Page 3 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Hitman

“Yeah.” My pulse leaps when Annie takes my hand and tugs me up to stand. I tower over her, but I’m gentle as I squeeze her fingers. “Go ahead and abduct me, Annie. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Two

Annie

My best friend must have been secretly working out for months, because now that I get a good look at him… Wyatt isripped.He’s a tower of sculpted muscle, and when he shifts, the rigid line of his abs presses against the soft cotton of his shirt.

I’m so used to seeing him bundled up in woolen sweaters in the winter, or in rolled shirt sleeves in summer. When was the last time Wyatt Kinnear wore an honest to God t-shirt? When we were teenagers? Even earlier than that? To be honest, it’s hard to imagine Wyatt dressed casually even as a little toddler, because surely back then he was waddling around in little suits.

My bestie has always been so adorably stuffy, with his pristine clothes and the medical journals he used to read for fun—back before he became a doctor and those journals turned into work.

Still. Wyatt in a t-shirt? He really is cutting loose tonight. Even when we used to lay out on the grass behind our houses and sunbathe after school, he’d be in a button-up.

“Follow my lead, Mister Groom-to-Be.”

Keeping our hands tangled, I pull Wyatt through the crowded bar. People glance over with alarm when they see the bag on his head, but they relax into grins when they see the feather boa and Wyatt’s fingers knitted with mine, his big body following obediently.

Yup, this isn’t arealkidnapping. This is the first of many bachelor night antics to come.

Cheers go up as we cut through the crowd, and hands clap Wyatt on the shoulders. He tenses visibly with each pat, but he says nothing as I pull him outside into the fresh spring air. It’s getting late, but the sun’s only just sunk below the horizon, leaving streaks of pink on the darkening sky.

“The first place is walking distance.”

Wyatt grunts, nodding his head inside the bag. It looks so silly, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Heavy leather boots thud against stone as we walk. Damn, the makeover really is full-body, and I peer at him out of the corner of my eye. It’s those worn jeans hugging his muscled thighs; the scratched-up work boots; the t-shirt. Thosetattoos.

Is this an early midlife crisis? Should I be intervening somehow, telling Wyatt that Brent loves him as he is? They’re two perfect, stuffy doctors together, clearly made for each other.

Or should I go ahead and confirm that this look is a million times hotter than Wyatt’s usual vibe? Admit that I’m getting kinda hot under the collar, then laugh it off so it doesn’t get awkward?

Hmm. Tricky.

When we were younger, everyone always assumed we were dating. Wyatt-and-Annie, Annie-and-Wyatt. In fairness, we were practically glued together, always hanging out or watching movies together, bundled up on the sofa in the den.

Little did they know that Wyatt preferred other boys. Or that I harbored a secret crush of my own—on theotherKinnear twin. The dangerous one.

My heart squeezes in my chest, and I force those thoughts away. They won’t help. They never do.

“You trying to crush my fingers?” Wyatt murmurs, but he sounds amused. I clear my throat and force my iron grip to relax. We walk past a wall covered in climbing ivy, the tendrils reaching out to tickle my upper arm, but I barely even register the sensation. Too lost in memories.

“Sorry. I was just thinking about your brother.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” The air between us is tense suddenly, and shoot, if I could take those words back, I would. Here we are, strolling happily down a tree-lined city street, setting off on our bachelor party adventure—then I bring upDean, the sore spot in both our psyches. What is wrong with me?

“But forget about him,” I say, filling my voice with forced cheer. “This night is aboutus.And Brent. And the start of your big marriage adventure. Are you super excited to say ‘I Do’?”

“Sure,” Wyatt says dryly. “Can’t wait.”

Even with a bag over his head, he steers me around a wide crack in the pavement. How does he do that? Are those some kind of heightened surgeon instincts?

I really should stop squeezing his fingers so hard. These hands save lives.

“Here we are.” Five minutes later, I tug Wyatt to a stop on the corner of a concrete lot. Past the rows of cars and trucks, a big warehouse is lit up, with electronic music thumping from inside. Screams drift out of the open windows, but they melt into laughter.

I whip the bag off Wyatt’s head with a flourish, leaving his dark hair all ruffled up and his cheeks faintly flushed.

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