Page 22 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

I shoot Rip a wink and whisper out of the side of my mouth, “Did we leave that window open?”

“Too soon, babe,” he replies, grinning.

“I brought a salad,” I announce brightly, handing her the bowl.

Her eyes practically sparkle as she takes it. But when she notices the guitar in Rip’s hands, something in her expression shifts, softens. There’s a flicker of emotion there, a shadow of memory.

“Oh, wonderful,” she murmurs, her voice going a little wistful. Her gaze drifts past us, toward the fire pit and the gathering crowd. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had music around the fire…”

The way she trails off tells me everything. Whoever used to play here isn’t around anymore. I don’t ask. But I feel it—the grief, gently worn, like river stone.

Rip adjusts his grip on the guitar. He’s watching her, quiet, thoughtful. And something tells me he’s not going to let her miss the music tonight.

“Do you have any special requests?” I ask Mrs. Callahan, hoping I can give something back for the way her eyes just gutted me with that quiet kind of longing—the kind that lingers in empty chairs and unplayed songs.

Her gaze floats back to mine, soft and watery, and then her hand lifts, cradling my cheek in a gesture so maternal, so achingly tender, it knocks the breath out of me. Her skin is warm and weathered, and I feel the sting behind my eyes before I can blink it away.

God, I’m not sure my mother ever looked at me with anything but disappointment.

“Whatever you like, darling,” she says gently.

Then her attention swings to Rip. “You’re sunburnt,” she scolds, like she’s about to call his parents.

“Yeah,” he says with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jumped in the ocean. Guess I washed off all the SPF and common sense.”

She lets out an exaggerated tsk , and waves a hand. “I’ve got an ointment for that.” But she’s already turning, calling out over her shoulder, “Now come mingle.”

I stifle a laugh as I follow. Apparently, she has an ointment—butnotthe time to offer it right now. Ointment by appointment only.

We trail behind her to a long buffet table piled with foil-covered dishes and summer casseroles.

I do a quick scan and count about twenty adults and six kids.

It’s got all the makings of a neighborhood potluck: the smell of grilled meat, the faint screech of kids playing tag, and a lot of very curious eyes landing directly on us.

Mrs. Callahan claps her hands, full hostess mode. The chatter dies instantly. “Everyone, say hello to Rip and Charley,” she announces, as if we’re the opening act at a wedding expo. “They’re staying next door at Paisley and Gunter’s place.”

She gestures to each person, rattling off names like she’s giving a history lecture without notes. I nod politely while filing absolutely nothing away. There’s no way I’m rememberinganyof this.

Then she pivots dramatically back to us, clutching her heart with all the flair of a Southern drama queen. “These two,” she coos, “Are here planning their wedding.”

And there it is.

I blink. Rip goes statue-still beside me.

A woman with sky-blue eyes and enthusiastic energy bounces forward, practically squealing. “Oh, how exciting! I’m a wedding planner! Been in the biz fifteen years.”

Lucky me.

I smile so hard I’m about to pull a muscle. “That’s… amazing,” I say, dragging the word out like I’m buying time. I flick a glance up at Rip. “Isn’t that amazing, babe?”

“Uh, yeah,” he mutters, clearly stunned.

An elderly man slaps a hand onto Rip’s sunburned back and he winches. “Drink?”

Rip straightens but before he moves, he throws me a quick check-in glance. I give him a subtle nod that says, go, I’ve got this.

He walks off toward the drinks table, and I immediately wish I had followed. Or vanished.

“Aww,” the wedding planner sighs, watching him. “You can really see the love between you two.”

I choke on my own tongue. “Oh, thanks, uh…”

I trail off, not remembering her name even though I’m pretty sure I nodded at her like thirty seconds ago. She doesn’t seem to notice.

I am definitely not drunk enough for this.

She slips her hand onto my arm like I’m her new best friend.

“I’m Suzanne,” she reminds me. “That was my father, Tom.” Her eyes dart around the yard.

“And that’s my husband Jensen,” she adds, nodding toward a guy who gives a quick wave before diving back into some deep conversation with a group of men.

Without missing a beat, she steers me toward the wine table — which I’m seriously grateful for right now. “Let’s grab a glass, and then I’ll introduce you around. After that? Wehave to talk wedding. I’ve yet to meet a bride who doesn’t want to gush about her big day.”

Wanna bet?

“That sounds amazing. Are you from around here?” I ask, trying to sound casual as she pours two generous glasses of red wine.

“New York,” she says, raising her glass. “And you?”

“California, actually.” Shoot. Why did I say that? I didn’t want her adding two and two, especially with the mess that’s my past. Plus, Rip and I had totally skipped over the ‘how we met’ part. There’s no way I’m telling this woman I literally climbed through his window and stole his bed.

But you can never steal his heart, girlfriend. It belongs to another.

That thought sneaks into my head like an uninvited guest.

I shake it off and take a careful sip of wine, sinking back into one of the chairs. Soon, a few more women drift over and settle around us. They introduce themselves, smiles wide and friendly. None of them recognize me. Thank God. I’m not ready for the spotlight, not yet. Maybe not ever again.

“So, Charley, tell us about your plans,” Suzanne prompts, her eyes gleaming with genuine interest.

Right. Of course. I guess on the bright side of this they’re not asking me what I do for a living, the answer of course would be, I’m between jobs. Not a lie at all.

I launch in full throttle, weaving an elaborate story about Italy and a castle—described in lavish detail, though I have no clue if it even exists. Then I gush about colors, cake, flowers, like a pro bride-to-be on a sugar rush.

When I finally stop talking, four pairs of eyes are locked on me, wide and starry.

Oh no. Did I go too far? Did any of that sound believable?

“That is absolutely magical,” Suzanne breathes, sighing with the kind of wistfulness that makes my heart ache. “I’ve worked with so many brides over the years, and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone sound this excited.”

I want to laugh. Did I really sound that enthusiastic?

Is this even mydream wedding? I don’t know.

Honestly, everything I just told them is a little fib.

But the camaraderie feels real. I miss this — female friendship that’s not a competition or a backstab waiting to happen.

The kind I never got on The Spotlight .

“It sounds like a real fairy tale,” Jocelyn chimes in, leaning back with a warm smile.

Yeah. Fairy tales. The kind Rip and I don’t believe in. But sometimes, just sometimes, pretending feels a little like normalcy, in a world where I have none.

I scan the crowd and find Rip watching me. His eyes are searching for mine and my heart does a weird little tumble in my chest. He raises his brow, and when he gestures toward my guitar I shake my head and give him a smile. He nods and goes back to chatting with his new friends.

“Dinner is ready,” a man named Jack, I believe announces from the grill.

We all stand and make our way to the table.

I fill a plate with salad, and Rip moves in beside me.

I don’t need to turn to know it’s him. His scent alone is warm and familiar and fills me with a need I didn’t know I had… until him.

Oh boy.

I turn to him and glance up. The second my eyes meet his, and his body brushes mine, a burst of warmth goes through me.

I can’t believe he offered to let me stay longer.

While I appreciate the offer, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.

More time with this man, might not be good for me… for so many reasons.

I scan the crowd and catch Rip’s gaze locked on me.

His eyes are hunting for mine, and suddenly my heart flips like it just did a tiny, unexpected somersault.

He raises one brow — that subtle, teasing question, then gestures toward my guitar.

I shake my head, flash him a quick, knowing smile.

He nods, then melts back into conversation with his new friends like it’s no big deal.

“Dinner’s ready!” calls a guy named Jack—or something like that—from the grill. The signal for all of us to move toward the table. I pile my plate with salad while Rip sidles up beside me.

I don’t even need to turn to know it’s him. His scent — warm, familiar — drifts to me like a magnet, stirring up a need I never knew was there…until him.

Oh boy.

I finally look up, and the second our eyes meet, and his body brushes mine, a flash of heat explodes through me.

I can’t believe he offered to let me stay longer.

And while part of me wants to jump at the chance, I’m not sure it’s the smartest move.

More time with him might just be trouble.

Trouble I’m not sure I’m ready for, for so many complicated reasons.

But dammit, I’m going to enjoy this while it lasts.