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“What’s up?”
“The Metaphors are playing the Coach House tonight.”
“Get out.” The Metaphors were an Irish Celtic/rock band that featured two burly bald men in kilts who played the bagpipes. The Coach House would be packed.
“Right? I just found out. I told Nash to save us four tickets at the door. You in? Or do you have plans with Travis?”
“I haven’t talked to him since he dropped me off last night.”
“He hasn’t called you?”
“I told him I would call him in a couple of days. Said I was going to be busy at work and needed to focus.”
“Well, that sounds like a line of bull if I ever heard it.”
“He told me to take all the time I need.”
“Maybe there’s hope for him yet.” Sidney winked. “But we’re not going to talk about the men in our lives. Let’s dance our butts off and have fun.”
Ruby frowned. “Who are the other tickets for?”
“Regan Thorne and her friend Gwen. Regan volunteered to drive,, so she’ll pick us up around eight.”
Regan Thorne. The girl Wyatt Blackwell was head over heels for.
“It’s just us girls?” she asked.
Sidney nodded. “Regan said it was just girls.”
“I don’t know,” she murmured. The Coach House wasn’t really her thing anymore.
“Ruby, you need to forget about everything and come out with us and have some fun. You’re way too uptight, and, honestly, you need to let your hair down and embrace the woman you used to be. The girl who could dance all night and go to work with no sleep.”
“We did used to get crazy, didn’t we?”
“Yeah.” Sidney leaned forward. “So you’re in?”
She found herself nodding. “Why not.”
Okay. This was good. Travis could wait until she had her head screwed on and her stuff figured out. Until she knew for sure he wasn’t the pothole but the helping hand. If she saw him tonight, it would only muddy the waters, because things would happen. Dark and
sinful things. The kind of things that led to more complications. It wasn’t as if she needed another night of hot, passionate sex. Not really.
But she sure as hell wanted it.
Chapter 19
As the youngest of three boys growing up in a home with only a token mother figure for most of his teenage years, Travis Blackwell had been fed a steady diet of testosterone. It was in the milk he used to wrangle from Wyatt’s death grip or the last piece of steak he’d wrestle Hudson for. It was his father looking the other way when one of his brothers gave him a wedgie or pantsed him as he was about to get on the school bus.
His hockey brothers were no different. They took pleasure in making their fellow teammates do questionable things only men would do, because women were a hell of a lot smarter. No woman Travis knew would attempt to walk across a parking lot buck naked, with Oreo cookies clenched between her butt cheeks. Or use a razor blade in places no razor blade had any business being near. Sure, it was dumb, but it was all part of a brotherhood, and it was a brotherhood he called family. He’s was a guy’s guy, and that was that.
In the off-season, he loved nothing more than hunting and fishing with his pals. Golf vacations in Scotland. Weekends in Vegas or diving in Belize. He could afford all the toys and hung with an elite crowd of men who had a lot of disposable income and no family ties. They were single, rich athletes, and the world was theirs for the taking. Women were the icing on the proverbial cake, and unless you had a real sweet tooth, there was no issue. Women were background noise. You could hit mute and make them go away.
So why was it on a beautiful night in July, five men in a boat didn’t cut it? Hell, even Zach hadn’t brought his game. They weren’t laughing and telling off-color jokes. In fact, Hudson, Wyatt, and Brad spent most of the time discussing the finer points of microbreweries. Travis didn’t give a flying crap about microbreweries. Beer was beer. At least in his books. That wasn’t the worst of it. They’d even discussed going on a wine tour along the Niagara escarpment. What guy did wine tours on a Sunday afternoon? On a bus?
This night wasn’t what he’d envisioned. He’d wanted to forget about a certain dilemma waiting for him back in Crystal Lake. A five-foot-six dilemma that wasn’t going away no matter how hard he tried not to think about it.
The plan was to night fish for trout. The spot was a beauty, and the temperature was perfect. It wasn’t stinking hot, but it wasn’t cool either. There were no bugs, and the water was calm. It was the kind of summertime in Michigan he missed. And yet…
