It’s freeing. It’s a relief. And before we hit the door, my fingers loosen around the sparkly heels in my hand.
I drop them like Cinderella and step out into a dull November afternoon, with my palm pressed tight against Jasper’s.
“How much farther?” I huff, out of breath after running a few blocks in a big, heavy dress topped with a hefty dose of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Jasper slows, giving me a slight grimace. “Sorry. I parked at the stadium. Hadn’t planned on being your getaway vehicle.” His fingers pulse on mine as he draws me close to his side. And then his tone changes. “Though maybe I should have.”
His eyes drop, like he’s embarrassed by what he just said, and he lurches to a halt. “Jesus, Sloane. Your feet. I didn’t even think beyond getting you out that door.” Eyes glued to the ground, he gestures me behind him, and I realize he’s staring at my feet. My bare feet on a cold winter sidewalk. “Why didn’t you say anything? You got something against your feet? I feel like I’m the only one who takes care of them.”
“Don’t worry about my feet. It’s this fucking hairdo that’s killing me.” I probe at the spot where I can feel tiny hairs tugging against my scalp.
His lips tip down in a surly frown, and then he crouches. “Hop up.”
“You want to give me a piggyback ride?”
He shoots me a playful look over his shoulder, one that takes me back to long, hot summers spent floating the river, splashing, and staring at Jasper Gervais, who seemed all man to me even at seventeen.
Wish I could go back and warn that Sloane about how he’d grow up to look.
Which is to say, devastating.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Let’s go. I don’t want Woodcock to catch up with us and throw a tantrum.”
I can’t help the small laugh that erupts from me. Or that my fingers are already gripping at my skirt as I climb Jasper like a tree. Once I get close enough, he hefts me up easily, and I realize I weigh nothing to him.
A tiny ballerina being toted around by a huge hockey player.
In her fucking wedding dress.
Giggles overtake me, and I wrap my arms around Jasper’s neck, snuggling into the warmth of his body. I feel the vibrations of his laughter against my chest, and my nipples rasp against the inside of my bodice.
“This is insane.” I drop my head to the back of his neck, the tips of his hair brushing against my forehead.
“No.” He hikes me up higher on his back as we enter the hockey arena parking lot, and I struggle against the tight dress to keep my legs wrapped around the wide expanse of his back. “Taking Woodcock as a legal name is insane.”
“Jasper.” I swat at his shoulder. “Be nice.”
“No, thanks. I’m over being nice to that guy,” he grumbles, still ornery over dinner the other night. Not that I can blame him.
“I was planning to hyphenate?”
“Winthrop-Woodcock is no better, babe.”
I snort and am about to pester him back when I hear it. A tearing sound.
Oh my god.
Jasper freezes momentarily. “Was that . . .”
Silent laughter racks my body. “My dress? Yup.”
“Are you . . .”
“My ass still feels covered. No breeze yet.” I reach one hand back to run it over my butt—just in case. “It’s still just my hair that hurts,” I admit.
He just grumbles, picking up his pace and looking around like he’s annoyed by the idea of someone seeing what isn’t even showing. Annoyed by my hair being too tight.
I don’t know when Jasper got so . . . overprotective?
“There it is.”
The lights flash on a silver Volvo SUV, and I sigh in relief. Sure, those shoes were torture, but running barefoot on cold concrete is a close second in the discomfort department.
He places me down at the passenger’s side, but his hands don’t leave my body. His palm splays against my hip as he opens the door and lifts me into the seat. He even reaches for the seat belt to buckle me in before he stops himself.
Navy eyes land on mine momentarily and then drop to my lips. He shakes his head, his tall frame backing out of the car away from me.
He’s about to slam the door, but stops, startling me as he wrenches it back open, steps up close, and bites out, “You know what?” He reaches for my hair and gentle hands land in my tresses. “This fucking thing needs to go.”
I don’t know how he manages it, but with one well-placed tug, he pulls the main crystal-encrusted needle from my hair and tosses it on the ground. The tinny clang of it landing against the asphalt sounds loud in an otherwise quiet moment. There’s something symbolic about it.
The relief I feel is instant. The spot that hurt doesn’t anymore.
My hair tumbles freely around my cheeks, and he watches it sway. For a moment, his eyes heat and shock me when they land back on my lips.
“Is that better?” he rumbles.
My heartbeat thumps heavily in my ears and I offer a silent nod back. Not sure what to say. Trying to make sense of this version of my friend. Protective and possessive, devotion fortifying every move he makes.
He mirrors my nod wordlessly, then he steps back and slams the door.
Within moments he’s settled in the driver’s seat, and we pull out of the facility in silence. What felt like relief and freedom before slowly morphs into shock and a steady state of nausea.
A tense moment of what the fuck was that hair thing?
A heavy dose of what have I done?
I run through the conversations I’ll need to have. The contracts we’ll need to pay for a wedding that never happened. The move I’ll have to make out of Sterling’s penthouse.
Dread sinks like a heavy stone into my gut.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, watching the city streets bleed into the freeway that leads out to Chestnut Springs.
“We still good?” I sense Jasper’s nervous glances. I know him well enough to recognize he’s stressing right now. Worrying. He’s always been good at worrying, so his anxiety is probably kicking in something fierce.
“Yeah. I could use a drink though.”
He nods, and within minutes we pull into a liquor store.
“I’ll get—” he starts, but I hop out of the car and walk toward the store like a thirsty, stunned, barefoot bride-zombie.
With long strides, he rushes ahead to pull the door open for me. As I cross the threshold, I don’t make eye contact, but I can feel him regarding me like he thinks I might snap. I think I already have.
Inside, it reeks of stale beer and Pine-Sol.
Jasper turns to peer around the small store. It’s more of a wide hallway, packed a little too tight. Kind of like the guy behind the counter, bulging out of his shirt.
“Welcome,” he grumbles, scrolling through his phone, not sparing us a glance.
“Do you want . . . Champagne?” Jasper lifts a bottle of the nicest champagne on the shelf, which is not saying much for this dive. “To . . . celebrate?”
I snort at that. “No.” I roll my lips together and keep walking further back. “I want something fattening and lowbrow. Something Sterling and my dad would never approve of.”
I hear Jasper’s chuckle behind me as I stalk toward the cold beer section at the back. The way he laughs, all soft and deep, never fails to make me feel like I’m sinking into a warm bath. He’s so serious sometimes that when he laughs, it’s precious somehow.