Page 4 of Until Then

She snorts a laugh into her mug, the sharp, golden streaks across her eyes glimmer like a sunrise. Yes, I said a sunrise. The one that cuts through the ocean mists every morning outside my condo window. Gold mixed with sea blue. Wild and beautiful.

Hayley finishes her drink and leans back in her chair, arms open. “You caught me. I’m an undercover model, dressed like a hot mess to throw off the fans.”

I steal another bite of my half of the scone. “Knew it.”

The thing is, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been pulled so fiercely into the orbit of a woman. And I’ve dated models aplenty. There was something . . . free about Hayley and her determination to steal my scone that looped around my throat like a fishing hook and reeled me in.

Unfortunately, the curse of our society means women like Hayley ended up trapped in the belief they didn’t hold a torch to women like Red Valentine.

All I see is someone who keeps taking my breath away.

I don’t know how long we talk, but by the time my phone buzzes with a text, the scone is long gone and we’ve had two lemonades, two coffees, and are already halfway through a turkey club.

I glance at my phone, reading the text from Carter Warren, my stunt double.

Carter: So, Buster’s at 7, right?

I curse in my head, stealing a glance at Hayley across the café. She’s battling with a napkin dispenser, sort of muttering under her breath when one of the brown paper napkins jams.

Rees and Vienna, my sister-in-law, are going to be in town before he and his band head out on tour. They’ll have my nine-month-old nephew with them.

I grind my teeth together. There isn’t anyone I love more than my little man, Jude. I’m pretty sure he even beats out his dad—my twin, my second half, my best friend until the apocalypse—but I’m not sure I want this night to end.

Me: Um, I might bail tonight, but I’ll be there for that brunch thing or whatever tomorrow.

It takes thirty seconds for Carter to respond.

Carter: You’re ditching on the Judester? Wren and Griff are coming too.

I do love getting into plot conversations with Wren, Carter’s sister. She’s a romance author, and since I’ve been the lead on Wicked Darlings for the last seven seasons, I’ve gotten to know the author of the books we adapted.

I’ve always admired how they spin these tales in their heads from the most random blip of inspiration.

Still . . .

Me: Sorry, man. Tell them we’ll go to the beach tomorrow. I’ll make it up to everyone.

Carter: What’s happening? Are you in trouble? Send a laughing emoji if you’re being held under duress.

I chuckle and steal a glance to the villainous napkin dispenser. Hayley has a crumpled stack and is heading back this way.

Being honest is the fastest way to freedom.

Me: I’m good. Better than good. Pretty sure I met someone. I’m going to ask her out.

The three dots of an incoming text blink for a decent amount of time. My pulse quickens. Hayley is fifteen feet away. I don’t want to text while she’s here, but Carter will find a way to track me if he’s left on read.

Ten feet.

Five.

Finally, my phone vibrates.

Carter: DO IT! But just know . . . I’m telling your brother. You know what that means.

I fight the urge to growl. If Rees finds out I have a date, Vienna will hound me for answers. In the interim, she’ll inform all the band wives—my favorite ladies. But they’re connected, just like Carter since his sister married Griffin, to the Vegas Kings MLB team.

I have a prediction that within the hour I’ll have not only my twin, but all the band wives and baseball wives sending advice and every detail request about the woman who made me cancel on Jude Hayden.

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