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Through the years, I’ve seen Garrett in all sorts of clothes—jeans, t-shirts, suits, a tux at our prom, and swim trunks. When the hell did he get a body like that? The back is nice, but the front view of the toned muscle that dips to a V and disappears into his boxer shorts? That image may have short-circuited my brain for a minute or two.
“Everything okay back there?” he calls out, reminding me that we’re currently standing in a hotel room with matching wedding rings.
“Peachy. If you call ruining my life in a drunken daze ‘okay.’”
“Good to know that being married to me ruined your life, Ames.” Hurt colors his tone, and I immediately regret my choice of words.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, Garrett. It’s just a surprise, y’know?” Talking to his back is super awkward since I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “You can turn around now.”
He turns, and I try to ignore the masterpiece of his frontal view. I maybe almost successfully keep my eyes from dipping below the waistband of his boxers. Almost.
Mistake.
Big mistake. And I mean big. Jesus Christ. He did not look like this the last time I saw him in swim trunks.
And when was that, Mia? Three years ago, when he came to your birthday party?
I’d seen him dive into the pool but had been monopolized by an actor that Roni had been trying to connect me with pre-Tucker. Guilt is a sharp bitch, pricking at my stomach. Between that and the hangover hovering around the edges, I feel like shit. I’ve been an awful friend. That was the last birthday we’d spent together, and he’d ignored his birthday—and what would normally have been a shared party—to celebrate mine with me.
I love Garrett. He’s my best friend. If there is anyone I would want to be in this situation with, it’s him.
“Is some girl going to kick my ass because I married her boyfriend?” I tease.
He barely spares me a glance, too absorbed in his inspection of the shiny band around his finger.
“No girlfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” I should know this, but maybe it’s something else I don’t know.
“I’m into girls, Ames,” he says with a grimace.
“I remember you used to have a crush on Margot Robbie when she played Harley Quinn,” I tell him. “I just…I don’t remember ever seeing you on a date.”
“I date,” he mutters.
“I didn’t say you didn’t,” I argue back. “When was the last time you went on a date though?”
He shrugs. “A few months ago, maybe? I date. But nothing serious. I’m too busy with work right now.”
I don’t think that’s the reason. Supposedly, when you’re with the right person, you want to make time for them. I use work too. Work is simply an excuse.
“This is real, isn’t it?” I hold up the paper in my hand.
He nods. “Yeah. Looks like it.”
“Shit.” Falling backward, I flop on the bed and close my eyes.
“Drama queen much?” Garrett’s raised eyebrow greets me when I open my eyes.
“I am an actress after all,” I sniff.
“Actress? Yes. Drama queen? Not since you were thirteen and made your mom buy you a wig after you got that god-awful haircut.”
Staring at the ceiling, I laugh. The layers in that cut had made my hair puff up like I’d been electrocuted. “Oh my god. I’d forgotten about that.”
“Or when you told me I couldn’t talk to you the weeks when you had your period unless I brought chocolate.”
“Hey!” I sit up on my elbows and glare at him. “You were no prince through puberty either.”
