Prologue #2
“Shut up,” she says, pushing me, but pulling me back in by fisting my shirt.
“Make me,” I taunt her, my lips brushing against hers.
“This changes things,” she breathes, voice shaky. “It’s going to make our friendship thing a little more difficult.”
“Good,” I say, a jagged smile tugging my lips. “I want it to be difficult. I don’t want you to forget me. I want you to be so annoyed by how much you miss me that you have no choice but to answer when I call.”
“You always annoy me, Saint. It’s pretty much the basis of our entire relationship.” She runs her hand down my shirt, and I can feel it trembling. “But we have to be real. Life is about to get very loud for you and very busy for me.”
“Okay, so we don’t have to make promises,” I say, an idea taking hold. I take the pen off her clipboard, clicking it with a snap, then take a blank piece of paper from under her notes. “Instead, we make a pact. A safety net, if you will, for two of the most stubborn people I know.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, looking at the paper, a smile breaking through.
“Let’s say we go our separate ways. You focus on becoming a doctor, and I’ll be in the NFL, and we can put a pause on exploring this, even though you’re seared in my brain forever.”
Her lips press together, like she’s holding in a smile.
“And let’s say,” I continue, my voice steady even though my heart is pounding, “in eight years, we’ve both done everything we wanted to do. Lived our lives. Dated people. Maybe almost settled down once or twice.”
Her gaze sharpens like she doesn’t like the thought of that. “Saint …”
“Hear me out.”
She sighs, but doesn’t interrupt, nor does she let go of my shirt.
“When we hit thirty, if neither of us has found something real, something that sticks …” I say, holding her stare.
She takes in a deep breath.
“Then we stop pretending. We stop running. We choose each other.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say anything.
After a minute, she finally says, “You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“That’s”—she laughs—“insane.”
“Is it?”
“Um, yes,” she says quickly. “We have no idea who or where we’ll be in eight years.”
“Right.”
Her eyes narrow. “So, how does this work then?”
I shrug. “We make a commitment to each other to make it work. Because no matter who we become or where we are … I don’t think this”—I brush my nose against hers—“goes away.”
She closes her eyes. “You can’t know that,” she says, softer now.
“I do.”
“How, Saint? How do you know?”
“I know because this hasn’t gone away for three years.”
She swallows hard. “I just…this is ridiculous.”
“Probably.” I huff a laugh.
“What if one of us is married?”
“Then the pact is off.”
“What if neither of us wants it anymore?”
I shake my head because that won’t happen for me. “Then we walk away.”
“Okay, but what if—” she starts.
I cut her off gently, “Presley.”
She looks at me. Really looks at me.
“I’m not trying to trap you into anything. Let’s think of it as a safety net of sorts.”
“For what?” she asks, brows pulled together.
“For us,” I answer.
She searches my face intently.
“Thirty,” she says.
“Thirty,” I confirm.
“If we’re both single…”
“We get married.” I finish.
She lets out a breath in a swoosh. “You’re a little crazy—you know that?”
“Maybe. But I think you like it.”
Her lips twitch.
“Fine,” she mutters.
My heart skips a beat.
“Fine?” I repeat.
“Fine,” she says firmly this time. “We make a pact.”
Something in my chest loosens. Relief. Although it could just be the illusion that I haven’t lost her completely.
I don’t want to give her even a second to change her mind, so with the pen in hand, I scribble words on the paper.
The Pact
Party A: Saint, Aka Wyatt St. Clair
Party B: Doc, Aka Presley Grant
1. Both parties agree to remain best friends, regardless of time zones, schedules, and how many supermodels Saint needs to politely reject.
2. Both parties agree to FaceTime at least once a week to argue about Marvel movies.
3. If, at age thirty, both parties are single, miserable, or just tired of dating subpar people, they agree to marry each other.
4. The wedding must be quick. Preferably in a courthouse with minimal to no fanfare.
5. Oreos will be served in lieu of cake.
6. Both parties agree “To Make You Feel My Love,” Garth’s version, is their song.
7. Once married, Party A promises to give Party B an orgasm every day. Night too.
8. Both parties agree never to go to bed angry.
9. Both parties will always speak the truth, no matter if it hurts.
10. No loopholes. No take-backs. No excuses.
I finish with a flourish and hand the pen to her. “Sign it, Doc.”
She reads it over, and a soft laugh escapes her, a blush tinting her cheeks. “These are pretty specific. And you really don’t think either of us will find anyone better in eight years?”
“I’ve already had three years to look, and I’m sitting out here in the dark with you while a party is going on around us, with girls barely dressed, and all I see is you.”
She looks at me for a long beat, gaze softening into something vulnerable. She takes the pen, her hand steady as she signs her elegant signature—the one that will sign off on multimillion-dollar medical clearances—right next to my messy one.
“Okay, deal,” she whispers, setting the pen on the clipboard. “If the world hasn’t chewed us up and spit us out by thirty, I’ll marry you, Wyatt St. Clair.”
I take the paper, fold it, and shove it in my pocket. “Excellent. I’ll keep this in my safe, right next to my NFL contract.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stuck with me.” I kiss her lips lightly. “Even if it’s just as a friend. For now.”
I set the clipboard near the foot of the lounger, then stand, holding my hands out to her. “Come on, Doc. Let’s go celebrate.”
“I think I’m just going to go back to my room.” She takes my hands and stands.
“No, you can’t. One drink.” I pull her into my chest and wrap my arms around her waist. “Then I’ll walk you back, and we’ll both go to our separate rooms, even though that’s a sucky option in my opinion.”
“One drink.” She pulls back, then reaches down to grab the clipboard.
“I’ll take it.” I reach for her hand, and she threads her fingers through mine as if it’s a natural thing.
We walk out of the darkness, the noise from the club hitting us like a wall. I head over to the bar and get us some drinks. She tucks her clipboard under her arm and takes the drink from my hand.
“Okay, Doc. Here’s to us. To our pact. And winning the national fucking championship, baby!”
Presley laughs and holds up her glass to clink against mine. “Cheers to us!”
Some of my teammates call out my name, but I ignore them. I’m not walking away from her until she’s safely in her room.
“You can go hang out with them. You should actually.” She tilts her head toward the guys.
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
And that’s where I stay until our drinks are finished.
I don’t bother saying goodbye to anyone. I just take her hand in mine, and we walk to the hotel we’re staying at, which is next to the club.
When we reach her room, she turns and leans against the door. “Thanks for walking me back. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. Every minute with you matters to me.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she sets her clipboard against the door and then stands, inching closer to me until the toes of our shoes are touching.
Instinctively, my hands wrap around her waist, and her arms drape over my shoulders.
Pulling her into me, I place a soft kiss on her lips.
It’s more than a kiss. It’s a promise that I intend to keep.
And as much as I want to go into that room with her and fuck her till the sun comes up, I’ll walk away because she and our friendship mean a lot to me, and I want her to know that this is … more.
“Night, Doc,” I say against her lips.
She exhales and rests her forehead against mine. “Night, Saint.”
We stand there for a minute, breathing each other in.
Eventually, she clears her throat and moves back. She bends to get her clipboard, opens her door, and walks into her room. She turns, the sexiest smile stretching across her face, and waves her fingers, then closes the door. The sound loud in the empty hallway.
I step back, then walk away. The folded paper in my pocket feels heavier than the championship ring I’ll be getting in a few months.
Eight years. It feels like a lifetime. But I know, without a doubt, that I’d wait eighteen if I had to. Because she’s worth it and I have faith that we’ll make our way back to each other.
Because a saint never gives up on a miracle.