Of course, she really owed tonight’s smokey eyes, contoured cheekbones, and Rock-Star Red lips to Izzy’s expertise. She especially liked the lip color. The deep ruby shade made her feel dangerous. Like a vampire. Ditto for the silky crimson slip dress with the high slash at the thigh and asymmetrical hem. Given the right occasion, she could see herself wearing all of it again.
Looking down at her aching feet, she frowned. The mile-high, black patent peep-toe pumps? Not likely to make an encore appearance anytime soon. They showed off her pedicure nicely and added several inches to her height, but damn, they threw a body off-balance. How—and, hello, why?—Izzy clicked around on stilts like this all the time mystified her.
Because she liked the lipstick, she fished it from the slim black purse and applied another layer. Because the sleek hair seemed a little too refined for The Goose, she eased the fancy jet-beaded hairpin from her temple and shook her head until her hair fell into its normal disarray. She shoved her long bangs back from her forehead, washed her hands, checked her phone, and then headed out.
Extending tonight’s festivities for one more drink wouldn’t hurt. She was beyond ready to celebrate something good happening in her family, too, after the hell of last year. Her twin brother, Shay, had crashed his plane into a mountain and died just after Thanksgiving—an abrupt and incomprehensible loss, like a limb suddenly severed. First there’d been numbness, then a sharp, searing pain, then finally a dull ache that only flared into breath-stealing agony when she made a careless move.
New Bridget tried hard not to be careless.
Still, turning herself around didn’t erase the mean, ugly guilt that nested inside her. On the darkest, quietest nights, it whispered that her most careless move was one she’d made before Shay had gotten into the cockpit that November day, when he’d asked her to run the passengers to Anchorage for him. She’d refused because she’d been too busy tangling sheets at the Inn with a visiting nephew of Annie and Ben Watkins, whose name she couldn’t even remember at this point. For most of his life, Shay had raised the bar on irresponsible and unreliable behavior, but he had come through for her in a major way when she’d needed someone, without her even asking. When the situation flipped, she’d turned him down flat.
Yeah, she could definitely use a few hours outside her own head. She let out a breath and eased her white-knuckled grip on her evening bag. Turned out it was a scary place.
The Goose, on the other hand, overflowed with good vibes. Luke Bryan jammed from the jukebox, singing about dancing on tailgates under a full moon. Ford sat in front of the bar, for once, wearing the shit out of his groomsman’s suit, talking with Lilah and Dr. Devan.
Mad and Wing, jackets abandoned, shirtsleeves rolled, went head-to-head at the pool table, surrounded by other locals and some summer staff, mostly in the under-forty demographic. She walked over to the bar.
“What, no kiss hello?” Ford teased.
She’d apologized to him weeks ago and knew the ribbing was his way of saying, basically, “No harm, no foul.” “What’s the point?” She also knew from several sources including Ford that Archer hadn’t fallen for the show. “Apparently, our last kiss wasn’t very convincing.”
“We could practice. Be ready to really sell it the next time one of your exes shows up.”
Something in her chest pinched. There were no other exes. Not like Archer. “I plan to try a different tactic next time.”
“A knee directly to the nuts?”
“Nah.” Though the thought brought a smile to her lips. “I’m kissing Lilah, instead.”
Many sets of male eyes blinked. At the other end of the pool table, Mad cleared his throat. “You could practice that right now,” he suggested. “We don’t mind.”
Lilah laughed. “Would the kiss come before or after the pillow fight?”
“The pillow fight that loosens the straps of your very hot ensemble?” She indicated the halter-style top of Lilah’s bridesmaid’s dress. Same dark red shade as Bridget’s but cut differently to make the most of Lilah’s eye-popping cleavage—perhaps all the more eye-popping because she kept it hidden under bulky tops most of the time. Below the halter, the gown poufed into a skirt that ended mid-thigh. Sort of a sweet, sexy baby-doll look, while notifying everyone that the wearer was all grown up.
“The one where I accidentally rip the slit in your skirt until it goes all the way up your thigh?” Lilah embellished.
“I’ll get pillows,” Wing volunteered, tossing his cue on the table. “The Inn’s lousy with them. Just give me five minutes.”
“Dream on, perverts.” Bridget laughed and, mood lifted, gave Lilah a loud smooch on the cheek.
“Ah, man.” Mad tossed his cue as well and came over. “That’s just mean. Ford, buddy, we’re gonna need some shots. First round’s on Wing.”
“Hey!”
“You lost,” Mad reminded him, gesturing at the pool table. “Loser calls it.”
“Fine. Whatever. Tequila,” Wing grumbled.
Ford started to get up, but Lilah waved him back. “Sit. I’ll get it.” She walked around the bar, set up shot glasses. Selecting Cuervo Gold from the shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar, she performed a professional pour.
They—all but Lilah—did two shots, the first one in honor of Trace and Izzy, the second in honor of Wing, for generously springing for two rounds. Feeling warm and mellow, Bridget let Mad pull her into his arms and slow dance to “Girl Crush.”
He grinned down at her. “You ready to take charge of things at the airfield for the next little while?”
“Yep.” You hope, an honest voice in her head added.
“Should we call you boss? Maybe boss lady? La jefa?”
“Is this your attempt at kissing ass?”
“Not really.” His grin never faltered. “I figure my days of kissing any part of you are over.”
“Finally come to your senses, huh?” It had been over six months since they’d indulged in recreational kissing, much less anything else. Seemed like neither of them missed it much, but neither of them had definitively called it quits, either.
He shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I always knew I mainly had geographic desirability going for me.”
“Same,” she said, feeling an odd pressure to justify herself.
Mad gave her a friendly hug. “And we kept things non-exclusive, which definitely tells a guy where he stands.”
“Mutually non-exclusive,” she pointed out. “I think we both knew where we stood.”
“True.”