“Why do you want to make her jealous?”
“I want her to know what she missed out on while she’s out with the guy she left me for.”
“Ouch. Are you trying to win her back?”
“No,” I answer immediately as she turns on the shower. That’s taking a white lie too far. I don’t have any desire to reconnect with any of my exes. “But I don’t want her to think I’m hung up on her on Valentine’s Day. I want her to see I’ve moved on.”
“Why should I help you?”
“I’ve been keeping you supplied with snacks, for one.”
“For two?”
“You want to tell me you wouldn’t feel a little bit better if your ex thought you were out living your best life? Especially on Valentine’s Day.” Just saying the name of the holiday I loathe tastes sour on my tongue, but I power through anyway.
“You have a point.” I hear the shower curtain yanking back, and instantly I’m assaulted by the image of Blaire’s naked body stepping under the stream of water. My dick twitches against my zipper as I imagine joining her.
Knock it off, Thatcher. It’s never going to be like that with Blaire.
“What is this Cupid’s Crawl?” she calls a little louder, no doubt so I can hear her over the stream of water.
“Just something the brewery is putting on. Figured we could grab a drink, maybe some lunch, and pretend we completed it together. You know, for the photos. You can be back in your bed before dinnertime.”
There’s a long pause before she finally says, “Okay, I’ll do it.”
CHAPTER 3
Blaire
“Are either one of you left handed?” a woman wearing a silk red blouse and name tag with the nameMaggie,Event Coordinatorsurrounded by little hearts asks as she approaches us at the bar.
I’m still a little uneasy being out in public after a week of hibernation, but Ididdesperately need a shower. And to throw my Cheeto-stained sheets in the washing machine. Plus, for some stupid reason, I couldn’t say no to Thatcher when he confessed his plan to make his ex jealous. I felt some stupid compulsion to help the guy. We do go way back. Or maybe it’s because I too want my ex to think I’m out living my best life and not mourning the life I thought we’d have together.
“I am,” Thatcher says at the same time I say, “He is.”
“Oh good! I hope you two don’t mind a little extra challenge,” Maggie says, looking entirely too excited about this random bit of information.
I’m about to ask if she works at the brewery when she slaps a fuzzy pink handcuff over my right wrist. Before I can clarify what the hell’s happening, the other cuff is secured on Thatcher’s left wrist. He looks just as dazed as I feel.
“Here is your official card for the Cupid’s Crawl,” Maggie says, handing me a postcard.
“I thought we were just observing,” I say to Thatcher.
“But you’re signed up,” Maggie says, looking between the two of us with eyebrows drawn in what I can only assume is confusion.
Thatcher clears his throat, reaching for his beer and taking a slow sip. Once he sets the mug down, he stares down at the bar and says, “I, uh, signed us up actually.”
“You didn’t know?” Maggie asks me.
“No, I didn’t realize we were participating.” I try glaring at Thatcher, but it’s not nearly as effective since he’s refusing to look at me.
Getting me out of the house so he could take a couple of social media pictures to post on Valentine’s Day is one thing. But spending the afternoon completing some kind of small town couples challenge is taking it a step too far. When we get back to the cabin, I’m going to kill Thatcher.
I lift my wrist, dragging his with it, and wave it at Maggie. “Can you please uncuff us?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Come again?” I ask.
