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“You’re welcome, though if he hadn’t been drunk, I might have smashed his nose through his skull for touching you.”
I shake my head nervously and step towards him when I see his wrist pink as if having been grabbed, stopping myself from reaching for it to check that he isn’t hurt.
“Your hand. Did you hurt it? Maybe you need an ice pack or something.”
He shakes his head before gesturing to the two men now next to us.
“This is my friend, Gideon,” he says about the tall handsome one with the floppy black hair. “And this is Kennedy,” he adds, referring to the shorter blond guy with the cute chubby cheeks. He turns to me, his gaze so focused that it makes me fidget. “And this is Indigo.”
Both of their faces light up as they consider me, and I manage an awkward smile in response.
“And Fran,” he continues. “And… Rami.”
“Ramirezis fine,” snaps Rami, funny, smart, protective, brilliant, but not the most socially enthusiastic of creatures.
Fran and I cast each other a sideways glance of amusement at her delivery.
“How about we call it a night?” says Rami swiftly.
“Yeah, the class starts at 8 a.m. tomorrow,” adds Fran.
“Are you gentlemen done here?” asks Greyson to his friends.
“No, we’re gonna go back in,” replies Gideon, eyes gleaming mischievously. “We’ll get a cab home if you want to leave?”
Grey nods, turning to me and the ladies. “Okay. I’ll drive you home. I didn’t drink alcohol tonight.”
“Like hell you will,” snaps Rami. “Look, thanks for helping our girl out, but we’ll be getting a cab.”
“Rami,” chides Fran gently as I throw her a pointed look to chill.
“Look, thanks,” I say, “but we’ll get a cab.”
He bows his head and we say our goodbyes.
A minute later as we pour into a taxi, I turn to find him watching us on the sidewalk.
14
Indigo
“Can you tell the instructor I’m only gonna be there for the afternoon session?” I say as we pull up to the ridiculously beautiful oceanside vacation house Fran, Rami and I are renting for the week. “I’m on wedding duty tomorrow morning. And all day Wednesday.”
“Oh, fuck, enjoythat,” snorts Rami sarcastically, having heard all about Carrie’s bridezilla ways for the last few weeks.
Her, um, attention to detail, to put it mildly, is one of the reasons I decided to do a yoga retreat in the first place—to help me stay sane while trying to keep her from losing her freaking marbles.
Watching her spend months poring over that wedding binder of hers has only cemented what I already knew, which is that if I do ever get married, it’ll be in a barn somewhere with everyone wearing what they want, getting drunk and stupid-dancing all night.
I know her wedding is going to be spectacular, but that level of planning is just not in my DNA. Even getting my bridesmaid dress right felt like a conquest. It took three long fittings before it was acceptable to Carrie. I love the woman dearly, but dear Lord, I’ll be relieved when this one is over.
To top it off, a month ago, she hired a Type A wedding planner with a stick permanently lodged up her behind who seems to think she can text the bridesmaids lists of demands at all hours of the night.
“My turn,” says Fran, handing the driver a ten-dollar bill.
As we thank him and spill out onto the sidewalk behind our house, my eye is drawn to car lights pulling up about fifty or so feet behind us.
It’s dark now, so I can’t see who’s in it, but something about the four round headlights looks familiar, making my body go rigid.
