Page 3 of Rematch
Her best friends had done everything right.
Given her time to grieve.
Practiced patience after every backslide.
Dragged her out of the house and back into the social scene—mostly kicking and screaming.
And then last week, the two of them sat her down over salted caramel cold brews at Starbucks and helped her plan the next chapter in her life—Paris—even though they were devastated she was leaving.
Best. Friends. Ever.
Chelsea was starting a new life in a new country, and Ethan was convinced some hot French guy was going to sweep her off her feet.
While she was bummed Allyson had only scored two tickets, which meant Ethan couldn’t come tonight as well—the event had been sold out for months—she did what she’d been doing for months and allowed Allyson to take the wheel, dragging her two hours north on a frigid December night. She’d much rather be sacked out on the sectional in her living room, wrapped up in a fleece blanket, watching Hallmark Christmas movies with Ethan and enjoying his hilarious running commentary about how different the movies would be if both leads were gay men.
Chelsea drained the rest of her wine, then tried to decide if she wanted to fight her way through the crowd to the kitchen for a refill. It felt like a long walk through a shit-ton of people.
But the need to remain alone was overridden by her desire for more alcohol. Only wine was going to get her through this night, because she didn’t doubt for a second Allyson would be one of the last men standing. It was her friend’s M.O. First to arrive, last to leave. The FOMO ran strong in Allyson.
Chelsea started to make her way across the living room, but she had to stop short when a burly guy, who’d clearly already over-imbibed, stumbled in front of her. It was a back-up-or-get-crushed situation.
“Oof!”
She twisted quickly, intent on apologizing to whoever she’d just bumped into.
“Ouch!” she cried, her scalp stinging. Her head didn’t manage to make the full circle, jerking back hard enough to pull a large section of her hair roughly.
“Shit.” A strong arm wrapped around her shoulders, holding her still. “Hang on. Don’t move. Your hair got wrapped around my Christmas lights.”
Chelsea turned her head more slowly this time, then looked up and up and up until she saw—holy fuck—the hottest, largest guy she’d ever met, grinning down at her. His eyes landed on her face for a moment before sliding down to check out her sweater.
That was when his sexy grin got even bigger.
She reached up to unwind her hair from the holiday lights, but too much of it was tangled close enough to her scalp that she was basically plastered to his chest, his sweater tickling her cheek.
The guy tightened his grip on her shoulder, then tugged her hand away with the other. “Let me do that.”
She lowered her hand and waited, then narrowed her eyes when he made no move to free her.
“Well?” she asked.
The big, friendly giant with the world’s greatest smile gave her a shameless shrug. “I’m thinking.”
“This isn’t rocket science,” she mused. His smile was so infectious, she found herself returning it. “You just unwind the hair from the lights,” she added.
“Oh, it’s not the process I’m pondering. It’s the wisdom of letting the gorgeous girl I just trapped escape too quickly. When you catch a fish, you admire it, maybe even take a picture with it, before you toss it back.”
“Are you comparing me to a fish?” Chelsea pretended to be annoyed, though she loved that he’d called her gorgeous. She was a curvy girl, thanks to her love for dessert…and wine. God, she loved wine. No matter how many times she tried to lose weight, she ultimately failed because of macarons, baklava, glazed croissants—sweet Jesus, she adored glazed croissants. As well as Cabernet, Malbec, Shiraz, and…well, the list went on and on.
Once again, she reached up, determined to free herself. And once again, he brushed her hand away.
“Bad analogy.” He had an amazing laugh to match that smile. “So, what brings a nice girl like you to a place like this?”
“Seriously? You’re going to drop bad pickup lines on me while I’m stuck to your chest?”
The guy used his grip on her shoulder to tug her closer. “Didn’t like that one? How about this? What’s your sign, baby?”
She sighed, then realized she didn’t really mind this close proximity. The BFG smelled good, his cologne not too potent or overpowering, just the faint scent of Armani.
