Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(10)

I can either take his help, or I can scare my friend.

Monica was right on my parents’ heels getting to the hospital. She’s gone out of her way to have girls’ nights—without Patrick’s new girlfriend—because just because I’m marrying the idiot’s brother doesn’t mean I’m giving up my best friend. And she begged to ride out here to Shipwreck with me because you are not driving that far alone right now, period.

She doesn’t sugarcoat it.

And I couldn’t be more grateful.

And Grady is adorable and kind and well-loved in Shipwreck, and the perfect foil to Patrick and his wonderful new girlfriend, but he’s not the kind to panic over me, because he’s just a nice guy from town doing me a favor by pretending to be my boyfriend this week.

He’s not actually interested.

Wyatt’s watching me like he always has. Alert. Focused. Aware.

He probably watches everyone like that. I wonder how many other women have had their hearts broken just because of those eyes.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” I say.

“We’re already heading that way.”

“Right. Sure. Thanks.”

“When do you need to leave?”

“We have reservations at six.”

One corner of his mouth hitches. “Crusty Nut?”

I fucking love Shipwreck. And I love that Monica loves it enough to get married here. “Not like The Grog takes reservations or has good seating for the parade.”

“We’ll be ready at five-thirty.”

“Thank you.”

It’s just a ride. And I’m doing it for Monica.

And I refuse to feel uncomfortable just because he’s seen me naked, played wild bucking stallion to my free-range cowgirl, and then decided to return me for a refund.

If he wants to remember that night, that’s his problem.

I am officially moving on.

And I am officially not going to let him see that I care anymore.

Because then maybe I can also convince myself.





Four





Wyatt



While we wait for five-thirty, I introduce Tucker to the joy of Pac-Man in Beck’s basement haven. Because modeling underwear as a second career after being in a boy band for years pays well, Beck has money to burn, and he uses it outfitting his houses with enough games to keep a man busy for three lifetimes. In addition to the old-school Pac-Man arcade game console, he has Ms. Pac-Man and Frogger, plus foosball, table tennis, pool, air hockey, and two closets full to bursting with board games. And more.

This whole house is a man cave, but the basement?

The basement is the cherry on top. Half bar with TV viewing area, half game room, it’s where we always hang out when we’re here on those rare days we’re all in the area at the same time without other responsibilities to tackle, and some of my best adult memories have happened in this basement.

Like the Frogger weekend.

And I am never risking fucking up that friendship again.

Not for the houses and the games.

But for the guys who are my only family left beyond my son.

“Run away from the ghosts, bud,” I tell Tucker, who’s sitting on a red leather bar stool so he’s tall enough to man the controller. “You can eat them once you get the dot in the corner.”

He shrieks with glee as he races the ghosts back and forth on the bottom row, until the blue ghost eats him.

As Pac-Man falls off the screen, Tucker bursts into tears. “I died!” he wails.

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay.”

“I died,” he wails harder.

I rub his back, because fuck, what else am I supposed to do? It seems like a silly thing to cry over, but then, he’s seven. He cried once on spring break because a worm dried out on the sidewalk.

Kid has big feelings and a big heart. There’s no way I’m breaking that heart.

The world needs more heart.

“You want to play again?” I ask.

He wipes his eyes, pushing his glasses crooked, and nods. “Uh-huh.”

“You want help?”

“Uh-huh.”

His hair smells like a fruit pie when I lean over him, and his little body is just so little. Even after growing since I saw him last. I kiss his crown and restart the game, covering his small hand with mine. “We’re going to run away from the ghosts, okay?”

“Okay.”

We die twice more before my phone alarm goes off with my two-minute warning to get upstairs and get shoes on.

Tucker heaves a grown-up sigh. “Really, Dad? The alarms again?”

“They keep us on time.”

“Sometimes you just have to live life.”

And that’s his mother coming through. I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “And sometimes, people are counting on us. And other times, we want to get to the pirate parade before we miss it.”

He pushes his hair out of his eyes and hops off the stool, dashing for the stairs and clutching his shorts, which are threatening to fall down his slender hips. “Pirate parade! Pirate parade!”

“Tucker, you forgot your…” I trail off, because he’s gone, running past the basement bar and up the stairs. So I grab the little scrap of a security blanket he still carries with him and trail after him, also grabbing three dirty glasses from beside a glittery notebook on the high bar counter as I pass, though those aren’t our mess. I get to the top of the stairs just a few steps behind Tucker, who’s staring again.