Dear Future Ex-wife

I cup his shoulder to stabilize him. “Someone’s trashed. And that’s future ex-wifey,” I whisper so only he can hear.

“Not if I can help it,” he mutters under his breath. Nate slings his arm over my shoulder and pulls me closer. “What are you drinking, my beautiful bride?”

“A margarita.”

He raises his hand to flag down Ollie. “Margarita for my wifey,” he slurs.

“And for the lovely ladies?” Ollie asks, looking at the girls.

“The usual,” Jules says. “But make mine a double.”

“Is that wise?” Reid challenges.

“Don’t you dare start with me, Mr. Grayson,” Jules shoots back. “I’m off the clock.”

“Mr. Grayson,” Stefan howls.

Reid punches Stefan in the arm. “Stay out of this.”

Jules and Reid get into a heated discussion, most of which is spoken in angry, low voices that are too hard for me to make out. They are definitely lusting after each other. Their bodies are angled toward each other, clearly interested in the other, making eye contact the entire time. The palpable chemistry between them is so electric it sizzles the air.

“I have to use the ladies’ room,” I tell Callie. “Save me a seat.”

I set off toward the bathrooms in the back of the bar, dodging drunken idiots on my way. For a Wednesday night, the place is surprisingly filled to capacity. A group of guys wearing Flyers jerseys are crowded around three high-top tables in the middle of the room. The flat-screen televisions mounted throughout the bar all have the hockey game playing on them.

After I wait in line for five minutes, I do my business and get the hell out. I chuck the paper towel in the trashcan and step into the hallway, slamming right into a hard body. Someone grips my shoulder, and when I look up, I gasp.

“Nate. What are you doing? Did you follow me?”

Nate inches me toward the wall, out of the way of oncoming traffic into an empty hallway, he pushes my back against the cinderblock covered with rock-and-roll posters.

“You walked away before I could talk to you,” he says against my lips.

“So, you thought hanging outside the bathroom would be less creepy?”

He laughs. “You’re going to be my wife, Harley. Get used to me following you around.” Nate threads his fingers between mine. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

His confession drains the air from my lungs. Never. What game is he playing at? If he’s only being sweet to win the bet, he can kiss my ass. I have no intention of falling in love with him by our wedding or having sex with him that night. But what if there wasn’t a bet? I wonder how I would feel about Nate if he had nothing to gain. Could I see myself falling for him? Yes, most definitely. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I raise a curious eyebrow. “What are you doing, Nate?”

“Spending some time alone with my favorite girl.”

“Stop sucking up.”

He gives me the cutest smile. “Is it working?”

A commotion breaks out at the end of the hall. Nate holds my hand while we people watch, and I can barely hear myself think over all of the noise in this place. In some ways, this is nice. I lean into Nate’s warm body, and he hooks his arm around me, pulling me against his chest. This feels more like old times. It’s so easy for us to fall back into old habits, but I’m afraid of getting hurt again. I won’t survive the heartbreak a second time. California won’t be far enough if this doesn’t work out.

The rush of traffic dies down after a few minutes. When we’re completely alone, Nate moves our joined hands over the front of his pants. He’s hard as a rock.

“Are you kidding me?” I pull my hand away from his. “Just because I let you kiss me doesn’t mean it will happen again.”

“It will,” he growls. “And you know it.”

“Because you’re drunk, I’ll pretend this didn’t happen.”

“C’mon, baby,” he whines with one eye open. “Don’t be so mean.”

“Sober up,” I say as I take one last look at him. “I’ll see you at home.”

Chapter Seventeen

Nate

I find Harley in the living room, curled up in the corner of the sectional couch with her sketchpad resting on her thighs. She doesn’t look up at me, too busy blending charcoal into the paper with her finger. I love watching her when she’s in her creative zone. For as long as I have known Harley, I could expect to find charcoal or paint somewhere on her body. Right now, her fingers are black, stained from hours of drawing.

Harley left The Fox Hole not long after our brief encounter. I stayed behind with my friends, but I took her advice and sobered up. Once she gets inside my head, I can’t get her out. Every time I took a sip of bourbon, I swore I could hear her yelling at me. Telling me I’m an idiot who drinks too much. Reid gave me shit for chasing down all the bourbon with water, and then announced to the entire bar that I’m a “pussy-whipped asshole.” Yeah, maybe I am, so fucking what. Jules already has his balls in her purse. Reid just doesn’t know it yet.