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“Always,” Tig said.
They said their I-love-yous, and Nola hung up the phone. She pressed her palm to her chest. “I’m gonna have a heart attack before the day is out.”
“It’ll all work out, I promise.” Astrid gave her a quick side hug. “You two were meant for each other.”
Nola blinked back the sudden appearance of tears and gave her a hopeful smile. “You really mean that?”
“Not a single doubt in my mind,” Astrid said, never meaning anything more in her life. No, it definitely was not how she pictured how life would turn out eight years ago when she’d been the one wearing the wedding dress, but here the three of them were all getting exactly what they wanted. As her dad had always told her, that’s why you laced up your skates and played—no one could predict the future. “I’ll go let the wedding planner know the priest is finally on his way.”
Nola leaned forward and grabbed the fifth of Jack from the bar. “Make sure to give Gina this. She probably needs it as much as I did.”
Astrid took it and her bridesmaid bouquet of dried roses, statice, carnations, Hypericomb berries, protea, succulents, and Bells of Ireland before getting out of the limo. She’d been doubtful when the wedding florist had recommended a dry arrangement to Nola, but they were gorgeous.
As she stood on the cobblestone driveway, already regretting that she’d agreed to four-inch heels, one of the groomsmen peeled away from the hacky sack circle and headed her way.
She’d seen Cal in everything from Minnesota winter wear to nothing at all, but Cal in a tux just might be her favorite. Okay, that was a lie. Naked was always her favorite, but that wasn’t really wedding appropriate. But later? That was a completely different story.
“You ready for best man duties?” she asked, her heart speeding up just being next to him.
He gave her the kind of wicked smile that always destroyed her panties. “The only thing getting me through having to make a speech at the reception is the fact that after that, I get to sneak off to a private room with the maid of honor.”
“That’s not very likely considering the reception is at the Haven Club, most of which is off-limits to non-members,” she said, trying to play it cool when all of her was so very, very not. “Hoping for an empty supply closet?”
He pulled an old fashioned key with a black velvet ribbon tied to it out of his jacket pocket and held it up. “There’s no hope involved.”
Astrid blinked in surprise. She’d heard the rumors—who in Harbor City hadn’t?—but she hadn’t really believed the velvet keys were real. She’d thought the house where anything could happen was an urban legend to drive up demand for the club’s extravagant ballroom. Really, it was marketing genius to make people ask themselves why they’d hold a gala at an ordinary property when it could be at the ultra-secret Haven Club?
“Which room does that go to?” she asked, a wave of anticipation sending a warm rush of desire through her. “Is it true they’re all themed? How did you get a key?”
Cal’s gaze, dark and full of intensity, dropped to her mouth, and he took a step closer so there wasn’t even a single ray of sunlight between them. Even after three years together, being this close to him always sent her senses into overdrive. And the worst—or was it best?—part was that he knew exactly what he was doing. Proving the point, he leaned down so his lips brushed the curve of her ear, and just that barely there touch made her core clench.
“You’ll have to wait until after the reception to find out,” he said in that low rumble that he knew she couldn’t resist.
Then he took a step back, looking way too calm and collected for someone who’d just given her a million dirty ideas, hopes, and dreams. Relaxed as could be, he slipped the key back into his pocket and had the audacity to blandly smile at her as if he’d just told her the weather forecast.
Oh, he was not going to get away with this.
She was about to ask about a million more questions when a bright canary yellow Porsche with the license plate 0GOALS came speeding through the gates of the old church and then came to a screeching stop in front of the steps.
A young, skinny priest who looked decidedly green around the gills got out of the passenger side, wobbled a bit on his feet, and then blessed himself. Tig, meanwhile, bolted out of the car like a man on a mission.
“Eight minutes,” Tig said, cocky as ever, as he shut the driver’s door. “Let’s go, Father Jimmy. You’ve made my bride wait, and she is not happy when things run late, and I don’t like it when she’s not happy.” He walked around the front of the car and half walked/half propelled the priest toward the church doors. “Game on, boys,” Tig said to Cal and the groomsmen who were still playing hacky sack. “Let’s do this.”
Cal looked from the jackass parking job to the church doors Tig had disappeared through and back to the car. “Hockey players are such assholes.”
It was not the first—or last time—she’d hear such a sentiment from the full-time pub owner and part-time goalie whisperer with a waiting list of professional and college teams that was a mile long. He didn’t mean it, at least not completely, about any of them but especially not about Tig.
“Is that any way to talk about one of your best friends and Catnip’s godfather on his wedding day?”
Cal rolled his eyes because it wasn’t like he could dispute the truth. Those two along with Blackburn and Christensen had become quite the foursome, more like brothers than friends especially after what happened during the finals three years ago.
“Speaking of Catnip.” Cal looked around. “Where is he?”
Astrid glanced around and spotted the twenty-pound, nearly three-and-a-half-foot long Maine Coon cat at the far end of the church’s park-like yard. “Dad’s got him on the leash and is walking him over by the pond.”
“He better not get dirty. I never should have said he should be the ring bearer,” he grumbled. “It was a joke, and that fool Tig ran with it.”
Yeah, she’d believe that if she hadn’t known that Cal had spent way too much time on Etsy searching for cat tuxedos. “You’re just a proud cat daddy to Catnip O’Malley-Matsen. You couldn’t help yourself.”
