Chase Me If You Can(8)
“Of course.” She gives me a wide-eyed look of faux innocence and stage-whispers, “He loves it when I’m in charge.”
“Too much information.” I wrinkle my nose, but deep down, I can’t quite ignore the flash of jealousy. Not over Matt—he’s never appealed as anything more than a friend—but Tracy’s confident happiness in her relationship, not to mention her fiancé’s unwavering support, isn’t something I’ve ever experienced.
The thought is forgotten when Matt and Wes both drop to the dusty asphalt and start counting off push-ups. I can’t help rolling my eyes at them despite having seen this before—Matt admitted last year it’s how they solve disagreements.
Men really will do anything but go to therapy.
“You better bathe Matt in hand sanitizer before you let him back in the car,” I mutter, eyeing the various stains, cigarette butts, and hardened wads of gum littering the pavement.
“Mmmhmm” is the only reply I get with Tracy’s attention glued to the two men. Matt’s shirt is sitting in a heap next to Wes’s, back and arm muscles flexing in a steady rhythm under his olive skin. She licks her bottom lip and mutters under her breath, “Worth it.”
When I glance back at the two men, Wes catches my eye and has the nerve to wink. “Twenty-seven,” he shouts, staring directly at me. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine…You want to count for me, Sloane? I can do this all day!”
“You sure you didn’t just forget what comes after twenty-nine?” I call back, folding my arms over my chest like I’m above their childish game. No one has to know that I’m not exactly immune to the sight of Wes’s bare skin, draped in tattoos and gleaming in the sunlight. It’s a shame his personality isn’t anywhere near as attractive.
“Thirty-two!” How Wes has the lung capacity to laugh is beyond me. “Thirty-three!”
“Fifty-five, forty-three, sixty-four…” I count loudly over him. Tracy giggles next to me when Matt shoots us a murderous glare. His face is red now, darker than the flush beginning to creep into Wes’s cheeks, and sweat drips off his forehead.
“This,” Tracy begins with a sigh, pretending to fan herself, “this is what they should mean when they say ‘boys will be boys.’ I don’t even care what they’re arguing about. In fact, if Matt wants to solve all our fights by taking his clothes off…”
I laugh, nodding toward her left hand where her engagement ring should be. “Should I take the missing ring as a sign wedding planning is going well?”
“One of the stones was a little loose so it’s being fixed.” She sighs and brushes her thumb over the faint tan line left behind. “Planning is…You’re probably the last person I need to tell this, but I swear, weddings aren’t even for the couple anymore. My parents, his parents, everyone thinks they deserve a piece of the day.”
I nod sympathetically. I’ve seen the fights up close. It’s one of the many reasons I’ll be passing on a big wedding if it’s ever my turn to go down the aisle.
Across the parking lot, Matt finally admits defeat. Wes gets to his feet with ease, bends to grab his discarded T-shirt, and uses it to mop sweat off his chest. “See something you like, Sloane?”
“Not even a little.” Pointedly turning my attention back to Tracy and ignoring him, I ask if she’s figured out her plan for the contest yet.
Instead of answering, she gives me a long, indecipherable look, a slight slant to her brows.
“What? Do I have something on my face?” I scrub my fingers over my mouth, hoping the chocolate I ate on the drive hasn’t left evidence I’ve been walking around oblivious to.
Tracy shakes her head, glances at her fiancé once more, and then finally answers my question when the guys disappear around the side of the building. “I think I’m going for structure. Turquoise skies are always my favorite. Maybe a tornado and rainbow combo, if Mother Nature decides to cooperate, but you know how hard those shots are.”
“What’s so hard about having less than a second to line up a shot, make sure it’s in focus, and hope like hell there isn’t a raindrop on the lens?” I joke. “Cakewalk.”
Tracy huffs out a laugh. “What’ve you got in mind?”
I shrug. “I haven’t decided, exactly. More vibes than anything right now.”
“Sloane Michaels doesn’t have a plan? Is the sky falling?” Wes makes space for himself between us, thankfully with his shirt back on. He props his elbow on my shoulder, the scent of sweat and dust and hot asphalt pouring off him.
I shove him away with a muttered “Gross” not quite under my breath. He doesn’t care, his expression lit up with mischief right before he exchanges a smug look with Matt. That’s never a good sign. Especially when I glance behind them and notice the two assholes from earlier heading around the side of the building.
“Very funny. Sure you don’t want to catch a ride with your new besties?”
Wes shakes his head, his expression settling into uncharacteristic seriousness when his eyes catch mine. “You couldn’t pay me to get in a car with those guys.”
“Then what were you…”
I trail off when a massive SUV emerges from the side of the building. On the back of the extremely dusty bumper, someone—my money is on tall, dark, and smug standing next to me wearing a frat boy grin—has scrawled Honk for dick.