Shane makes me want to slow down.
“So, ah…what design do you think you’d want? I can show you more…”
Shit. I’ve been sitting here staring at him. I sip my beer just to do something and think it over. It comes to me instantly. “Sunshine. I want a bracelet of sunshine.”
He stills. His eyes search mine as he nods slowly. “I can work with that,” he whispers.
Winters comes back with the fresh pitcher, but I pass since I’m driving. Unless it’s a craft beer—which this shit definitely isn’t—I’m usually a one and done anyway. I drank enough alcohol during my darker days.
“How are Thompson and Araujo doing?” Olander asks, craning his head around. He checks his phone. “Only two minutes left.”
“Weird. I don’t see Thompson anywhere,” Nebs saysand stands to survey the crowd. “Speaking of other halves. Where’s yours?”
I bite back mywho cares. This night would be a completely different experience if Dev were here.
Olander chuckles and leans back, cracking his knuckles as his biceps flex. The man is literally jacked. Which is saying something, since I’m not a small guy. “Said he couldn’t get away from the ol’ ball and chain. Wife wouldn’t let him out.”
“I wonder why,” I mutter.
“Don’t be a dick, Stone.” Olander glares at me, his hard jaw tightening. “Kind of fucked she won’t let him come out with us. And that’s not where it ends. You should hear some of the shit Dev has told me. She’s controlling as fuck.”
I gape at him. I can’t tell if Olander is oblivious. Completely misguided. Or just as big of an asshole as Devereux.
“Bro, you cannot be serious,” Shane says incredulously. “I’ve been on the Clippers for, like, a month now, and I’ve seen Dev hook up with at least five womenwho were not his wife. I’ve also seen how much money he throws down on drinks. We don’t make jack shit for salary. I know his type. He needs a literal ball and chain to keep him in line.”
Olander’s glare wavers. Something passes over his expression, there and gone so fast I almost think my eyes are deceiving me. But it almost looked like…desperation. Like a man trapped. But then he presses on. “He said they have an open relationship. She’s totally fine with it.”
I snort as I’m taking a sip of my beer and end up spitting it all over the table. Shane pats my back and shakes his head at Olander.
“Sure, she is, Olander,” Nebiolo says. “You just keep believing everything Dev tells you.”
Araujo slides into his empty seat and slams his palm on the table. “I totally have this in the bag!”
He looks around. “Where’s Thompson? I know time’s up because I’m actually a minute late. But the redhead with the freckles. Damn, she was cute.”
“You and your freckles,” Shane says with a laugh. “You have a freckle fetish, man?”
“Honestly. Yeah,” Araujo says, grinning. “I’m not ashamed of it.”
“Sorry, I’m late,” Thompson says in a rush as he slides up to the table. His cheeks are rosy, and his wavy, ear-length dark hair is a total mess.
Araujo frowns at Thompson. “Are you sweating? What were you doing, running around to get numbers?”
Thompson shrugs sheepishly. “Ah. I think I lost this one, guys. I only got one number.”
A laugh bursts from Araujo. “Duuuude. I told you I was going to win. I got six.” He taps his phone to show us the numbers, then hits the lock button and spins it. “Pathetic, Thompson.”
Thompson falls heavily onto the free chair next to Araujo. “Maybe. Maybe not. You may have gotten more numbers, but you aren’t the one who just got blown behind the bar.”
Our table goes up in hoots and hollers.
“Damn, bro,” Shane says, awe in his voice. “That’s like the equivalent of ten phone numbers.”
I turn to him. “How? How do you possibly determine that?”
Nebiolo rubs his chin. “Shane’s got a point. That definitely has to count for extra. So, how do we determine the winner?”
I glance around the table, but my attention freezes onAraujo. His jaw is flexing in a way that has me certain he’s grinding his teeth; his tanned complexion that’s usually smooth is turning a blotchy mauve.
