11. Girl Sorcery

11

GIRL SORCERY

Asher

After I’ve showered, Maeve is back in the bathroom, curling her hair, or straightening it, or rolling it. Who even knows? She’s working some kind of girl sorcery in the bathroom while I’m sitting on the couch, reading up on off-season baseball trades.

My nose twitches. Sweet plum. Well, fuck me. She must be spritzing something on herself in the next room. The scent of her body spray floats out here, and it’s definitely time to go.

That’s entirely too tempting for a man tasked with pulling off just fun . “I’ll meet you in the casino. I’m going to play a round,” I call out.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she shouts back.

“I guess I won’t try to pull off a casino heist tonight,” I say as I head to the door, tucking a key card into my pocket.

As I walk down the hall, I pull out my phone. A couple replies have popped up from my parents since I sent that video.

Carlos: It’s been a few hours. Do we need to bail you out yet?

John: Our bags are packed. Just say the word.

Asher: If it’s true I suck at cards, and I categorically deny that accusation, then it’s YOUR fault. You guys taught me to play.

Carlos: You mean we tried to teach you to play, Ash. We tried.

Asher: I can’t wait to prove you wrong when I win big tonight. Also, is this why I’m so good at hockey? Because you two negative reinforced me the whole time?

John: Yes. You’re welcome. It’s all part of our master plan.

Carlos: We can’t help it if you loved a challenge. If someone said you couldn’t do something, that only made you want it more.

I grumble as I walk. Damn them. They’re right. I fucking love proving people wrong. Not sure what that says about me. But it is what it is.

Asher: Just you wait then.

Carlos: Holding my breath. Well, figuratively. I’ve seen you try blackjack.

John: Bating mine. BTW, what is bated breath? It sounds like bad breath with a fishy aftertaste.

Carlos: It’s breath you hold when you’re waiting, babe.

John: Ah, good to know. And here I thought I needed mints.

I laugh at the way they rib each other, the way they always have, even when times were hard when John was sick for a while back when I was thirteen and fourteen. But we made it through.

We banter like that as I make my way to the casino floor. Once I’m there I put the phone away, buy some chips, then beeline for a table. I’m eager to play a round before dinner and the show and try to clear my head with some straightforward decisions that I am damn fucking good at, no matter what they say, before I begin my official mission.

Fun. Only fun.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m nursing a glass of scotch, contemplating my cards, deciding if I want to stay in or hit. The dealer is waiting, the other players at the table glancing my way as I weigh my chances. I’ve got a sixteen, and the dealer’s showing a seven. Risk it or play it safe? The usual tension of blackjack—knowing the odds, yet still gambling against them—tightens in my chest.

But before I can make a call, a charge slides down my spine. It’s like my body feels her before my eyes see her. When I look up from my cards a second later, my mouth goes dry.

Maeve’s weaving through the blackjack tables, a jean skirt brushing mid-thigh, short pink cowboy boots padding softly on the carpet, and…my vest snug on her body.

That’s it. Just the vest. She’s all bare arms and cleavage, and I can hardly handle how good my friend looks.

In. My. Clothes.

My fingers tighten on the edges of the cards, my brain fogging as I try to focus on the decision in front of me. Sixteen against a seven. My gut screams to hit, but with Maeve in my line of sight coming, I can’t think.

With her easy smile, she’s oblivious to the effect her girl sorcery is having as she walks closer. That’s good. I really don’t want to let on that she’s cast a spell on me, and that I’ve got a bad case of lust for my best friend.

She’s your best friend’s sister too.

The dealer clears his throat. “What’s it gonna be?” His expression is neutral, but there’s a hint of impatience in his eyes. I can’t find it in me to care, though, since all I see is Maeve and the way the vest dips in all the right places. She must have taken it in since she last wore it, because it’s so goddamn snug right now it should be illegal.

Still, I manage to tear my gaze back to the cards. Normally, I’d play this hand safe, maybe even fold, like I’d do if I were playing on the team jet with the guys. But here tonight, I want to win. No, I’m compelled to win.

Possibly because there’s a reckless edge to my thoughts right now, spurred on by the mission of the evening. Or maybe it’s driven by the sight of her in that vest .

Yes, Maeve can definitely make vests a thing.

“Hit me,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.

The dealer nods, sliding a card my way. I flip it over and want to pump a fist. A five. I’ve got twenty-one.

Yep, luck is on our side tonight.

Maeve sidles up to me, her bare arm brushing mine as she leans in, just close enough that her scent—like a fruit I want to bite into—invades my senses. “Nice hand,” she murmurs.

Electricity shoots through me, from her voice, her words, her scent. “Nice vest,” I reply, my voice equally low, matching her tone.

“Oh, this thing? It’s a hand-me-down,” she says, fingering the top of it, drawing my attention to the pale, freckled flesh of her chest, covered in layers of silver chains, to the column of her throat, to her face. Heart-shaped with a spray of freckles across her nose and mischievous hazel eyes, with wild curls framing her face.

And I know I got lucky that round. I want to keep that luck for the rest of the night, so it’s time to walk away from the table. “Let’s get some food, and then see the show.”

“Let’s do it,” she says as I take my chips and follow her, snapping a pic as I go. Feeling a little smug, I send it to my dads.

Asher: Oh, ye of little faith.

Carlos: Yes! I always believed in you.

John: We knew you could do it .

Laughing, I shake my head as I dictate a final reply for now.

Asher: Lies, sweet little lies.

Then, I tuck my phone away so I can focus on Maeve for the rest of the night.

After we eat, we head to the theater in the heart of The Extravagant, walking through a glitzy concourse, flanked by high-end boutiques and bustling cafés. Along the way, Maeve pinwheels her arms, pointing frantically up ahead.

I groan when I see another ad for CheekyBeast. Damn, the brand really went all out here in Vegas—but then again, this is the kind of city where you bring your best drawers. Several feet away a glossy image of me is plastered to the wall. In it, I’m striding to a work-at-home-style desk, dressed in a crisp button-down and a pair of monkey-print briefs, with the slogan Monkey Around at the Home Office across the bottom of the image .

Maeve grabs my arm, tugging me to a stop. “We need a selfie with the real thing and the image. I’ll call it—Seeing Double.”

Even I have limits when it comes to this woman. “That’d be a hard no.”

“Why not?”

I scoff, then spin around, arms out. The concourse is packed. “If I’m spotted taking a selfie with an ad of me in boxer briefs, how long do you think the guys will give me hell for?”

She taps her chin. “Forever?”

“And then some,” I add, and we move on past the image, but not before Maeve waves to it, saying, “Bye, Asher’s ass.”

As we continue down the hall, she shoots me a quizzical look. “So you’re wearing monkeys tonight?”

“A gentleman doesn’t tell,” I say.

“Are you a gentleman?”

Not in bed . “Sometimes,” I say, holding her gaze for a beat before we reach the venue. The Sapphire Theater holds around five thousand, and the place is packed as we head toward our VIP seats in the front.

As we make our way through the crowd, I reach for her hand, then position myself slightly ahead of Maeve, clearing a path through the boisterous throng. The scent of beer, sweat, and perfume mingles in the air, blending with the riotous sounds of laughter and cheers. The party atmosphere is in full swing, and the anticipation for the show builds with each step. The crush of bodies is intense, so I grip her hand tighter, keeping her close to my side.

“Aren’t you possessive,” she says.

“Don’t want anyone touching my date,” I joke, only it’s not a joke.

I fucking don’t.

I scan the theater, making sure no one is getting too close to her.

No one but me.

By the time we reach the front of the room, I’m all too aware of her warmth beside me. But as she slips into her seat, flashing me that carefree smile, I remind myself to keep it cool. Tonight’s about fun—just fun. And I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

I can’t find her a job or line up clients, but there’s one thing I know I can do—make her smile. And when she does, it lights up her whole face. That makes everything worth it.

When she turns to me, she flashes it full wattage, and says, “Let’s see if you’re a hundred-thousand-dollar date, Callahan.”

I crack up but quickly school my expression. “Is that a challenge?”

“I believe it is,” she teases. “I paid a lot for you.”

I toss my head back, laughing. I’m about to point out the obvious—that she paid nothing—but stop myself. That’s poor sportsmanship. It’s also untrue. She might not have paid in dollars, but she paid in chutzpah, in guts, and in fucking loyalty, wanting to save me from someone I didn’t even know wanted to use me as a pawn. I think back to the mom and dad in the lobby, to their happiness and relief at getting a break tonight. I think, too, of how easily we made that happen for them.

I loop back to the auction, when Maeve saved me from what could’ve been a sticky situation with Miranda. So yeah, Maeve definitely threw down for me. And I’m going to show her what a great date I can be.

“You sure did. And I’m going to make it worth every single cent,” I say.

When the band comes on, I don’t hold back. I cheer, I shout, I grab her hand, and the crowd around us gets to their feet too. We sing along, voices getting hoarse, but I don’t care. I don’t play hockey with my voice. I play it with my body, and I use it tonight, dancing with a friend, showing her the time of her life .

When servers come by, trying to get our attention above the noise, I scan the menu and ask for a Lemonade Affair. It’s rosemary, lemonade, and gin. Maeve’s eyes light up, so I amend the order to make it two. When the drinks arrive, I toast to us.

“You are a good time. I should bid on you every year,” she says, and the thought of that goes straight to my head, making it crackle with ideas—some I shouldn’t be entertaining. Blame the Lemonade Affair.

“I’ll keep making it worth your while,” I say.

“Oh, I know you will. I’m jealous of every woman you’ve ever had a date with,” she says, and damn, she’s saying things that are making my mind race way too far ahead. But the way she’s having fun, singing along, is all I care about.

When the lead singer finishes their hit song “Blown Away” with an epic strum of his guitar, Maeve turns to me, her face flushed, her eyes bright. “I love that song. I just do.”

“I know,” I say.

She blushes. “I’ve said that before?”

I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space. “A few times. You said it makes you happy.” I have to cup my hand around her ear because it’s loud.

She shivers as I touch her. At least I think she does. And that reaction goes south of the pants border. Good thing it’s dark.

“Well, it still makes me happy. This whole night is making me happy. So whatever you’re doing tonight, Callahan, it’s working.”

A surge of satisfaction spreads warmth through my chest. Mission accomplished. I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face, wide and sure. This is what I set out to do—to make her forget everything else, if only for tonight. Her happiness is my win, and knowing I’m the reason for it makes me feel like I’m on top of the world.

The singer clears his throat, his deep, raspy baritone booming across the theater. “I’ve got a new song for you tonight. Something I’ve been working on for a while. A little number about promises. Promises made, and promises kept.”

Maeve’s eyes widen. “Did you know he was going to premiere a new song?”

As if I have that kind of sway with the band. Still, I play along. “One hundred thousand dollars? Of course it comes with a brand-new tune from your favorite band.”

“Best date ever,” she shouts.

With a drink in her hand and her arms in the air, Maeve cheers as the opening notes fill the theater. Then he leads into the song, and the lyrics hit me like an arrow to the heart: Remember that promise we made? When I was little and thought I’d marry you? Now that we’re all grown up, I know just what I wanna do…

The words strike me, like a brilliant idea. Like a goddamn roadmap for the best night ever. For a second, or maybe more, I’m back in time to a night I don’t like to dwell on. To a night that made me feel things I shouldn’t really feel. But thanks to a Lemonade Affair and a brand-new song, I’m not holding back. I’m remembering a promise made at a wedding two years ago.

Maeve doesn’t need a husband. But she needs a big adventure.

“Remember how we haven’t planned our Big Adventure yet? Well, I’ve got an idea…”