Page 15 of Tangled Up

And I definitely didn’t feel the knife in my chest that some little spitfire drove in there last night.

Not at all.

Aiming to relieve tension in a way that didn’t involve my hand wrapped around my cock again, I ended up in the driveway, shooting hoops until my cell phone rang. I glanced at the number before answering. “Hey, Bridge.”

“Hi, handsome,” she said in her typical purr. But for some reason, tonight, I didn’t find it as inviting as usual.

“What’s up?”

“It’s Friday.” I ignored the comment, and she continued, in a sweeter voice, “Are we hanging out tonight?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Let’s go out to dinner,” she suggested.

“Um…” I took a one-handed shot and missed. “I don’t know. I’m pretty tired.”

“But we never go out anywhere.”

I tried to remember Bridget’s pursed lips and her full hips, but I couldn’t conjure the images at the moment.

“Come on, baby.”

The pet name grated on me, and the ball got away, rolling into the next-door neighbor’s yard. “We went out the other week for ice cream.”

“I mean on a real date,” she said.

I grabbed the ball and rested it against my hip, remembering Gemma’s dark eyes pinning me in place at her apartment, that disaster she called a home. I didn’t know why I liked it so much. “How about we watch a movie or something at your house?”

“My pick?”

“Your pick,” I agreed, although I could barely scrape up a fraction of the excitement I used to feel about Bridget. It still paled in comparison to last night and what it felt like to spare with Gemma. But there was no way I was going there. “I’ll be over around nine.”

“I’ll make cupcakes. Chocolate-filled,” she said, back to her bedroom voice.

“Sure. Sounds great.”

“Can’t wait to see you.”

I hung up and tossed the phone on the grass then took a step back for a shot. I missed.

CHAPTERSIX

Gem

The last week of August flew by in a blur of wedding planning. My mother dragged me along to appointments for invitations, decorations, hairstyling, and now the biggest of them all.

The wedding gown.

She swept open a pink curtain and posed gloriously in the doorframe of the bridal salon dressing room. A long cream dress with a boat neck showed off her thin frame. “So, how do I look?”

I put down the bridal magazine and took in the bride-to-be. “Great.”

“You think so?” She twisted in front of a mirror, admiring herself from all angles.

“You look beautiful, Mom,” I said sincerely.

My mom had come from a family of money in Chicago, but when she got pregnant before she was married, they kicked her out. Since then, it had always been us against the world.

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