I scoff. “I have no interest in dating Crosby or anyone.”
That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.
“Good. Because it’s my duty to keep him on the wagon. No dating, no women, no nothing.”
“Trust me, not dating Crosby will be just like . . . how it’s always been. Crosby and I are friends.”
“Good. Then you’ll do your part to keep him woman-free too,” he says.
“Of course,” I say quickly, because he’s definitely a friend, so I’m definitely down with the program.
As we slide into the town car, I tell myself that heeding Eric’s warning will be as easy as a quarterback lobbing a pass to a wide-open receiver.
And the receiver running it in for a touchdown.
Except there will be no scoring with Crosby.
Mark my words.
At the night-before-the wedding dinner the next Friday, I walk into the private room at one of San Francisco’s swankiest celebrity chef restaurants, my eyes scanning the place for all the people I love—my mom, my sister, my brother, his bride, and all my extended family.
Warmth spreads through me at the sight of all this family. I say hi to my mom, sister, brother, and Mariana, looking gorgeous with her waves of brown hair, and her olive skin.
There’s no sign of Crosby, until a hand clasps my shoulder.
And the faint scent of pine mixed with soap wafts past my nose.
For a sliver of a second, I close my eyes.
Then I open them, turn around, and ignore the hell out of the swoopy sensations in my stomach.
Crosby’s here, looking as handsome as he did at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala.
But he’s always been handsome, and I’ve always handled it just fine.
Because we’re just friends.
“A hundred bucks says your brother’s teary-eyed by the end of the night when he gives his toast,” he says in that gravelly, sexy voice that sends a dangerous zing down my spine.
Zero in on the way we are.
“You’re already throwing down bets? The dinner hasn’t even started.”
He lifts a shoulder, all casual and confident. “I know your brother well.”
“As do I. So why would I bet against him?”
Crosby’s blue eyes gleam with mischief. “How about we lay down a bet on how long into his speech it takes for him to tear up?”
“You’re so cruel,” I say with mischievous delight, then lower my voice. “But I love it.”
I look at my watch, a slim platinum band that my father gave me when he asked me to take over the team. My heart clenches as I hear the echo of his voice, the somber intensity in his request, and the inscription I read daily. It’s your turn.
I wear a ruby ring he and my mom gave me too, a gift when I graduated from my master’s program. They remind me of him, of them, of their love.
I wish he were here tonight.
But if he were, he’d want us all to have fun. To enjoy friends and family to the fullest.
That’s what I vow to do.
I raise my chin, dig into the analytical portion of my brain, and lay down my bet. Bets are fun. Bets are friendly. “Twenty seconds.”
Crosby’s grin goes crooked. “You don’t have a lot of hope in your big brother.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who’s to say that’s not hopeful? Maybe I like his sweet and soft side.”
“Fair enough. But I’m going with forty seconds,” he whispers.
I offer him a hand to shake. He takes it, then he jerks me closer so I’m inches away. “How about a hug, Wild Girl?”
My breath catches. I’m nearly flush against a wall of muscle. His chest is so broad, so sturdy. I’m near enough for his scent to drift past my nose, and my nose likes the way he smells.
“So we’re sealing our bet with a hug instead of a handshake?” I ask, evening my tone. I don’t want to let on that this proximity is scrambling parts of my brain.
Parts I didn’t expect to be scrambled so soon.
“Hell yeah. Best way to bet.” Crosby wraps those major league arms around me, bracketing me in. I steal another inhale of that fresh scent of wood and freshly showered man, and my traitorous body does a salsa dance.
I sternly lecture all those tingles trying to take over my mind.
It’s nothing.
He simply smells good.
Intrinsically, objectively good, like a cologne ad in a magazine.
That’s it. He’s simply one of those eau de manliness spreads in GQ. You’d feel this way about any handsome man. It’s only logical, considering how long it’s been.
When he lets go, I punch him on the shoulder to keep us in the pals zone. “Then we’re on. One hundred dollars. But for the record,” I say, lifting my chin, “there’s nothing wrong with a man getting a little emotional about getting married.”
“Did I say there was?” he asks. Around us, guests mill about, lifting champagne flutes, catching up, snagging stuffed mushroom appetizers and avocado sushi from the waiters circling by.
“No. But you seem to be mocking him.”
“That’s literally my job as his best friend,” he deadpans.
I point to my chest. “Hey, that’s my job too, as his sister.”
He leans in, his face near mine, his voice turning a bit . . . naughty. “Then, should we spend the night mocking him together?”
That rumble in his voice makes the little hairs on the back of my neck rise, like they’re sashaying closer to him.
What is up with my body’s reaction to him? Settle down, hormones.
“I think we should definitely mock Eric,” I whisper conspiratorially. Talking about my brother has to alleviate these Crosby-induced heat flutters.
So that’s what we do during dinner—playfully mock my brother like we did when we were younger.
Trouble is, all this teasing—leaning close, whispering jokes, laughing together—brings back memories of growing up. Memories and emotions that I shelved, happy to ignore them.
Like the crush I had on him way back when.
Yes, that memory, which struts to the forefront of my mind and brings along with
