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. . .
Tuck
Second Wind
My sparkler goes out,but my buzz stays put.
Goldie and Coop wave from the back of their getaway golf cart. They’re all smiles, flush with happiness after what turned out to be one hell of a party. I drank. I laughed. I danced my ass off.
And now I’m a little drunk and my feet hurt, so it’s time to head out.
“Going home to Katie?” Abel asks when he sees me grabbing my jacket.
“She’s at my mom’s tonight.”
Riley grins. “Going home to the nanny, then.”
I spear my friend with a dark look. “Don’t.”
Riley holds up his hands. “I’m just messin’. I know you can’t touch her.”
“Even though he’s clearly jonesin’.” Abel nods at me. “I’ll bet fifty bucks they bang.”
Riley shakes his head. “No way I’m taking the other side of that bet.”
“Y’all hush,” I say.
Truth is, I can’t stop thinking about Maren to save my life. Tonight was a great time, don’t get me wrong. For all the week’s snafus, the wedding turned out beautifully. I’m happy for Coop and Goldie.
But seeing them kiss and touch and laugh together hit home that I don’t have someone to touch like that.
I do laugh with Maren, though. A lot. Probably too much.
I have no desire to get married again. Not gonna lie, though, I felt a tug in my chest watching Goldie walk down the aisle. She and Coop make a great pair. They’re going to be good partners in life and in parenthood—Goldie is four months pregnant.
Maybe I only miss having a partner like that. A partner at all. Someone to help shoulder life, lighten the load. ’Cause damn, does it get heavy sometimes.
It’d also be nice to have someone to dance with. Miss that too.
My house is a five-minute walk, so I pop an Altoid in my mouth, throw my tuxedo jacket over my shoulder, and head into the dark. The farther I walk, the darker it gets. The more stars come out in the sky.
My tongue burns with the fiery taste of cinnamon.
I notice it’s a new moon. The absence of its light makes the stars seem to pulse in time to my heartbeat.
They make me think of Maren. Again.
I hear the thump of a bass beat. Glancing over my shoulder, I wonder if the party’s started back up. But as I approach my house, I realize it’s coming from this direction.
It’s coming from the crofter.
My stomach does a somersault. Is Maren working out? At this hour?
I should one hundred percent go home and get my ass in bed. But my curiosity—my buzz—gets the better of me.
Peering through the garage door windows, I see Maren standing in front of the mirrors in the gym. She’s wearingwhat have to be the tiniest, tightest pair of bike shorts ever made and a sports bra.
She’s dancing. Cheering. Doing some kind of insanely sexy combination of the two. Her body moves smoothly, athletically to the beat. It’s a song I recognize from one of my own workout playlists. Armani White.
