Chapter 3 One Shot
One Shot
Sebastian
I go over last week’s message thread:
Me to Tash: Don’t sweat. Whatever we don’t get done we can blame it on the wedding planner.
Tash: She’s family. My mistakes will become family history.
Me: We’re in this together. I’ve got your back. Remember algebra?
Tash: No. I never want to think about algebra again. You are the only good thing to come out of algebra. I mean your study playlist.
Me: I forgot all about the playlist. Think we can sneak some into the mix for the wedding planner?
Tash: Don’t tempt me. I’m thinking epic breakup song.
Me: Or “you’re not like the others” from that band you used to like.
Tash: Still love them. But Stormy Waters is better.
Me: Them’s fighting words.
Tash: You couldn’t beat me at tennis, what makes you think you can beat me at music?
Me: Who won the music trivia round last year?
Tash: Only because
Me: I’m waiting…
Tash: Only because we all have limited brain capacity and I devoted mine to remembering all the Greek gods, and the Egyptian gods, mapped to Nordic gods.
Nothing in our last chat prepared me for seeing Tasha tonight. I check it again. Her last message arrived this morning.
The only reason I came to Lizard Island early was to get a headstart on all the things the wedding planner pushed to Tasha and were stressing her out.
Connor and Hunter convinced me that since I wasn’t going to drink them under the table—retired my crown at twenty—I might as well head to the Island early and enjoy life before I dive headfirst into my next project.
They are only partially right. Yes, I need to plan how to live out of suitcases for the next indefinite period.
First to New Zealand, then around the world.
But truthfully, if I spend three days handling the boring, logistical bullshit that comes with being best man, I’ll be free to spend the wedding weekend convincing the bridesmaid that I’m the best man.
Not just the best man, but her best man.
I did not expect to see Natasha Forrest tonight, let alone tonight at the resort bar. Deep russet hair against bare shoulders. That familiar posture she uses in her role as Life of the Party while still hiding the real Tasha behind emotional walls an Olympic pole-vaulter couldn’t conquer.
Still Tasha. The woman who noticed my best friend in high school before I had my chance. My missed opportunity. My biggest regret.
Does it make me an asshole that I felt life threw me a second chance when Connor cancelled their wedding?
Probably. Okay, to be fair, I’m not proud that a part of me celebrated when he called off his engagement.
Yes, I hated that Tasha got hurt. Hated every tear, every forced smile she wore among mutual friends.
I hated her pretending to be fine when I knew differently.
But I also couldn’t shake the thought: Now she’s free. Now I have a chance. Now, maybe she’ll finally see me as more than Connor’s nerdy best friend who failed at surfing but coached her through algebra and poetry.
Am I selfish? Absolutely.
Do I feel guilty for crushing on my best friend’s ex?
Sure. But he’s moved on with her cousin and …
she’s still … Tasha. The girl who will dance on tables, sing karaoke without a shred of talent, and then lead a conga line into the pool.
She’s also the one person guaranteed to turn up with homemade chicken noodle soup if a friend is sick, a tray of chocolate fudge brownies and gallon of ice cream to soothe a breakup, or join you on a two-hour hike in second hand boots and silence just because.
Ask me how I know. And I was only ever her boyfriend’s best friend.
Memories and thoughts wash through me as I watch Tasha’s audience hang on her every word. The women aren’t protective of their men, because Tasha’s energy poses no threat. She is light and kindness, and the reason I’ve been turning down women looking for a relationship for a decade.
New subject. Any subject. Insert change of subject here and now.
Because I did not just admit to preferring bachelorhood to settling for a woman other than Tasha Forrest. Ten years is a long time to carry a torch.
Waiting two years since Connor broke her heart is a long time to make my move.
Most people would call that pathetic. I call it patiently waiting for Tash to get over what Connor did to her and be emotionally available to move on with me.
Again, change of subject. She’s here … three days early. I’m here, also three days early. We even ended up at the same bar at the same time. Coincidence? Fate? Or am I reading more into this because I want it to mean something?
If only she’d given me a sign last month when a group of us got together to plan out our trip to Lizard Island and coordinate snorkling and boat tours.
Or even last week when we met the happy couple and the wedding planner to receive our assignments because the wedding planner overcommitted and insisted either the best man and chief bridesmaid step up or the wedding would become a chaotic mess.
Emotional blackmail? I took it as a sign to force Tasha and I to work together.
Which brings me to this week’s message fest. I read through them again. Not a sign she sees me as anything other than a friend. After her last message, I ran out of excuses to send an email that had been in my drafts for almost a month.
Zane, thanks for your patience. The offer I was waiting on fell through. Happy to come on board. Here’s to having fun for three months in New Zealand before we take over the world. Seb
Zane’s project is the biggest opportunity of my career. I hit send six hours and forty-three minutes ago. Can you spell dumbass?
But what if I gave up too soon, and Tasha being here is a sign?
I approach the bar as if entering a boardroom.
Her audience are too enthralled in conversation to notice.
As for Tasha, her focus is on the people she’s with.
She’s never been the type to keep one eye on the rest of the room, looking for a better opportunity.
When Tasha is present, she is one hundred percent present.
So, it’s no surprise when she doesn’t notice me stop at the bar, close enough to hear but not in her line of sight.
Can you spell C-R-E-E-P-E-R?
This is not me. I almost walk away and plan an accidental meeting for tomorrow when I hear her describe the groomsmen. “One’s his cousin. One’s his brother. One’s his best friend of twenty years.”
“And?” The group ask without knowing how messed up Tasha’s history is with the groom.
“I’ve known them almost as long as I’ve known him.” Tasha’s voice holds more humor than hurt. “And I can confidently say they’re completely off-limits, have never noticed me, or I’m not their type.”
I have my way in. I didn’t build my career by waiting for second chances or second signs. I wait for her new friends to leave before making my move.
She’s caught off guard by my presence, but matches me with banter. Her body language screams interested, but I need to know that she’s doing more than putting on a brave face.
I don’t want to be her rebound.
I don’t chase lost causes.
I know Zane’s forward workplan. If the project in New Zealand is successful, I’ll spend the next four or five years repeating the success for him all over the world, taking a piece of the action as my reward.
He is the rare professional footballer who had brains enough to turn cash, fame, and a crazy idea into a money tree.
He needs me. He needs my connections. The project will take my business in a new direction, opening the doors to international opportunities I never dreamed of.
I’d been prepared to pass on Zane’s opportunity for Natasha Forrest. Until I gave up. I signed the contract and booked my flights six friggin hours and forty-three minutes ago. Can you spell dumbass again?
But, this is Tasha. She’s here and looking at me like I’m her first and last meal.
Fine. Yes, I use her word.
Consider the next four days my Hail Mary pass. Will she catch it or let me fall on my ass?
Will I send Zane my apologies, buy a second ticket, or use business as an excuse to escape?
Half an hour of light flirting conversation, and I’m sliding into the zone. Flirty banter meets flirty banter. Sexy smile that reaches her eyes. And I’m not imagining the way they keep getting stuck on my lips.
“So, other than agreeing to wear a pink flamingo costume, what would I need to do to convince you that I’m your type?”
Her laugh lights up the room. “Oh, I’ve decided I want you as the dancing elephant in the room.”
“Gee, but I look better in a tux.”
She looks me up and down in a deliberate once-over. “I’m sure you look even better out of a tux … but before you get ahead of yourself, have you considered a pink tutu, pink heels, and pink lipstick?”
“So, you want to confuse me with the other bridesmaids?”
“Oh, I could hide you in the bridesmaid cottage, and you could help me get dressed.”
“I’m better at helping women out of clothes instead …” I break off, “And this is why I’m not a professional comedian. Can’t deliver a joke to save my life.”
“So, you’re experienced in undoing difficult zips.” Tasha recovers quicker than I do. “You’ll be a handy man to have around at the end of the night.”
“Tasha.” I take her hand. When she doesn’t pull away, I link our fingers, stroking her palm with my thumb. “I … you … this week …”
The same man with a reputation for speaking underwater and charging for it, can’t string a sentence together.
“We never talked about me and Connor.” Of course, Tasha broaches the subject I haven’t wanted to touch.
“We don’t have to.” Because it’s the right thing for me to say.