I narrow my eyes. “So, you planned for this, then. Fucking me after the wedding.”
He laughs, kicks at the grass, shifts his weight. “Yeah. Something like that.”
I carefully keep my tone light, teasing. “And I’m sure that grocery order didn’t include breakfast food.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Nope.”
I shrug, stepping past him, smirking over my shoulder. “Too bad. I give incredible morning head.”
I only look back once. He’s watching me, lips curled up, eyes sharp and just a little bit soft. And for one impossible moment, I let myself pretend we’re walking home together for real, no secrets, no hiding, no rules but our own.
But it’s just a fantasy. So, I keep walking, into the dusk, and hope the future has more of this—more of him, more of us—than either of us will admit out loud.
Twenty-Three
My Favourite Game
Spencer
Yeah, I bet his morning head game is on point. That man could suck the chrome off a tailpipe. I wouldn’t mind waking up to—nope. Stick to the rules, Stark. He can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. That’s the gameI’mbest at. My game. My rules.
We head toward the exit of the dog park in silence, but I can feel Ryan’s eyes on me, the way he always watches—hungry, curious, hopeful. My chest aches in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
Fucking weddings.
I decide to distract myself. There’s an abandoned tennis ball on the path. I stop, pick it up, and lob it halfway across the grass. It’s barely out of my hands before Ryan is off like a shot, running after it.
Oh. My. God. He’s an actual golden retriever.
He snags the tennis ball, then his long legs eat up the distance back to me. He stops, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tossing the ball in the air and catching it with that infuriatingly perfect timing.
“Nice arm, Spencester. Want me to go long?” He’s still grinning, cheeks flushed, sweat at his temples.
I shake my head, scoffing. “No thanks. I’m not throwing balls with a professional athlete.”
He pumps his eyebrows. “I don’t know, you throw balls pretty well. They slap my ass just right.”
“Jesus, Ryan.” I can’t help the huff of laughter, even as I roll my eyes. He just flashes that sunshine grin, and we start walking back toward the reception, passing under the last pink glow ofsunset. For a few blissful seconds, I can almost forget the tangle of everything else.
After a minute of walking, Ryan says, “Speaking of playing ball, season starts in less than three months. Would—” He hesitates, scratching the back of his head, nervous. “Would you come to a game? Our first pre-season game is here and the whole crew is going. I’d love it if you went with.”
My gut flips. Getting invited to a game by a jock brings up old ghosts—memories of Travis, of shame, of hiding—but Ryan’s not like that. Not once has he made me feel like a sideshow or a dirty secret. He’s asking, not pressuring.
I clear my throat, swallowing down the old panic. “Maybe. Yeah. I think I can do that.” I surprise myself by meaning it.
He turns to look at me, eyes wide, a grin so bright it almost hurts. “Really? Are you sure? No, don’t answer that. No takesie backsies.”
“Yeah, I’m sure, Ry. Could be fun,” I assure him.
He bumps my shoulder with his. “Let’s get back to the reception. Let’s give it another hour—but then I need you to make good on that promise to fuck me senseless. And Spence?”
“Yeah?” My voice is all gravel and want.
“Lots of hair pulling tonight, kay?”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, half under my breath. Ryan just laughs, turning his stride into a little skip, the bastard.
The rink is even more alive now than before, lights blinking, music echoing off the walls. Ryan heads off to spend time with Anthony and Chance, and I make a beeline for the bar, needing a minute to gather myself. I order a scotch for me and a beer for the jock across the room who has sunshine eternally shooting out of his ass. Seriously, a blond man should not have this much power over me.
