by Maria Luis
We’re playing Go Fish like true adults, mainly because none of us feel like losing money tonight with poker. And poker’s no fun without money riding on the line—according to Jackson Carter, anyway.
Beaumont shuffles the deck for longer than necessary before they disappear beneath his drop-down tray.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Putting the cards where I know you aren’t about to reach for them,” he replies darkly.
“You wouldn’t.”
His hands come up, not a single card in sight. “You want to play cards, you’re going to have to reach into my pants for them.”
The guys all groan.
“Fuck you, Beaumont!” calls out Carter from two rows ahead. “I was up next, you asshole.”
“Should we burn it?” Bordeaux asks from beside me. “I’ve got a lighter.”
“Christ,” Harrison mutters from on the other side of Beaumont, “no one is lighting Beaumont’s dick on fire. You all want to see Zoe pissed off?”
Everyone shakes their heads—no one even bringing up the fact that a lighter on a plane is a bad idea—and the game plan ensues as to how to steal back our only form of entertainment.
Everyone, that is, aside from Andre Beaumont.
His black eyes track me, and I know he’s trying to pick up my thoughts like some sort of Jedi master. Good luck to him. The last two weeks have been filled with only one thought—how the hell do you convince someone that they are worth everything in the world and more?
“You’re a moron.”
I glance up at my best friend. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You’re a moron for even agreeing to that bet, and you’re even more of a moron now for letting Gwen walk away.”
“Newsflash,” I snap, “I’m aware that I fucked up.” Because I did fuck up—I should have told Gwen about the bet long ago. That goes without saying.
Bordeaux elbows me in the side. “Women say that: it’s fine, it’s okay.” He waves a hand in the air. “They get over it, if they love you.”
If they love you.
The words cut deep, nearly as deep as the memory of Gwen admitting that she had given me her heart before realizing she couldn’t commit. As for the bet . . . I shove my fingers through my hair, tugging at the strands.
I was there when that asshole, Adam, told her that she’d been nothing but an easy lay. Although it hadn’t been easy for him—Gwen didn’t jump into bed with him for months. Then, when she finally had, Adam had informed the entire team of the “news.” By that point, no one had cared.
The bet had started on a drunken lark at summer hockey camp.
By the end of fall semester, the only two people who gave a shit were Adam . . . and me. Not because I wanted to win the bet, but because I’d grown to consider Gwen a friend. A friend who I wanted to date, sure, and definitely a friend I wanted to see naked.
Witnessing the moment when Gwen saw Adam kissing another girl had been gut-wrenching. Witnessing the way Adam turned to her and spouted out hurtful words about never wanting to date her, and how she’d only been good for “popping her cherry,” had incited a rage in me that I hadn’t felt in years.
The very next day, Adam walked into the locker-room with two black eyes, a cut lip, and the promise to never utter Gwen’s name again.
All of that, none of that, would make things right with Gwen now.
I never told her any of it, not once in six years, and that’s the problem.
I asked her for honesty; I didn’t give it to her in return.
And on top of all that, she couldn’t find it in herself to stick it out with me. It’s like something out of a soap opera—except that it’s my life.
Beaumont kicks me in the shin to gather my attention. “Go to her, man. Get on your knees if you have to. Beg. Do whatever you have to do to prove that you love her.”
I don’t have the chance to say anything before Harrison is piping in. “You love her. Don’t even deny it. You’ve loved her for years. You going to be happy when she permanently leaves your sorry ass and finds love with someone that’s not you?”
It sounds like my new version of hell—a special concoction whipped up just for me.
And even though I know that I should wait for her to make a move, if she ever does, sometimes the only person you can rely on to be bold is you.
I eye my friends. “Tell me what I need to do.”
34
Gwen
Christmas ended with me and Holly needing an Uber to take our sorry butts home.
The good news? I think I have a new friend.
The even better news? I woke up the next morning with a sense of purpose.
The bad news? I haven’t heard from Marshall, and each day that goes by makes me wonder if I screwed things up for good. Charlie and Zoe respected my wishes to stay out of it—their significant others are his teammates and best friends—and working through it all on my own proved to me one thing: I’m strong enough to handle anything that comes my way.
I spent New Year’s Eve alone after deciding it was best to take some time away from my mom—maybe permanently. After our heated conversation on Christmas, I didn’t have it in my heart to go another battling round with her. She’d made her decisions in life for whatever reasons suited her. Over and over again, she’d chosen men over me. Or her friends over me. Or, really, anyone over me.
Hard as it’s been to find lately, I know my self-worth, and begging for answers she’ll never give me isn’t worth my time or energy.
Marshall Hunt, however, is worth every bit of energy I’ve got housed in my five-foot-five frame.
Bracing my shoulder against my massive packages, I stab the elevator button up to my fourth-floor apartment. I need to call Holly as soon as I put everything down. I—we’ve—been waiting for my order for two weeks now to arrive in the mail.
The fact that no one even batted an eye when I picked up six, life-size cardboard cutouts at the post office proves one of two things. The first: Bostonians are jaded human beings, and nothing surprises them anymore. The second: they were too busy wondering where they could buy a life-size cutout of Marshall Hunt for themselves.
The thought of him alone sparks a need in me that I haven’t been able to quiet since I fled his house before Christmas. And, just saying, but I’m fortunate that Google has Incognito mode because my search history in the last two weeks would make me out to look like some kind of weird stalker. Fun fact: Marshall has some of the sexiest GIFs on the internet right now. In case you were wondering.
Juggling my three Marshall’s and three Gwen’s, I wait for the doors to ping open before stepping onto my floor. With a shimmy and a prayer, I wrap my arms around my most prized possessions and shuffle my way down the empty hallway.
The doors are all decorated with wreaths and little garland-dressed trees by the welcome mats. Most of the tenants haven’t taken down their holiday decorations, which can’t be said for my door which is remarkably empty.
As usual.
“Almost there,” I mutter as I waddle awkwardly, trying to keep my legs from tangling with the mass clutched to my chest. Then I do another shimmy as I ungracefully unlock the door.
First step when I drop off my load inside? Call Holly.
Second: Stage the cutouts so they’re all in place when she arrives to take their photographs.
Third: Ask Andre Beaumont for Marshall’s new number.
One firm kick of my boot to the door later, and I shove it open with the back of Cardboard Marshall’s handsome head.
It’s time to make the magic happen and show Marshall exactly why he should give me another—
What.
The.
Hell.
The cardboard cutouts flail to the ground as my hold loosens from shock. I turn slowly, taking in the sight of my apartment transformed into some sort of winter wonderland retreat.
A decked-out Christmas tree sits in the corner of my living room, its red-
and-white lights twinkling brightly. Beneath it are an assortment of presents. My TV has been exchanged for what looks to be an electric fireplace. The fake flames hiss and crackle as though the wood they’re burning is real.
Garland and tinsel is strung throughout the room.
My gaze catches on the balloons dancing along the ceiling, along with signs boasting HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Looks like Zoe and Charlie were incredibly busy today—
My heart stops at the sight of his hard, athletic body strolling toward me down the hall. Jeans, socked feet, and a plain black T-shirt are accompanied by a red Santa hat perched jauntily on the top of his head.
“You did this?” My voice emerges rusty from shock. “All of this?”
Marshall points to his hat. “I had some help from a few of Santa’s elves.” Lips turning up in a small grin, he adds, “They bitched and moaned the entire time. I plan to lower their wages.”
I don’t even know what to say or how to feel.
“There are New Year’s decorations,” I say, as though that makes a difference.
“I know.” From his pocket, he pulls out a kazoo and brings it to his lips. His cheeks suck inward as a loud squawk splits through the room. When he tosses it on the countertop, he says, “I had holiday plans for us, you know. I’d booked us a room at the Ritz and planned all these other holiday-themed activities. Clearly,” he drawls, “none of that happened. So I thought I’d get creative here.”
He approaches me silently, and that’s when I remember my plan.
Oh, God.
I leap in front of the cutouts, careful not to stomp all over them. They didn’t cost me a fortune but finding a company who could create them on special order and a deadline proved way more difficult. “How did you get in?” I ask, wringing my hands in front of me as he completely sidesteps me.
I shift to the side, blocking his sight . . . or trying to, anyway. The man is a whole lot bigger than I am.
He cocks his head slightly, leaning around me. “Two little reindeer showed me the way.”
The wry remark would have made me grin, if I weren’t so determined to follow my plan to a T. You’re not supposed to see it all yet! I want to shout. My face heats with embarrassment and I do another shuffle-shuffle-shuffle when he plants his hands on my shoulders to hold me in place. “Which one had the red nose?” I ask, desperate to keep his attention on me.
With a husky chuckle, he murmurs, “Who do you think?”
“Charls?”
He drops his hands to his sides. “Literally. I found a stuffed red nose at the store late last night. It was half-broken and looking tired as hell. I’m guessing the store clerk missed it when they were taking all the holiday stuff off the shelves. I had all these plans to wear it for you today. Unfortunately, Charlie claimed it as payment. Told me I’d look better without it anyway.”
He does look—
Marshall drops to his haunches and lifts one of the upside-down cutouts. Crap, crap, crap. It’s just my luck that . . . “Is this me?”
I stare at the ceiling and pray for the Universe to send me a sign. “Ummm . . .” Or words. I’d also take words right about now.
Marshall tips the cutout over, so that Fake Marshall lands on his back, exposing all of his— “I’m naked.”
Gulping audibly, I keep my gaze averted. Do not make eye contact, do you hear? Do NOT look at him. “You’re not completely naked.”
“You’re right, I’m in Calvin Klein—” He breaks off with a startled but still sexy laugh. “This is from a shoot I did for them two years ago.”
“Is it?” Another shuffle and I’m effectively standing over him, my poor brain working overtime on how to explain all of . . . this. It would be one thing if he saw the whole thing on display through photography, as I’d planned it out with Holly.
Not the cardboard cutouts in all of their . . . cardboard.
With firm hands, Marshall once again shifts me over. One by one, he lifts the cutouts until they stand tall and are resting against my wall. And with each cutout that he sets into place, my heart thuds a little harder and my hopes flit to life a little more aggressively.
When he’s finished, he steps back, hands on his hips, mouth in a firm, uncompromising line.
“They’re us,” he murmurs in a voice laden with emotion.
I swallow, then fist my hands behind my back to keep from yanking them off the wall. Don’t ever bail. “Yes. They are.”
For a moment, we don’t speak.
In the first cutout version of us, Marshall is in the blue navy suit he wore to Zoe and Andre’s engagement party. I’m wearing the red dress that I donned that very same night. In the second cutout versions, Marshall is decked out in tight boxer briefs . . . and nothing else. He’s right; I found a photo of him online from the shoot and opted to pretend copyrights didn’t exist for only this instance. I figured Calvin Klein would understand and support my cause. As for my cutout, I allowed Holly to take a picture of me in a lacey bra and panties. I wore heels because, truth time, they made my butt look better.
“Gwen.”
The way he utters my name is like a burst of sunshine after weeks of rain. I struggle to hold myself back, to keep from launching myself into his arms. “Is it too much?” I ask, striving for a confident tone even as the back of my neck itches with nerves. “It’s probably too much.”
Two steps bring him to the final cutout set, and he reaches out a hand to trace his fingers over Fake Gwen’s face.
“You’re in a wedding dress,” he says, his smooth baritone breaking on the last word.
I clutch the back of my neck and shuffle my weight. “I, um, dragged Holly Carter to a local wedding gown shop so she could snap a few photos.”
He points to the furry figure at the bottom of the white, flowing gown. “You brought a dog there?”
God, did someone twist the temperature up to steaming hot today? I clear my throat. Straighten my shoulders. “It’s a stuffed toy, actually.” Pausing, I force myself to continue. “I thought, maybe, one day we could get a dog. I’ve never had one. My mother wasn’t a fan.”
Glancing over his shoulder at me, gray eyes meet blue. Humor tugs at his lips. “I’ve never had one either. Although I’ve got to say, I’d always envisioned a golden retriever, maybe, or a bullmastiff. Not a . . .”
“Chihuahua?” I grin.
“I was going to say a puntable dog.”
“Puntable isn’t a word.”
“It is when we’re talking about yap-yap dogs,” he says on the tail end of a husky laugh. “But I also didn’t picture myself in a powder-blue tux for my wedding day either.”
Heat stains my cheeks. “It’s the only photo I could find for Holly from the internet. It’s from—”
“I know where it’s from, Gwen.” Marshall faces me, hands in his pockets. Like always, I can’t help but marvel at the powerful expanse of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. He radiates control, strength, and—I hope—love. If I’m lucky. “What I want to know is, what did you plan to do with these? Keep them in the house? For fond memories we’ve created and memories we never had the chance to make?”
Here we go. I struggle for a deep breath, squaring my shoulders to get out the words I’ve rehearsed every morning and every night for two weeks. If this is the moment I have to show what I feel for him is real and that it’s lasting, it has to be perfect.
But then he cuts me off: “Tell me something, Gwen. How did you feel when I walked away from you at the engagement party?”
Like I’d been stabbed in the heart. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I wring my hands before me again. “As though I’d lost the one person who’d always been in my corner.”
“Exactly.” His expression grows somber, as though determined to make me see how serious he is. “The thing is, Gwen, that’s how I felt when you walked away from me just the other day. Angry. Disappointed. Frustrated. All at myself, of course, but also at you, too.”
The laugh
I give sounds awkward and stilted, and I do my best to keep my gaze off the cutouts that now watch me mockingly. Especially the one of me in a wedding dress that’s not mine and of Marshall in a tux he wore as a groomsman for a friend’s wedding. “I’m fully aware that I’m responsible for—”
He lifts a hand. “Hear me out.”
“Okay.”
With a short nod, he rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I’ve spent my life trying to escape my past, Gwen. You heard what Dave said the other day—my actions landed him in jail. And now the whole world knows that.”
“No,” I hastily say, “wait. You were trying to protect your mother, Marshall. I’ve read all the articles.” Ah, crap. Maybe I shouldn’t have admitted that. But because it’s already out in the open, there’s no reason to pretend I haven’t read everything and anything I could find on him in the last two weeks. “You can’t—what happened wasn’t your fault.”
“She didn’t want my help, I realize that now. She wanted out of that relationship and out of that house, and there was no better way to get a divorce than landing her husband in jail.” His gray eyes go flat as he stares at the floor. “I don’t want to claim that she used me or Dave to get what she wanted, but she saw an opportunity for escape and she took it. So, yes, I wanted to protect her. And, yeah, maybe Dave did actually feel an inkling to protect me or maybe he was just that pissed that he pushed me aside and wrapped his hands around that knife.”
There are so many things I wish to say, but from the way a tick pulses in his jaw, I know he’s not done. He needs to finish his story—and I need to let him, without interruption, however much it kills me to keep silent.
With a heavy exhale, he continues, “However it happened, my mom knew what she was doing when she called the cops and said that my father had beat her and then tried to strangle me.” At my horrified gasp, Marshall flashes me a humorless grin. “She didn’t lie about any of that. The knife was in my hand, but I didn’t do anything with it until my father’s hands wrapped around my neck. Striking out was survival and a childish hope that I could protect my mom. When I woke up from blacking out, Dave was covered in blood and my mother was whispering to the police that both my father and Dave had gone insane and attacked us. They both went to jail. She got out of the life she’d always hated, and I went into the system.”
