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But we knew from the start.
“I think,” Eli says as he gets up from his chair, “I owe Simon a Guinness. Come on, let’s let them bitch about men for a minute without feeling like we should guard our junk.”
Simon kisses Becky on the temple, and she beams like someone lit her soul on fire. But not some out of control inferno, more like a warm beacon that draws Simon back to her no matter what. They’re adorable.
Noah’s kiss flashes through my mind again. It was definitely not warm-beacon style, but he wasn’t out of control either. I don’t know if Noah could ever be out of control. Everything I know about him—from River, Arielle, and even from our messages when I thought he was Mark—says he’s a skinny hairsbreadth shy of a control freak. But that kiss was an inferno, one he stoked intentionally, built expertly, and let sear my soul.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I liked being under his control. His hand on my head, guiding me where he wanted me. Moving in slow, giving me time to think about what he was about to do. His tongue not forcing inside but teasing to make me hungry for him.
“With them gone,” Loretta says, pulling a dollar out of her pocket and laying it on the table, “Riley, Arielle, Becky . . . it’s game time.”
“Oh, God,” Becky groans even as she grins. “Have you been practicing?”
“Who, me? I don’t need to practice,” Loretta retorts smugly. “Unless you count paper in the wastebasket at work?”
“For you, trashcan shots totally count,” Becky asserts with a laugh, but as we always do, we make our way to the far side of McGillicutty’s where a remnant of a previous marketing attempt as a sports bar remains. The hoop shoot game survived because nothing else fits so well in the narrow nook that’s just big enough for two games side by side.
But it isn’t about the score, or at least not totally. It’s about our time while the guys have their time, forging those bonds that are going to last the rest of our lives.
“So, how’s my baby boy?” Loretta asks as Becky and Arielle take the first pair of games. “You know it’s not a good month unless I get my Raffy snuggles in!”
I laugh. She spoils Raffy every time I bring him by . . . with deep conditioning treatments, pawdicures, and beef jerky. Not to mention the scratches, hugs, and petting. But I have to admit Raffy looks great and smells better after a day at Loretta’s doggy salon. Plus, the before and after posts on his IG are some of my most popular posts. It seems everyone loves a glow up, Raffy’s fans included.
“How about I bring him by next Friday?”
“Sure, that’ll work. Not like I’m doing anything exciting, anyway.” Loretta’s usual wit has gone sour and her smile falters.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume,” I say quickly, trying to backpedal.
Loretta pats my hand and tsks. “No, baby. It’s not you, and Friday’s fine. I just had a date last weekend that was a shitshow from start to finish.”
I think about telling her that her date couldn’t have been worse than mine. But I guess mine ended better.
“What happened?” I ask carefully, noting that Loretta’s gotten Arielle and Becky’s attention now too.
“A new client brought his Great Dane in for a groom. I was sitting at the front desk to greet him, and we got to talking and then flirting. When he came back to pick up Harold—that’s the Great Dane—he asked me out and I said yes. Mama didn’t raise no fool, so I met him at the restaurant.” Her lips press into a thin line and her eyes roll. “Hmph, I could tell something was wrong as soon as I walked in.”
“He’s married?” Arielle guesses.
Loretta shakes her head. “No, he met me in my work clothes. Scrubs, tennis shoes, hair pulled back, covered in fur. But it was a date, so you know I did it up right. Hair and makeup on point, hot dress, and heels.”
I’ve seen Loretta done up. She’s stunning and makes an impact. Everyone notices when she struts into a room.
“He realized he was out of his league?” Becky asks hopefully.
“Man stood up to greet me blinking like he’d developed a tic, and then he kissed me on the cheek. I sit down thinking I got this fine thing on my hook. So he starts talking about basketball, and you know I was all over that. Wanna talk teams, play history, stats? Loretta’s gotchu,” she says with a pat of her own chest. “This fool says some smack about the women’s NCAA not being as good as the men’s, and I was not having that. Nope, told him exactly what I thought about that. He starts talking about his ball days, like college was a minute ago when it definitely was not, and giving me his stats. Like I give a single shit. Turned out he was a forward too, and my stats were better than his.” Loretta’s glee at that factoid fills her eyes with satisfaction.
