“And did she say just go for it? Bet big on the stud?” I ask, opting for humor too. But it doesn’t feel as right as it usually does. Almost like, after the conversations we’ve had tonight, we can’t just revert back to surface-level, to banter without depth.
But it’s not only that we’ve shared stories that makes the usual verbal fun and games unsatisfying.
It’s the other part.
Being in bed with her.
Wanting to be in bed with her again.
And knowing it’s a bad idea.
She taps my shoulder. “Yes, she encouraged me to bet everything on the hockey stud we’re all buddies with.”
That’s why we’re a bad idea. “Yeah, the whole lot of us. Our crazy, tangled pack of friends.”
“We’re lucky. Damn lucky to have great friends.” I offer her a fist for knocking, and she knocks back. And hell, I’m grateful to have Teagan in that pack, and I don’t want to lose her either.
I yawn, and since yawns are contagious, she serves one up right after me. I wrap an arm around her. “One night of snuggling?”
“Definitely. It won’t change a thing,” she says, repeating our vow from earlier.
“No way. We’ve got this,” I say, bringing her a little bit closer, holding her a tiny smidge tighter.
This won’t change a thing.
9
Teagan
We got this.
When I wake up the next morning next to a still-sleeping Ransom, I reach for my phone out of habit. A message flashes across the screen—a text from Bryn.
When I slide it open, I smile.
It’s a group text, and Ransom has already responded, so he must have woken up long enough to read it and reply.
* * *
Bryn: Brunch today? Fox and Gavel. Yes, it’s one of those ultra-trendy brunch spots, but Dean knows the owner and got us in, and the French toast is supposed to be divine. See you at noon. Be there or else.
* * *
Like a slot machine payout, the group thread is bursting with replies.
* * *
Fitz: Obviously, we will be there.
* * *
Logan: Hey, Bryn, since you’re right next to me, you know I’m going. But this is me, chiming in anyway.
* * *
Oliver: Aww, aren’t you cute with your bedside chime-ins. I’ll be there. So will your sister, Logan. There, I chimed in for her.
* * *
Summer: Hey! I can speak for myself. I’ll be there.
* * *
The last text in the thread makes my heart glow.
* * *
Ransom: I’m in.
* * *
It’s just a reply. Nothing special. But seeing that it flew across the internet at five forty-five a.m. tells me something. Ransom woke, saw the invitation, and answered it while I was asleep, knowing he’d want to go to brunch with our friends—and, potentially, me.
And now it’s my turn, and I write back with my official RSVP.
* * *
Teagan: Divine French toast is calling my name.
* * *
There. Done.
That was surprisingly easy—all of it.
Sex. Talking. Sleeping.
Then returning to normal.
Staying part of the crew.
Scrolling through my Instagram feed, I replay the simplicity of all those things, as I lie here in bed with a sleeping sports star next to me.
Wait. Forget Instagram.
The live view is way better. I’ll just ogle Ransom for a bit. Yup, I’m a perv, but no one can blame me.
Because . . .
His carved pecs. His sculpted abs. His most excellent ass, courtesy of the NHL. Thank you, hockey, for giving him a great butt.
That butt was fantastic to hold on to last night while he fucked me.
I shiver as the memory rushes through me. It feels like a dream. An intense, fevered one, but a dream nonetheless.
Three orgasms.
Then a long, deep conversation, filled with laughter and truths.
And it wasn’t weird.
Neither of us wants anything more than this—the utter simplicity of waking up next to someone who gets you and who doesn’t ask anything more of you.
Who won’t hurt you.
Who won’t take away the things you love.
A small yawn escapes my lips, and I wince.
Because . . . morning breath.
That is not acceptable.
No way can I let Ransom smell me in the morning. I wriggle around him, sliding toward the end of the bed and quietly swinging my feet to the floor.
I pad across the hardwood to the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.
Whew.
Inside his very manly bathroom—where it’s all chrome and white, ocean-spice deodorant, black bottles of shampoo, and manly lotions and potions—I pee then track down some mouthwash. As I gargle, I hunt for toothpaste then scrub with my finger like a toothbrush.
I exhale, breathing a sigh of relief.
There. Fresh as a daisy.
When I turn around to reach for a hand towel, my gaze snags on a shelf of toiletries—including a mint-green stick of deodorant. Spring lavender. My brow knits. Next to it is body lotion. Vanilla honey. And a hairbrush.
My throat tightens, and my chest convulses.
These are for women.
Are they for hookups?
He is known for enjoying the ladies, and there’s nothing wrong with that, since he’s single.
