“Brig, you can’t be serious.”
I walk to the bathroom in the back right corner and open the door. It’s a unisex, single-stall bathroom that was once covered in teddy bear wallpaper. We’d stripped it down and redid the floors, but that was about it.
When I walk in and flip the light on, I’m hit with six-foot-tall board and batten all around the walls in a midnight blue. The rest of the walls are a beautiful white. The floors match the main dining space, and the gorgeous sewing machine vanity that Mrs. Burberry left has been cleaned and repaired. The picture I picked out to hang above the toilet that says: “Wash your hands, you filthy animal” is hanging. I can still hear the deep, throaty laugh from Brig when he read the picture.
“I can’t believe you did this.”
He pops his head in. “Technically, Rogan’s guys did this. They were quick and efficient. I’ve never seen a room transform as fast as I saw this bathroom change. It makes a statement. I like it.”
“I love it,” I say breathlessly, my pulse picking up, rapidly pumping blood through my veins, making me feel dizzy. I grip the wall and stare up at him. “This is . . . this is too much.”
He shakes his head. “This is what Port Snow does. We come together to help one of our own, especially when they might be going through a tough time.”
“Brig, I don’t . . .” Emotion clogs my throat, my heart beats so hard it feels like it’s trying to break my ribcage. I’m so grateful for this man, and all I can think about is how much I love him. How much he means to me.
How much my heart will break when I let the dream of us go.
Tears cascade down my cheeks and he draws closer, minimizing the space between us so he can swipe away at my tears.
His proximity brings on a new wave of sensations, as his rich scent hums around us, his gentle touch breaking through my protective barrier, and his voice as soft as his blue-eyed gaze.
“Don’t cry, Ruthie Girl.”
My cheek leans into his touch, my skin igniting from how close he is. The palpable desire I have for him owns my actions, as I move in even closer and press my hand to his chest.
“Thank you,” I say softly, my fingers playing with the cotton of his shirt. “Thank you so much, Brig.”
His hands fall to my hips where he gently holds me in place.
“You’re welcome. I really wanted—”
I don’t know what comes over me and later when you ask, I probably won’t be able to tell you what happened in this moment, but before he can finish his sentence, I stand on my toes, reach my hand behind his head, and bring his mouth to mine.
The moment our lips connect, the heady feel of his masculinity presses against me. I will never be the same. Instantly, my life becomes divided by pre-kiss Ruth and post-kiss Ruth.
Post-kiss Ruth’s world has shifted. Colors have changed. Sounds have become clearer. Smells more potent.
That is until I don’t feel his lips move against mine.
When his hands stiffen on my hips.
When he pulls away.
Oh . . . God.
I snap back, hand to mouth. Mortification envelops me.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back. “Please don’t . . . oh God, I’m sorry.”
Before he can say a word, I bolt from the Parlor and sprint back to Snow Roast.
What have I done?
Ruth Barber . . . what the hell were you thinking?
I want to crawl into a hole so deep, and when I reach my apartment, I don’t bother changing for bed.
I throw off my shoes, slip under the covers, and I cry. I cry myself to sleep, praying that what I just did was a painful dream . . . not humiliating reality.
“Are you okay?” Rylee whispers to me as Harper spins around blindfolded, trying to stick an illustrated dick on a cutout of Rogan. Pin the dick on the groom, one of many games we’ve played so far.
I completely forgot about Harper’s bachelorette party until Rylee came barreling up to my apartment, pounding on my door fifteen minutes before it started. Beck clued her in on why I hadn’t gone downstairs. She pushed me through the shower without a word, picked out a sundress, helped me put my hair in a tight ballerina bun, and slapped some mascara on me.
We haven’t spoken a word until now.
“I might throw up,” I say through the side of my mouth.
“Legit throw up?” She turns her head to look me in the eyes.
“Questionable. It’s touch and go.”
“What happened last night?”
“Not talking about it,” I say, feeling my throat choke up. “Not the time nor place.”
“After. You and me, your place, we’ll go over everything.”
“Can’t wait,” I say sarcastically.
Everyone around us is drunk, well, besides Ren. She claimed DD for the night for obvious reasons. I’m still nursing the same drink from three hours ago. It’s lukewarm swill at this point and bringing it even close to my mouth makes my stomach roll.
“Ahhhh,” everyone cheers when Harper nails Rogan right where his dick is supposed to go. How fitting. She lifts the bandanna off her head and cheers for herself.
“Do I know my man’s penis or what?” she asks as everyone cracks up.
Poor Mrs. Knightly.
I glance over at her and she has a glass of wine in her hand, a smile on her face. Whoever thought inviting the mother of the groom was a good idea, I have no clue, but from the look of it, her eyes are a little heavy. I’m pretty sure that’s not her first, second, or third glass of wine.
“Is this almost over?” I whisper to Rylee.
“I think so. That was the last game. Presents were opened. Dick cake was consumed. I think you could slip out soon.”
“Thank God.” I take a deep breath and say, “I’m going to put my drink in the sink. Want me to take yours?”
“Yeah, that would be great.” She hands me her drink and I walk through Harper and Rogan’s house to the back where the kitchen is. The boys are over at Griffin’s house, doing Lord knows what. It was announced that no strippers would be involved at either party, because neither the bride nor the groom were interested. Rylee was disappointed of course, she wanted Beck to be the main event. Apparently the boy has moves. Salsa-type moves. The amount of times I’ve heard Rylee talk about the wedding they crashed together—and how he moved on the dance floor to the song Havana—is obnoxious. She swears, she fell for him in that moment. At least, that’s what she claims now.
I empty our drinks in the sink and set the glasses on the counter. When I spin around, I run straight into Mrs. Knightly.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologize, I was crowding your space.” She sets her drink down and chuckles. “I sent a text to my husband that he needed to come pick me up, as watching my future daughter-in-law carve a replica of Rogan’s penis out of a cucumber did me in.”
I let out a laugh. “Yeah, I can see how that might induce the consumption of wine.”
“Just a little.” She sighs and places her hand on my arm. “I’ve yet to thank you for letting us use the Parlor for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night. We really appreciate it.”
“Of course. Anything you guys need. Your sons have been quite helpful with renovations. It’s the least I could do.”