Almost Married

She pushed past a group of reporters that hovered by the entrance of the town's police station and, finding the front door locked, rang the buzzer to be let in.

The deputy on duty, Matt, let her in, and the door locked shut behind her. “Those reporters showed up awful early,” Matt said.

“Vultures,” Steph said.

“They're in the holding cell in the basement.” Matt gestured for her to follow. “Chief O’Hare’s got no patience for drunks. These two passed out shortly after they got in.”

She walked downstairs into a damp, dimly lit basement with one jail cell. Kinda creepy. She peered in the cell. Griff was sprawled on the cot, hands behind his head, looking for all the world like he was relaxing poolside. Dave was sitting on a wooden bench, head in his hands.

“I asked Chief O'Hare not to release you until I could talk to you,” Steph said.

Matt stepped back, giving them some space.

“Steph.” Dave leapt to his feet, then winced and held his head.

“Hey, babe,” Griff said, sitting up and taking his time getting over to her. Omigod. His nose was swollen, and he had a black eye. Dave really did kick his ass. Her gaze trailed back to Dave, who slowly made his way over. Look at that badass. She licked her lips as she took in Dave’s rumpled hair, his stubble, his broad shoulders, the trim physique that was full of power. A thrill ran through her. Cool it. This is wrong. What Griff and Dave did was wrong. So why was she so turned on?

Steph gave them each a hard look. “The entire town is talking about your barroom brawl. It's completely embarrassing. I teach their children! No more fighting. You’re two grown men in your thirties, who are way too old to be getting drunk and taking shots at each other. You especially, Griff. This is all over the Internet.”

Griff rubbed his stubbled jaw. “What are they saying?”

“They’re saying you got your ass kicked by a middle school math teacher.”

Dave’s chest puffed out.

“It was a lucky shot,” Griff said. “Let me out of here, Steph. I’ve got some serious damage control to do with my people.”

“Not until you promise me”—she pointed her finger at both of them—“no more fighting.”

Dave held up a hand. “I swear. No more fighting. I don't know what came over me.”

“Thank you,” Steph said. She turned to Griff.

“Whatever,” Griff grumbled.

“No, not 'whatever,'” Steph said, completely out of patience. “Promise! And promise you’ll sign those divorce papers too!”

Griff scowled.

“I swear I’ll leave you in here to rot!” Steph hollered. “I want your word, Griffin Huntley!”

Griff cringed over her yelling. “All right, all right, I promise.”

“To both things,” she clarified. “No fighting and sign the papers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Griff muttered.

“Good.” She turned and called to the deputy, “Matt, you can let them out now.”

“Got it.” Matt, seemingly used to holding drunks from Garner's for the night, casually walked over and unlocked the cell. “Don't let me see your faces in here again.”

“No, sir,” Dave said.

Griff gave a mock salute and sauntered out. Once they'd gotten their possessions back, Griff stayed behind to call his driver, and probably his manager, lawyer, and publicist too. She figured he wouldn’t face the reporters waiting outside without a game plan.

Dave held Steph's hand. His larger hand enveloped hers in warmth. “Sorry.”

She shook her head. “Things like this always seem to happen when Griff’s around.”

“You'll never have to bail me out of jail again. Promise.”

“I know.”

They walked outside into a crisp October day.

Dave squinted at the morning light. “I never should’ve done shots.”

She ran her hand up and down his arm. “You think you’ll be up to getting together later?”

He swallowed. “Uh, yeah. Tonight?”

“Maybe sooner. Afternoon?” She ran her fingers through his hair.

He gazed down at her. “Sooner’s good.”

“My place. I’ll be waiting for you…naked.”