Four Day Fling

“So do I! If I’m late for dinner, Rosie’s going to kill me!”

“I simply have to be on time. I don’t have the time to make sure he controls himself.”

“Fine.” I jabbed my finger at her. “But when I’m not there at five-thirty, I’m blaming you.”

She said nothing. She turned, and in typical Mom fashion, disappeared out of the bar.

Of course, she did. I should have known that I’d be stuck babysitting at one point this weekend. Grandpa—God love his soul—was one hell of a man, but he was also at the age where he believed he could get away with anything.

Unfortunately for him, he still had a few too many of his faculties about him for that just yet. Maybe in five years, but for now… No.

“Okay?” Adam asked, looking at me with concern as I rejoined them at the bar.

“Fine.” I gave him a tight smile and turned to the girl behind the bar. “Can I have a vodka with cranberry juice, please?”

“Sure.” She turned to do that, and I sat down on the stool.

“Psst, Pop-pop,” Grandpa whispered, holding up his hand. “This is both Bloody and Mary.”

Awesome.

“And I still don’t believe your boyfriend plays hockey. He’s too skinny for that,” he continued. “Aren’t they big old bastards who tackle you down?”

I rubbed two fingers against my temple. “You’re thinking of football, Grandpa.”

He narrowed his eyes and looked away. “Nope. I’m thinking of hockey.”

“You’re thinking of football,” I repeated.

Not to mention there was nothing skinny about Adam. Not his arms. Not his legs. Not his waist. Not his cock. Nothing.

Not even his pinky finger.

Adam leaned into me and wrapped an arm around my waist. Warmth spread through me where his thumb slipped beneath the hem of my shirt and drew tiny circles on my skin.

“Are you sure?” Grandpa asked, a twinkle in his eye.

I took the vodka-cranberry from the bartender with a grateful smile. “I’m sure.” Then I wrapped my lips around the straw and I drink-drink-drinked.

Drank? Drunk?

You know, I didn’t care. I didn’t need to be grammatically correct inside my head.

I needed to be drunk, though. I knew that much.

“So, son. You play hockey. You ever won anything?” Grandpa asked Adam.

He glanced at me, hiding a smile. “Yes, sir. The Stanley Cup went to my team this year.”

“What’s that? The World Cup of hockey?”

Adam paused for a second. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“You won a gold medal?”

“Ah, no. Maybe one day.”

“Then it ain’t the World Cup of hockey, is it?”

“Grandpa, hockey doesn’t have a World Cup. That’s soccer.” I put my glass down.

“Well,” Adam said slowly. “Technically, there is a Hockey World Cup, but it’s field hockey. Not ice hockey.”

I picked my glass back up and pinched the straw, looking at him. “There’s more than one type of hockey?”

“There’s more than one type of football, depending who you ask,” Grandpa offered.

“Yes. There’s American football where you use your hands, then soccer football where they use their feet,” I muttered, drinking again.

One of these wasn’t going to be enough, was it?

“Oh, enough. I know what hockey and football and soccer are,” Grandpa says. “I also know who your boyfriend is. He plays hockey for the Orlando Storms.”

“He told you that!”

“So? I still know!” He stuck his tongue out at me. “Adam, son, let me tell you about the time I was stationed in the Netherlands with the Army.”

Jesus, no.

No.

No.

Nobody needed these stories.

Grandpa clutched his glass of Bloody Mary and leaned toward him. “Are you familiar with the Red Light District?”

I waved to the barmaid and, ignoring the straw, swallowed the last of my vodka. “Can I get another? Please?”

“I have,” Adam said warily.

“Well, do I have a story for you. It was back in, oh, I don’t remember, but there was this lady. Hot as a heatwave in Florida,” Grandpa said. “And she came to us and she said, “Fellas, I’ve got a treat for you!” We were young and thought she meant a damn beer or something, so we followed her and—”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed to the girl who put the drink in front of me.

Adam squeezed my hip.

I drank.

And Grandpa?

He carried on telling the story of how he and his friends got lured to a brothel in Amsterdam.

I was done.

So. Done.

***

I stepped off the main stage into Adam’s waiting arms. I’d gotten away with any kind of speech, but I’d been forced to greet every single fucking guest to this damn pre-wedding dinner.

And I’d had more than two vodkas during Grandpa’s story time this afternoon.

Thus, I’d been on water during the entire rehearsal dinner.

“This is the longest wedding I’ve ever been to,” I said into his chest.

He chuckled, his whole body shaking. “Have you ever been to a wedding?”

“Only as a reception guest. Otherwise, no.” I turned my face to the side, resting my cheek against him. “Have you?”