Page 88 of Wedge

He slides shots across the bar to both of us, then two more for Caleb and himself, quick despite the crowd stacking up behind us waiting for drinks.

“To Adrian and Stephen,” he says, dropping the theatrics for something almost sincere. “Who found each other in the middle of the most chaotic golf summer I’ve ever heard about, secondhand, and somehow made it work. To the two of you. Forever, apparently, since you skipped the whole engagement waiting period entirely.”

“To forever,” Stephen says, clinking his shot glass against mine.

“To forever,” I echo, and I raise my shot of club soda and we throw them back together, Freddie whooping loud enough to draw a few curious looks from down the bar, already pouring a second round before either of us sets the glass down.

“We are not doing four more,” Stephen says.

“You are absolutely doing four more,” Freddie says. “You got married, Stephen. There’s a minimum tequila requirement for that. It’s bar policy.”

“That is not bar policy.”

“It is tonight. Drink your husband’s shot, too, if he won’t finish it.”

Stephen looks at me, half exasperated, half laughing, and I just shrug and slide my second club soda shot toward him, because arguing with Freddie has never worked for anybody, and honestly, tonight, I don’t want to.

We end up back on the dance floor, Stephen’s hands settling on my hips like they can’t be anywhere else tonight.

“You know we met right here,” I say, close to his ear over the bass. “This exact floor. You did that same terrible white-guy shuffle you’re doing right now.”

“I saw you on Ben’s deck first. And I have improved.”

“You didn’t say anything at Ben’s doesn’t count. And you have not improved even slightly.”

“Rude, on our wedding night.” But he’s grinning, pulling me in closer, and the whole memory rises, that first night, before any of it.

“You know what actually did it for me,” I say, mouth against his jaw. “That night. Not the good moves. You didn’t have any good moves.”

“Devastating. Keep going.”

“That exact bad shuffle. Watching you commit to it, completely unbothered, like you didn’t care how ridiculous you looked.” I press closer, grinding slow against him the way I have all night, my cock hot and rigid, feeling him go tense and interested under my hands. “Got me hard right here on this floor. Some stranger doing the worst dancing I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t stop staring.”

Stephen goes still, then laughs, loud and delighted, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “My terrible dancing turned you on.”

“Completely. Instantly. You brushed that amazing ass against me and my cock really wanted to say hello. I left because of it, actually, thought I was in trouble.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, something hungry underneath the laughter now. “Amazing, huh? Good thing I never learned to dance properly. Might’ve scared you off.”

“You couldn’t scare me off now if you tried.” I kiss him, right there under the lights, love and months of impossible golf and impossible luck all tangled up together. “Married you anyway. Bad dancing and all.”

“Take me home and fuck me,” he growls against my mouth.

“Mm, bossy Daddy. I like it. Yes, Daddy.”

EPILOGUE - 8 YEARS LATER

STEPHEN

The kid’s name is Anthony, eight years old, and he’s been with us three days when he finally says more than three words in a row, and what he says is I hate it here directed at the wall instead of at either of us.

I sit down on the floor across from where he’s wedged himself into the corner of his new room, boxes still half-unpacked, and I don’t try to close the distance, no cornering him in. The room is small and bright, the walls a hopeful blue we picked off a paint chip and now suspect was a mistake. There’s a bed with a warm comforter and two pillows, a rocket-ship lamp still in its box, a window full of pines and a strip of hot June sky. We bought this house near Ben’s to make room for Anthony, and the whole place is still in disarray, cardboard everywhere, the air smelling of fresh paint. We are in no rush.

“That’s allowed,” I say. “You’re allowed to hate it here. You don’t know us.”

“You’re not my real family. You’re not my father.”

“No. We’re not.” I keep my voice even, the same way I learned to keep it steady for Adrian a lifetime ago. “But I get where you’re at right now, better than you probably think.”