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Plus, I remember how Sloane looks at a man when she really wants him. And she isn’t looking at her fiancé the way she used to look at me. I’m more pleased about that than I should be.
“You’re not marrying him.” I swipe a hand over my mouth and gaze around the ornate room. The crown moldings. The over-the-top chandeliers. I feel frantic. I repeat the only thing that’s running through my head. “Over my dead body, are you marrying him.”
What kind of man stops in the middle of breaking me out of my sham of a wedding to rub my sore feet? A damn good one. I shouldn’t be salivating over him on what was supposed to be my wedding day. But salivating over Jasper Gervais is part of my personality at this point.
A tiny ballerina being toted around by a huge hockey player. In her fucking wedding dress.
“Yeah. I could use a drink though.” He nods, and within minutes we pull into a liquor store. “I’ll get—” he starts, but I hop out of the car and walk toward the store like a thirsty, stunned, barefoot bride-zombie.
Sloane has shed too many tears today. And yet, she’s here. Drunk. And sad. And lost. She’s got dirty feet and is wearing an expensive, ripped wedding dress for a marriage that didn’t happen. Her life is in shambles, and she’s still here comforting other people. Sloane is selfless. She might not look it, but she’s strong. She’s a got a huge heart. A gentle soul. And watching her comfort Harvey right now, I let myself admit that the way I love Sloane might not be how one friend loves another at all.
“I’m serious! Do you go into a game thinking you’re going to lose it? Or do you envision yourself winning? I obsessively run through a dance in my head before a performance, but I don’t let myself see a miss or a trip. And I’m going to treat this the same way.”
“I don’t know. He’s larger than life. He won’t go down without a fight. I have faith in him.”
“Nah. Spending my life barefoot in the kitchen as Mrs. Woodcock sounds fucking terrible. I’d rather be barefoot in a dirty liquor store with you.”
I waddle through the parking lot, hanging back because I have to hold the huge sweatpants up so I don’t drop them and flash him. I’ve always wanted to get naked with Jasper—but not like that.
“You always look good to me. Concealer, no concealer. Fancy dress, Harvey’s sweat suit. Smooth hair”—his hand waves over me with a low chuckle—“whatever this is. It doesn’t matter. You’re you.” I swallow and try my best not to melt onto the floor into a squishy pile of mush. “That’s probably what you tell all the girls, Gervais.” “Nah, Sunny. You’re my only girl.”
I smile but it’s tight. Adorable. More like painful
I roll my eyes, feeling like a petulant child. “I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile.” A broad hand waves in front of me. “Spoiler alert. You are fragile.” “Fuck you, Roman.”
The dating scene had turned into my own real-life version of one of those Wish.com memes. I kept placing an order for Jasper Gervais and the universe kept sending me these laughable cheap-ass knockoffs.
With long steps, he lurches past me toward a thick pillar and empties his stomach onto the pavement. I’m just depraved enough to let my eyes snag on his ass as he bends over, the muscled curve of it pressed against his expensive slacks.
“You know the saying ‘there are no stupid questions’?” His eyes slice my way and he nods once firmly. “Would it still be true if I asked you if you’re okay?” His cheek twitches, and I watch his hands twist on the steering wheel. “Sunny, I am so far from okay, it’s not even funny.”
I’d kill for a hug from my mom right now. Absolutely kill.
I hope she sleeps. I hope she eats.
“I’ll be sure to give you some notice so you can get your Viagra down in time, old boy.” “Oh, nah.” Harvey waves a hand dismissively. “The Eatons are a virile bunch. Even I don’t need those.” “Jesus Christ.” Cade’s head drops, and his eyes stare into his coffee cup like he’s scrying for answers on how to make his dad stop saying inappropriate things.
I’m focused on Sloane. Because I will not tell her what she can and can’t do. So I’m left wondering how I’m going to handle a road trip through the mountains with just the two of us and not go completely insane. Or do something completely insane.
Willa: Sloane, can you confirm Jasper is okay? The guys are worried about him but don’t know how to talk to him about their feelings. They’ve requested we ask instead. It’s like a game of telephone over here. Summer: We’re all texting. It’s nothing like a game of telephone. Sloane: He’s sad. He’ll be okay. Willa: You should bang him. Summer: Wils, that can’t always be your advice. Willa: Why not? It’s solid advice. Worked out for you. Summer: She just fled her wedding. Willa: Yeah, but that fucking guy sucked. Jasper has that hot, tortured vibe going for him. Sloane: He’s sad. Not horny,
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He has the best laugh, all deep and soft, a little breathy like he’s trying to tamp it down and hide it away. When Jasper laughs, he looks bashful. His eyes drop and his straight teeth flash. I guess after watching him so closely for so long, I’ve catalogued his every reaction. The little tics. It’s pathetic if I think too hard about it.
Jasper is staring at me right now has my stomach twisting and thighs clenching. I return to gazing out the window at the black lake and try to gather my thoughts. Because I’ve been staring at Jasper Gervais since I was ten years old, and suddenly . . . he’s staring back.
If you have Jasper Gervais’s attention, you’ve got it all, and that’s because he wants you to have it. He doesn’t just listen to me. He hears me. He sees me. And there’s something precious about that, the way he can look at someone and make them feel like the only person in the room. He’s not showy, he’s not the life of the party, but he knows how to make a person feel special, to feel loved and cared for.
I’ve never known a soul more truly present. The way he is? It speaks to me. It always has. He’s like a warm blanket that I want to wrap myself up in. And when his eyes are bright and his smile is soft like right now? Forget it. He’s breathtaking.
“Ready to play?” “Let’s do it.” My eyes widen. God. What is wrong with me? “Pool. Let’s do the pool.” I hold a hand up. “Play pool. Not do the pool. Ha.” I quickly reach for my beer and take a deep swig while Jasper chuckles at me. Handsome fucking brain-cell-killing jerk. “Do I need to cut you off?” “Shut up, Gervais. Let’...
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Jasper: I don’t like talking to people. Sloane: You talk to me. Jasper: You’re not people. Sloane: Lmao. What am I then? Jasper: My person.
It just is. The sky is blue. The grass is green. And I’ve loved Jasper Gervais from the first day I laid eyes on him.
I forced myself to stare at the e-reader on my lap. Pure torture. I stared at the same page of the same book for the entire ten minutes, like my ability to read grew wings and flew out of my head at the mere thought of him naked and soapy.
“Like this.” His pecs bump into the blades of my shoulders as he stands behind me, arms dropping down around my torso like a cage. My body seizes up, and he doesn’t help matters when he softly says, “Relax, Sloane. Bend over the table.” My cheeks flame dark like a cherry, and I swallow, before doing as he says. I hinge at the hips, sliding my left hand up the shaft of the cue and lining it up with the white ball. I’m already bad at pool and having Jasper imitating fucking me from behind in public definitely isn’t going to make me any better. All the balls are just a blur of color before me
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My biggest worry is that I’m going to grind my ass back into him like a cat in heat.
Be cool. Be cool. Be cool
“I wash my face with bodywash.” She groans and tosses her head back dramatically, staring at the ceiling. “You can’t do that.” “Why? My face is part of my body.”
“I’ll drink your water if you give me a facial.” Gotta say, the first place my head goes is not to beauty products.
Because friends don’t grind their cocks on their friend’s perfect asses. It’s just not done.
I’m not sure what’s going on with us today, but we’re both going to feel like total shit tomorrow, regardless of alcohol intake. Because Sloane is going to be hungover. And I’m going to be tired from staying up all night fighting off thoughts about all the filthy things I want to do to her and those soft, puffy lips.
I watch his lips press together and come apart to form the words. And god, I want to kiss him. I want him to kiss me. I want this moment to never end. I want to live in this truck, in the snow, at the top of a mountain with him and never leave.
“Because I think I’m about to fuck everything up between us.” And then he kisses me.
Fuck my safety. If I died riding Jasper Gervais in the driver’s seat of this truck, I might be fine with that. What a way to go. Out with a bang, so to speak.
“When is the time and place?” I breathe out instead. He ghosts a kiss over my damp, puffy lips and guides my ear to his mouth. “When I say so,” he rasps.
And if I’ve figured out anything in this Shakespearean tragedy of a life, it’s that life is just moments all strung together like multicolor Christmas lights. You always end up liking some colors better than others. Joyful, tragic, peaceful, funny. Unforgettable moments, and moments we wish we could forget.
My body screams at me to go back to him. But I don’t want to be that ballerina in a jewelry box with him. I don’t want him to feel like he needs to save me. I want to save myself.
“Sloane, close the door and sit on the counter.” Pump. “Pardon me?” My heart thrashes wildly in my chest. “Shut the door.” Pump. “And put that tight little ass up on the counter.” Pump. My cheeks flame. “We both know you want to watch.”
My brain might be in bitch mode, but my heart? My heart is in slut mode.
I feel wrung out. I feel sad. I feel angry. I feel so fucking horny I could burst.
“See, Sloane? You can wear someone else’s ring, but we both know you’ve always been mine.”
Because I’m not an idiot. Sloane Winthrop has been turning heads for years, and I’m sure as shit not immune. Her face. Her body. Everything about her is outwardly appealing. Fucking distracting. But it’s what’s inside her that’s so special. Her heart. Her brain. Her capacity for empathy.
Billie, who has a knack for making us all laugh, proclaimed that unloading hay is a “boy” job and we should all go get wine to drink straight from the bottle. She’s a bit scary if I’m being honest. She’s like Willa. On crack.
We always end up back together somehow. We just need to stop fighting it.
Jasper enters the code into the lock on the door. The tension between us is so thick right now that neither of us even laughs about that code being 6969.
