Chapter 9
nine
“TENNESSEE WHISKEY” — CHRIS STAPLETON
Miller
I have seen Tavey Ramsey in approximately ten thousand outfits over the past three years.
Jeans and oversized sweaters. Sundresses.
Leggings and boots. Office-appropriate tops that somehow still managed to make me think deeply inappropriate thoughts.
Once, on a team-building day at a trampoline park, she wore pigtail braids and an expression of manic delight that haunted my masturbatory fantasies for a full goddamn month.
I told myself, as I crossed the property toward her room, that I was prepared to see her dressed up for this ridiculous wedding theme—
Yeah. No.
I was not prepared.
Not even a little.
The door opened and she immediately pitched forward with a startled yelp, all blue fabric and flailing limbs.
Instinct kicked in before thought. I caught her against me, one hand at her waist and the other bracing her arm, and for one disorienting second, her palms were flat on my bare chest.
That moment, her hands on my bare skin. Fuck. It’s burned into my mind.
Even now, as we walk across the green to the oversized barn-like building where the reception will be held, I’m thinking about her touch.
Wondering how the hell I’m supposed to get through the evening, in leather pants for fuck’s sake, without every single person in the building knowing exactly how I feel about Tavey Ramsey.
Her outfit only makes the situation worse.
The dress is soft blue, draped and flowing in a way that makes her look ethereal.
Her hair is pinned back from her face with little dragon clips that catch the light when she moves.
She has a dragon-shaped clutch in one hand, which would be absurd on anyone else and somehow reads as exactly right on her.
She looks like she stepped out of a fantasy novel.
Or maybe some fever dream specifically designed to kill me.
Thank God she’s keeping the conversation going, because I can barely string together two words.
She’s shooting me the side-eye as we walk. “How exactly did you end up dressed like a Dothraki warrior?”
I do the mental math on how pathetic it would be to reveal the hours (and no, I’m not joking) my friends spent on the group chat discussing what I should wear.
The conversation crossed continents, first with Nick and his wife, Cassie.
Then at some point Cassie roped in our mutual friend Jonah and his wife, Clara.
I swear to God, at some point people I don’t even know were included.
There was a Pinterest board. An online poll.
A Discord channel was created. Hours of Game of Thrones were watched.
I leave my explanation at, “I have friends who are married. Their wives offered opinions. I was told that if you were dressing up and I didn’t, there would be consequences. Apparently, my friend’s wife Clara knows a woman who is three-quarters of a shaman and she knows how to curse a man.”
Tavey is rolling in her lips and biting down on them to keep from laughing. “How is a person three-quarters of a shaman?”
“No idea, but I’m not fucking around with a shamanic curse.”
The laughter in Tavey’s eyes dies as her gaze drifts down to my bare chest.
Good.
Let her look.
And that look? The self-conscious way she licks her lips?
It makes all this totally worth it. I need to send some kind of gift basket to Cassie, Clara, and maybe even the friend who is three-quarters of a shaman.
“Did you really do this because I said I was going to?” Tavey asks shyly, a few seconds later.
“Yeah.”
That’s the truth. No point dressing it up.
She swallows.
Then she says, very seriously, “You understand that this might be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
I frown. “That seems unlikely.”
“It does not.” She points the dragon clutch at me like she’s making a legal argument.
“Most people in my life fall into one of two categories. Category one: they tolerate the weird. Category two: they actively encourage it, but only because they share DNA with me and are therefore legally obligated.”
I huff out a laugh. “Legally obligated?”
“I can only assume so.” She’s back in full chaos mode, outrageously silly and fun. “There must be paperwork somewhere.”
“I’d like to see that paperwork.”
“No, you wouldn’t. My Aunt Jules has all the important family documents in color-coded files in their home library in a fire safe the size of a Toyota. It’s very intimidating.”
We’ve nearly reached the barn by now and have slowed down to match the pace of the other guests filing through the door.
“Your Aunt Jules sounds like a control freak if she insists on keeping the paperwork for the entire family at her house.”
“Oh, it’s really just the four of us: her, my Uncle Pete, my brother Max, and me.”
“You were raised by your aunt and uncle?” I ask, because I’m realizing now that she’s never mentioned her parents.
“Only after my parents died. They took Max and me in.”
She says it like it’s no big deal. Just drops it into the conversation. I instantly want to know more, but that’s how Tavey is. It’s how she talks. Sprinkling in details like confetti. I can tell from her tone that this isn’t the moment for more details, so I let her keep talking.
“Oh, you should meet Max!” she says as though the idea has just occurred to her. “You’ll love him. He’s brilliant. Like, really smart.”
By now we’ve reached the door, so I hold it open for her. “Tavey, you know you’re really smart, too.”
She scoffs and shakes her head. “No, I mean, really smart.”
“You’re one of the smartest people I know.
” And I know a lot of smart people. Some people think that intelligent people don’t join the military, but there I’ve found the opposite to be true.
A lot of really smart people serve because it’s a way for them to get an education they couldn’t afford otherwise.
And what’s true for the military is doubly true for special forces.
I don’t say any of this aloud, because it’s a conversation we’ve had before.
Besides, she’s beaming at the compliment. But then adds, “No, he’s really smart. Like McPherson Fellowship, smart. It’s this grant—”
“I know what the McPherson Fellowship is.”
“Ah, then you know what I mean.”
I could keep arguing the point because I know better than most how wickedly fast her brain works, but I don’t.
Because McPherson Fellows are the kind of people they make PBS documentaries about.
I make a mental note to check out her brother’s Wikipedia page.
If he is at that level, he shouldn’t be too hard to track down.
Reading about him would be an easy way to learn about her past without stirring up painful memories.
A way to satisfy my curiosity without pushing too hard.
She must take my silence the wrong way because she starts babbling. “I mean, not that you want to meet my family. I wasn’t implying… I just meant that I think you’d get along. Not that you need more friends or anything.”
I put my hand on her back to steer her toward the receiving line as I say, “I’d love to meet your brother.”
She meets my gaze for a moment, a smile flitting around her lips, as she nods. “Okay.”
Then she glances down, and her gaze lingers a beat too long on my chest before skittering away.
I notice.
Of course I notice.
If she keeps looking at me like that all night, I’m not going to make it.
Her own gaze drops to my vest again. “So… just out of curiosity, was the shirtlessness your idea or is this, like, historically accurate?”
“I did some image searches.”
“Of course you did.” She nods solemnly. “Research-based sluttiness. I respect it.”
The laugh this pulls out of me is louder than I expect. A couple standing on the porch of a nearby barndominium glance over.
Tavey beams, clearly pleased with herself.
Christ, she’s cute.
I should say something about her dress. Something smooth. Something that tells her exactly what I thought when I opened that door and found her in my arms.
But smooth has never been my thing, and anything too honest is going to get me in trouble.
So I go with the truth in its simplest form.
“You look incredible,” I tell her.
The bravado goes right out of her. Her smile falters into something smaller and softer.
“Thank you,” she says.
There’s a pause.
Then, because she’s Tavey and apparently allergic to silence, she adds, “I was worried I might look ridiculous.”
“You don’t.”
“I know there are a lot of accessories.”
“I noticed.”
“There are dragon hair clips.”
“I noticed those too.”
“And the dragon purse.”
I look down at the clutch in her hand. “That one was harder to miss.”
She brightens. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“It’s definitely something.”
She gasps. “That is not an answer.”
“It’s a purse shaped like a dragon.”
“Exactly. Because Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons: Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion.” As she says their names, she points to the purse and then the two hair clips.
Which I now notice are each a different color combination.
I nod like that settles the issue. “Obviously.”
She narrows her eyes at me, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You’re teasing me.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Interesting.” She starts walking toward the main building, forcing me to fall into step beside her. “And here I thought dressing up for me meant you were going to be on your best behavior.”
“I am on my best behavior.”
She glances up at me, deeply skeptical. “This is your best behavior?”
“Absolutely.”
“We’re doomed.”
I put a hand at the small of her back as we step off the porch and onto the gravel path. The move is instinctive. Practical. There’s a slight drop in the path and those ridiculous trailing scarves are clearly a threat to public safety.
Still, the second my palm settles against her, she goes a little still.
Not stiff.
Just aware.
So am I.
I leave my hand there as we walk.