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“I am not stalking you, I swear. I came for the cheap hot wings and to check out the league because I’m thinking of joining. And then I saw you out there on the ice and I wanted to apologize. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Gemma.” Setting the beer down, I thrust my hand toward him and wait. He shakes it because Daxon McGuire is a true gentleman, even in the face of a potentially unstable female.
“I owe you an explanation.” I take a seat on one of the benches, completely uninvited. After a moment of deliberation, Dax takes the chair across from me.
Grabbing a glass from the stack, I pour myself a drink, taking the time to conduct one last mental run-through of my story.
Kiersten, Aunt Livi, and I all agreed that it was probably best for me not to tell Dax the whole parallel universe story, seeing as my mission is to get him to sign up for a lifelong friendship. Instead, I’ve concocted a string of excuses that are close enough to the truth that I’ll remember them and normal enough that they’ll make me appear quirky—or at least that’s the plan.
“I was having a bit of a rough time this morning.” I dive right in. “My boyfriend broke up with me, and my best friend…well—to shorten a very long story—I thought something terrible was happening with him. So when I wandered into your store, I wasn’t thinking straight. And then it seemed like a safe place to let all my pent-up angst out, so I did. Then I got embarrassed. But I’m good now, and I want to thank you for your kindness.”
I stop talking. Or yammering. Or whatever you’d call the jumble of semi-sensical words pouring from my mouth.
Dax stares back at me for a solid moment before he gives a sharp, curt nod. “All good. I get it. We all have days where we need to scream into the void. I’m just glad to see you’re okay.”
He moves to stand, as the conversation is over, and I’m good, so he’s good.
“So yeah,” I say, a little too loud for an indoor setting. “If you ever need me to return the favor, I’m happy to. We could grab drinks. Or if you ever need a safe place to let out your pent-up angst, you could come to my place. It’s a basement. But the walls are pretty thick. Great for angsting.”
Dax raises a brow. “You want me to come to your basement where no one can hear me scream?”
Shit. That sounded way less creepy in my head. This is not going well.
I push the stack of glasses toward him. “Can I offer you a beer?”
Dax eyes my cups and the beer pitcher on the table before shaking his head. “Thanks, but I’m not a fan of lagers. I’m gonna grab something else from the bar, but you have a great night, Gemma.”
He smiles at me before he gets up, but it’s stiff and forced—no teeth. It’s the smile he gives tollbooth operators and those people who go door-to-door selling internet packages. Our conversation is over.
I’m a little stunned. Shell-shocked. Also, in what universe does Dax not like Hurry Hard? Splitting a pitcher of beer after curling is our thing. We do it every Tuesday, which makes me suspect that this is less about the beer and more about the person offering it.
On my walk over here, I pictured many ways this night could go. Envisioned awkwardness, maybe even a little groveling on my end, but at the end of every one of my fantasies, Dax and I became friends. He’d find me funny and charming. Recognize our souls are kindred spirits. We would end our evening both knowing we’d stumbled upon a friendship that was really special. Not once did I ever picture him rejecting my friendship. And frankly, that hollow, aching hole in my chest feels a hell of a lot worse than it did when I broke up with Stuart.
Abandoned and alone, I contemplate my next move with limited options. Aunt Livi is in bed. Kiersten’s probably watching reality television or doing god knows what with Trent, and although I live by the philosophy that abandoning a nearly full pitcher is a mortal sin, I have too much pride to sit here by myself and drink it.
I stand and shoot one last longing look in the direction of the bar, where Dax is chatting with Larry, before gathering my purse and heading for the door.
“Gemma Wilde, what the hell are you doing here?” a voice booms behind me, and I turn to face the broad grin and open arms of Dax’s cousin Dougie. There’s no mistaking the invitation for a hug, and I fall into it, letting his white hairy arms pull me tight to his chest, where he’s all lemons and mint and comfort. I hold on for what is probably too long. But with the wound from Dax’s rejection still painful and fresh, it feels wonderful to be known.
“What are you doing here?” he asks again. “Not that I’mcomplaining. I guess I’ve never really seen you out in the wild. Brandon”—he turns, calling to his husband—“you remember Gemma, she owns Wilde Beauty.”
Brandon extends his hand for a very firm handshake. It provides zero clues about our relationship in this life, as I swear you could know Brandon for fifty years and he’d still greet you with stiff British formality.
“Ah yes.” He releases my hand. “The woman whose mortgage we are likely paying with the amount you spend on skincare.”
He runs his hand down Dougie’s arm with a level of affection reserved for only his husband. “We were just about to grab a pint. Would you care to join us, Gemma?”
I gesture to the pitcher left abandoned on the table. “I bought that, and you are welcome to it.”
Brandon may be formal, but one can buy his heart with free beer. For the second time, I take the same seat at our regular Tuesday night table. This time, my companions accept my friendship beer with athank youand cheers.
“So you came here tonight to lure handsome men with beer.” Dougie winks as he takes a sip.
His statement isn’t far from the truth, although not in the way he thinks.
“I actually came to check out the curling,” I lie. “I used to play in a league, and I’ve been finding myself missing it lately.” Not a lie at all.
Dougie twists around in his seat to face the bar. “Dax!” he yells. “Get your ass over here.”
Dax turns at his name, his eyes flicking from Dougie to me. He grabs his beer stein from the bar, gives an air-cheers to Lawrence, then makes his way slowly to our table.
