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 designedto 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 ofGame of Throneswere 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?”
