17. Double Congratulations

17

DOUBLE CONGRATULATIONS

Asher

Not only do Vegas hotels pump something into the air to hold you hostage in the casinos longer, but they must also lace the water in the rooms with sleeping potion. Because when I finally bust out of dreamland, I’m blinking, bleary-eyed, and—I check the time—totally fucking late.

We missed our eleven a.m. flight.

I fly up. Maeve has a party tonight, and this is all my fault. I should have set triple alarms even though I never sleep in like this. I never sleep this deeply. I turn to rouse Maeve, but she’s not in the bed. Rushing out of it, I pad to the bathroom and raise a fist to knock but stop short when the door swings open.

She’s dressed in jeans and one of her signature T-shirts with a slogan on it— In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised —which is so very Maeve. And so’s the fact that it slopes down one shoulder, and just like that all the breath escapes my lungs. My flamingos are at full attention .

“Huh,” I manage to grit out.

“Hi,” she says with an I know what you meant smile as she pats my bare shoulder. It’s the friendliest get-a-move-on gesture in the world. Hmm. Is she sending me a message? Like, get over last night, buddy ? “We need to go. The airline canceled our earlier flight, so now we’re on the one-thirty,” she says, cheery, but also just shy of frantic. “I tried to wake you up ten times, and you kept telling me you wanted to sleep a few more minutes.”

“Don’t listen to me,” I say, a little annoyed at myself. But maybe good sleep seduced me. No time to mull on it though. I turn slightly so I can try to angle my way past her without her noticing I’m too turned on by her.

“You’re a lot bigger and a lot meaner when you’re half-asleep.”

“Meaner than you?”

“Shocking, but yes,” she says, looking dewy and freshly made up, her loose waves of golden-brown hair piled in one of those artfully messy buns that look impossible to do. Seriously, I’ve watched her loop all those strands through a scrunchie, and it still makes as much sense to me as the alchemy women perform when they take their bras off through their sleeves. More girl sorcery for you. “Our car is coming in fifteen minutes,” she says as she sails past me, clearly ready to leave this city behind.

But I’m stuck on last night. Maybe that pat on my chest was a message. Not simply to get a move on now, but to move past it.

Yeah. That’s what I need to do—let it go. Which’d be easier if my best friend wasn’t such a bombshell. I steal one more glance at her, my chest aching as she retreats into the bedroom with her makeup bag. As she sets it down in her suitcase, I catch sight of that gleaming gold ring on her finger. The reminder that she’s not just my friend. She’s my wife. For another day or so till we get this union annulled back in San Francisco. Something nags at me though, an unformed thought, as I call out, “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“We don’t have much time.”

“Don’t worry. I shower like you come,” I say.

She snaps her gaze back at me. “Who’s the mean one now?”

Before I can think the better of it, I say dryly, “You are, since you left me hanging last night.”

Her jaw drops as I shut the door. With this annoying erection—which is the story of my last twelve hours—I consider locking it, but then…would I really be bothered if she came in while I showered?

No, I wouldn’t.

Even though it would be a very bad idea. Especially since we’re in two very different places, it seems. But she doesn’t ever need to know I’m feeling more for her than the one-night-only variety of lust.

She doesn’t come into the bathroom while I’m showering though. And I don’t jack off under the stream of water either, since how pathetic would it be if I were late for our rescheduled flight on account of flying solo beforehand?

I’d hate myself more then.

Ten minutes later, we’re both dressed and hustling out of our room when I stop suddenly at the door, the unformed thought taking shape now. “We should take off our rings,” I say, feeling like a douche for saying that. But it’s necessary douchery .

Maeve doesn’t even blink. “Good thinking.”

We tug off our bands, tuck them away, then leave Las Vegas. No one will know what happened last night but Beckett.

And no one will know how much more I wanted to happen.

Later that afternoon, when the plane touches down in San Francisco, Maeve lets out a relieved sigh, her shoulders visibly relaxing. “I need to get to that party in two hours,” she says, checking the time on her phone with a small frown of concern. She read some on the short flight—one of her mother’s books called If Found, Please Return. One I’ve seen her read before. Many times. But she didn’t make it through too many pages. I get it. She’s probably stressed about the party.

“Do you need supplies or something?” I ask, as the stress flickers across her face.

“I do. I’ll go home, grab them, then call a Lyft,” she says, biting her lip, clearly calculating the logistics. But that sounds like a lot to deal with in a short amount of time.

“I’ll help you,” I say quickly. I feel terrible that she’s cutting it close for such an important job. If I hadn’t wanted to win big at the auction, she might not be in this time-crunch right now.

“Really?” Her eyes widen, a ray of hope softening her expression.

“Yeah, really,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. But maybe I’m trying to prove to myself that I can jump right back into the friend zone too. “No big deal. ”

“Thank you. It’s a lot to wrestle with,” she admits.

We snag a ride back into the city, where she texts the party’s event planner to let them know she’ll be there at five, as planned. She tucks her phone aside, saying she’ll deal with anything else later. “I just need to get in my painting mode,” she says, by way of explanation.

“I get it. I’m like that before a hockey game.”

“So the hockey zone and the painting zone are one and the same,” she says with a laugh.

I glance at my phone. A few messages blink up at me from Soraya, responses from yesterday about the upcoming fundraisers, as well as a couple texts from Everly, and one from Miles, and also one from Max, but I ignore them for now, instead reassuring Maeve that we’ll make it on time and focusing on being present with her, as her friend.

When we reach her place in Hayes Valley, the Lyft waits for us while we race upstairs. I drop off our bags in her living room while she disappears into her bedroom and reappears in two minutes, dressed in a simple black dress and short black boots. It’s elegant and understated, and a part of me wishes I were dropping her off at the party knowing she’d return to me later in that dress and tell me stories of the event, then beg me to undress her. I’d grant her wish, naturally. Especially if she crawled to me. I’d reward her so good for coming to me on her knees.

I pull myself from the fantasy and focus on the reality of Maeve in a snug black dress. “Wow. You look…wow.”

“I do?” she asks hopefully. “It’s a fashion designer’s party and the event planner told me to show up in all black.”

“That dress is incredible,” I say, even though it’s her that’s incredible, not the fabric hugging her body .

“Thank you. I want to look like a pro and totally blend in. We’re not allowed to network, but you never know who you might meet,” she says breezily as she grabs her easel and paints.

“You don’t blend in, Maeve,” I say before I can think the better of it.

She stops at the door, her brow knitting. “I don’t?”

I close my eyes for a second, then open them. “You’re too pretty to blend in.” I shouldn’t say it, but she is my wife for another day or two.

“There you go again. Making me feel good,” she says.

I take the easel and paints and add hoarsely, “You should feel good.”

We return to the car, heading toward the fashion mogul’s home in Cow Hollow. In the backseat, she turns to me, her eyes brimming with gratitude. “Thanks again. For everything. I do feel better heading into this party after—” She stops, like she’s weighing her words. “After last night. All of it. It really was an adventure, Asher.” Her smile widens, her face lighting up at the word “adventure.”

“Good. I’m glad it was…” But I don’t know what to say about a night that turned ludicrously sexy, so I finish with, “What you needed.”

We’re not talking about the kissing anymore. Or the make-out session on the couch. We’re not talking about it because it can’t happen again. Because we need each other as friends.

I’d do well to remember that. Which reminds me…

“Before we forget, why don’t we take a pic of us in our rings for Beckett,” I say. “If Mrs. Matrimony sent those shots, you can send them later too. He’ll lose his shit. ”

“He will. Let’s do it,” she says, then dips her hand into her purse, fishing around for her ring.

She slides it back on. I try not to watch, but I also can’t look away, even as I take mine from my pocket and put it back in place. The weight of the ring feels different this time—heavier in a way. Filled with wishes that won’t come true. But they also feel more surreal in the light of our hometown. Like last night was something out of a fevered dream. And I’m merely trying to hold on to it to tell the story.

“Selfie time,” she declares, leaning close in the back of the car as it swings into Cow Hollow. We hold up our hands, showing off our bands. And I try to lean into the moment. To the joke. To the fun. To the cherry on the ice cream sundae of last night. Not to the way I feel a little more than I’d expected I would.

When she lowers the phone and checks the photo, she nods approvingly. “This is going to be better than when I put pink dye in Beckett’s conditioner when he was fourteen.”

“You are mean,” I say with a low whistle as she clicks open a text to her brother.

“It wasn’t permanent,” she counters with a playful grin, and this is fine—this banter. Really, it is.

“But I bet it was funny.”

Her smile turns sly, her eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “And it was worth the return prank of mayonnaise in my lotion bottle.”

The thought of it turns my stomach. “So this really is payback.”

As she sends the picture to Beckett, her phone rings. She gasps, freezing in place for a few seconds. She shows it to me—Angelina’s name is flashing on the screen. But Maeve looks like she’s trapped between hope and dread.

“Answer it,” I urge. An agent calling on a Saturday can almost always only be good news, but I can see the worry in her eyes.

With a deep breath, like she’s trying to steady herself, she picks up the call.

Angelina’s brassy, confident voice carries over the silence as we turn onto an elegant block, where stately homes preside over meticulously manicured lawns. “First off, congratulations,” her agent exclaims.

Maeve furrows her brow, then asks tentatively, “Thanks?” She glances at me as if I’d know what her agent is congratulating her about. But it could be a lot of things.

“And second, congratulations,” Angelina repeats.

Maeve shakes her head, clearly baffled. “Um, sure. But for what?”

“They decided last night, they told me. You got the job.”

Maeve’s hand flies to her mouth as the car turns down the street toward the party. “I did?” The words come out like a squeak.

I pump a fist, mouthing, “ Told you so.”

“You did,” Angelina says, her voice full of warmth and pride. “I know you have that party right now, so have a blast. Paint your heart out, knowing you got this job. And I’ll get you more details by tomorrow. But you’ll be meeting with the owners soon. In a couple days. And they’re hoping you can start pretty much straight after that. They’re very excited.”

Must be gallery owners she’s meeting with, and that is excellent. A gallery commission would be a huge win.

“Thank you,” Maeve says, in a voice choked with emotion as the car pulls up to a mansion. “Thank you so much. I was so sure it was all over. Oh my god. This is a dream come true.”

“You deserve it, sweetie.” There’s a pause, then her agent adds, “Or should I call you Mrs. Callahan ?”