffle festivities and I wish we could stretch out what time we have left just a little longer.
Maybe there really is magic happening here—not the Enchanted Hollow kind—the once in a lifetime kind.
But—again—that’s crazy, right?
I should really quit focusing on how unlikely this all is, and focus on what it is . Special and surprising.
After the day at the farm, we checked off a couple of stops on the pub crawl map and I still think it’s wild how many places are shoved into this small town. Maybe there’s a type of magic here that makes it feel bigger than it actually is on a map.
The place we’re in now is called The Tipsy Toad.
From a quick google, Jax Blackwell is the owner. I’m thinking he’s probably the tall mysterious looking man behind the bar, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the tattoos on his forearms moving as he makes drinks and laughs.
Weston grabs us another round and I flag down a waitress for food.
Another half hour later and the pub is still packed, and we’re still trading secrets like valuable baseball cards.
Weston taps me on the hand. “Alright Spitfire—we talked about football. Your turn. What made you finally decide to walk away from that loser?”
I stifle a laugh because I secretly love the names he calls Andrew. It probably makes me a terrible person, but it makes me feel better because I haven’t been able to wallow in the misery of the breakup with anyone. I don’t miss him, I just want someone to commiserate with and hear all the ways he messed up—like sisters and friends often do.
But this isn’t that. He’s asking for brutal honesty and the vulnerability he’s asking for is scary.
Weston’s eyes urge me ahead, reminding me of that moment in the greenhouse where he told me I was enough.
I desperately want to believe him.
“Don’t judge me.”
He gives me that signature crooked grin again, and my heart rate quickens. “We listen and we don’t judge.”
The fear of the conversation dissipates as laughter spills out of me. Of course he’d take something serious and flip it on his head. That’s who Weston is through and through.
He’s been the best kind of surprise.
“The Wedding Singer.” I pause, debating how honest I want to be. “Fine. That Thing You Do, too.”
His brows draw together. “Are we just naming off random romcoms? Uh—Clueless.”
“My concern for your fashion interest is growing.” I warn.
“Alicia Silverstone is hot. I’ve got a thing for blondes.” He shrugs and my cheeks heat. “Besides, it’s a pop culture must watch.”
I squint at him. “I’m starting to see why you’re so good at trivia night.”
“You just wish you were on my team,” he whispers before winking at me.
He’s right. I do. I want to win the coveted weekly title of ‘winner’ at Enchanted Hollow trivia night so bad I can hardly stand it. Add that to the growing list of things I want to do with him outside of this weird, magical week where there’s a never-ending amount of ways for us to date each other.
I blink in surprise. We’re dating. Like for real dating.
Not that we ever were technically doing anything else—it was a lazy blanket I allowed because it gave me room to breathe.
And look what it’s blossomed into.
What happens after this week is over?
I shake my head to rid the thought from my brain because I promised myself I wouldn’t get hung up on the what if’s.
“You know that scene at the end, where Adam Sandler gets everyone on the plane to get Drew Barrymore alone, and then he sings that song to her after Glenn wouldn’t let her have the window seat?”
“Spitfire, you’re being awfully specific here.” He covers his hand with mine again, igniting a thousand tiny fires from the point of contact all the way up my arm. It makes me wonder if I might actually implode.
“Andrew never let me have the window seat.” I shake my head. “He never even asked where I wanted to go. He always made the plans and I went along with it.”
I’m afraid to look at Weston because for some reason I don’t think I could handle seeing judgement in his eyes. I know he said he wouldn’t, but that was before I told him that I was basically spineless.
It’s one thing to tell someone that you’re fine—it’s over—you’ve moved on with your life. It’s another to actually heal from the words, the actions. The admissions that you allowed yourself to be treated that way.
But sometimes we don’t see what we don’t want to see.
Even worse, you don’t realize it’s happening until you’re almost drowning in it.
But you walked away, and that’s worth something.
“And That Thing You do?” he asks, gently.
It feels silly to explain these things using movies, but it’s the easiest way to paint a picture of the relationship and how I felt.
“I wish I was as eloquent as Liv Tyler. You know the whole ‘shame on me for kissing you with my eyes closed so tight’ speech? We were having a watch party one night—me, Ella, and Laila—and I felt every word of it. There for a while I did feel special, like I was the only one for him. But I wasn’t.”
I expected to be embarrassed when I finally told someone all of it. But as I tell Weston my innermost secrets, all I feel is relief. I’m lighter, like I can finally breathe again.
“Look at me, Bridget.” Weston squeezes my hand.
His eyes are dark and heavy when I glance up, his body practically vibrating with energy. Knowing Weston, there’s a myriad of emotions bubbling beneath the surface, battling for which will win.
I wish I knew exactly what to say or do to assure him or ease his concern.
“I’m okay,” I whisper with a small smile. It’s a small concession, but it’s what I’ve got.
He’s quiet for a moment, watching me in a way that continues to see right through me. But here’s something else there, something I saw in that greenhouse. Even if I wanted to fully embrace denial and pretend we don’t have valid feelings for each other—which would be a lie—there’s a startling electrical current of attraction I’ve never felt for another human being.
A hum that slides across my skin when he’s close and creates a buzzing in my ears that only his touch could satisfy.
“I really don’t want to undermine this moment, but I want to kiss you right now.”
My eyes widen. That wasn’t the reaction I expected, but somehow it’s exactly what I need right now. I want him to scoop me up into his arms like before and I don’t want to be interrupted. I want to know if this kiss will only amplify all the words he’s already giving me.
“Okay.” I nod, afraid to say much else.
He stands from the barstool, closing the distance between us with only a step. There’s always a height distance between us, but it’s marginally smaller with the extra boost from my seat.
It never ceases to amaze me how gentle he can be when he’s practically Jack Reacher—fine that might be my rose-colored, eager for a kiss colored glasses speaking—but I’m practically floating when he threads his hands into my hair, tipping my face toward his.
“You’re not wasting kisses with me,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine.
Oh my gosh .
It’s such a line. But it’s the best line.
It’s also a promise.
I won’t hurt you.
When his lips finally meet mine, it’s like drinking water after a day in the summer Texas sun. There’s not enough.
The anticipation of what it would finally be like explodes like fireworks, stealing my breath. His fingers press into the skin on the back of my neck, tugging me even closer so I have to hold onto him. Which is fine, because otherwise I might drown in this moment.
This is not like the kiss at the farm, a quick meeting of hurried lips. Emotions crash over me in waves, fueling my desire to match the tempo of my wildly beating heart. We’re in a public place, so I’m trying to be mindful of my behavior but Weston’s lips are whispering sweet promises against my own that I desperately want him to fulfill.
This is what I’ve been missing.
The tingle racing up my spine, the shifts of gentle pressure as he moves his hands to bring me closer, the tenderness that steals my breath away. Weston makes me feel like I’m the only person in his world.
After practically living on the sidelines, I’m in his spotlight.
And I never want to leave.