Page 5

Freaking Wilder men. If there’s one thing they’re consistent at, it’s blindsiding me. Match point, Greyson, because there’s nothing on God’s green earth that would have gotten me to this “meeting” knowing Tatum would be here. A little heads-up would have been nice, though.

The door to my apartment slams shut so hard it shakes the walls. Greyson stumbles in, bending over at the waist, with one hand on his knee, the other above his head holding a piece of paper like it’s a winning lottery ticket. For a professional hockey player, his cardio needs some work.

I fold my arms over my chest, leaning against the island. “Did you forget how to work an elevator?”

He ignores my jab. Instead, he grins triumphantly as he holds the paper out for me. “Got you something,” he sings.

Letting out a long sigh, I snatch the paper from his hand, my agitation slightly overshadowed by my curiosity. Only slightly, though, and only until I start to read.

“Cowboy-themed party in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Spring break. Surprise. Monroe is booking the cabin. The Best Man and Maid of Honor are in charge of decorations, schedules, and games. Just kidding, Monroe wants to schedule everything. BM and MOH need to decorate and plan games.” I stop reading and raise my eyebrows at him before waving the flimsy piece of paper through the air.

“This is the most awful list I’ve ever seen. ”

The man in question is still trying to catch his breath. How does he play hockey? “It gets the point across. ”

“You had to go to your car to get this? You couldn’t have just told us?” I point to the paper as I wonder if the dramatics are part of his personality.

“I wanted it to feel official.” He shrugs.

“Look, I think it would be amazing if we could pull this off. She thinks you guys are going to Miami. Keep her thinking that. I’ll whisk her off for a ‘romantic’ spring break, you two will go up early to decorate and get everything ready, and then we’ll surprise her with a cowboy-themed bachelorette week. ”

My stomach free-falls like I just went over the edge of a rollercoaster at Six Flags.

“Hold your horses there, little buddy.” Everything in me is praying I heard that last part of his statement wrong.

“Do I have to do this with him? ” My thumb jerks in Tatum’s direction.

Without looking at him, I already know his reaction, arms crossed with that stupid look on his face that makes you feel like the world's biggest idiot. “Can’t I do it alone? I work better by myself.” I whine as my shoulders drop away from my ears.

Greyson’s eyebrows raise slightly as he sighs. “Abs, it’s a lot to pull off alone. Plus, it’s an eight-hour drive. Hannah would kill me if I let you make that alone.”

Hold the phone.

“I never agreed to driving with him...” I haven’t agreed to anything, but eight hours in the car with Tatum sounds like my own personal brand of Hell.

I mean, I can barely stand to be in the same room with him, and now, Greyson wants to lock me in a confined space with him for eight freaking hours? Hard pass.

“Abby, please? Can the two of you get along for like a month? Then you can go back to hating each other.” He sticks out his bottom lip as he delivers the sucker punch.

“Please? For Han? ” His puppy dog eyes join the party, and I freaking hate it.

Mainly because just like I know Tatum won’t say no to his brother, I won’t say no to doing something for Hannah.

Frikety Frick. It’d be more enjoyable to sign my own death certificate.

Tatum finally finds his voice and graces the room with his infuriating dialogue. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to ruin your meticulously planned life.”

I spin on my heels toward him, my arms flying out to the side. “You don’t have to try to ruin anything, Baby Wilder. You just do.”

He simply stares at me. If my little temper tantrum affected him, he doesn’t show it. Not that he ever does. I’m starting to think he’s actually a robot. Hmm, maybe I should see if I can find the power button. Then, I could shove him in the back of a closet and forget he exists.

Sighing, I drop onto the bar stool at the end of the kitchen island.

My hands come up to slowly rub my temples—the things I do for Hannah.

“Once every other week, Wilder, I’ll agree to that,” even though that’s too much time for my liking.

“I can’t promise I won’t strangle your brother if it’s more than that.

I already have to see him every Wednesday. ”

Tatum’s face remains blank as he looks down at his legs, flicking an imaginary piece of lint off his black jeans like I’m not even here. Greyson, on the other hand, is smiling like the freaking Cheshire Cat. How are these two related?

This is going to be a disaster, a long, infuriating disaster.

There's not much that settles the chaos inside me like the steady percussive beat of my boxing gloves as they meet Nelson’s mitts.

The rhythm flows, fast and purposeful, until the last punch is thrown and the finality of that heavy thud signals the end of the round.

“What’s gotten into you today?” Nelson asks as I let my arms fall to my sides.

I can’t tell him the truth, that a certain Wilder brother has gotten so far under my skin I can’t think straight right now. He didn’t show up for our planning session this morning, leaving me sitting in the back of Beautiful Pour for an hour before I finally gave up.

Rolling out my neck, I raise my hands back to my face and recenter my fighting stance. “Nothing, just working out some frustration.”

“Does this frustration have a name?” Of course. He and his wife both read me like a book. I’m equal parts grateful and annoyed at that fact. At the moment, though, I don’t want to talk; I just want to hit something. Namely, the mitts that I’m pretending are Tatum’s obnoxiously handsome face.

My head drops back behind me as I let out a groan. Much to my dismay, I know this isn’t a conversation I’m going to get out of. “I’m planning Hannah’s bachelorette party. I’m supposed to have a little helper, but he didn’t show up to our meeting this morning. ”

I throw a punch with my right hand, and he barely gets the mitt up in time before I hit him in the shoulder.

“It’s frustrating because I asked if I could do it myself, but then Greyson asked, ever so nicely, if I could work with his brother on it.

I could have a good chunk of it done by now if I weren’t relying on someone else.

” His responding chuckle makes me that much more irritated.

I strike out a body shot with my left hand, and he catches it.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, gloved hands framing my face, letting him know I’m done messing around.

I need to hit. I need to move. I need to not be able to think about anything other than the moves he’s working us through.

He calls out combo after combo as we move around the all-black boxing ring.

By the time we’re done, there’s not an inch of me that isn’t covered in sweat.

My eyes are burning from the saltiness. I grab the velcro of one glove with my teeth and rip it off, freeing a hand to undo the other one.

“Hit the bike, Butterfly. The last thing you need is to cramp up. You did a lot of calf work today.” I nod before bending down to pick up the glove I slung to the floor.

He’s got a concerned look on his face, and I know it’s because it’s been a long time since I’ve pushed myself this hard.

He saw me at my lowest. He’s the only one who knows why I’m actually here.

And it’s not for the stress relief that most believe it to be.

I start to tell him I’m okay, just needed a little extra push today, but I’m interrupted by the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. “Butterfly?” Tate’s deep rumble of a voice pumps an unhealthy dose of anger through my veins.

You have GOT to be kidding me. He’s like a gnat on a hot summer day that just won’t leave you alone.

One you just want to squ ish between your fingers, then flick off to the side and never deal with again.

The slight edge of annoyance in his tone is enough to set me off like an atomic bomb.

I spin around to find him and Zeke leaning against the ropes on the other side of the ring.

“Heavens to freaking Betsy!” I say as I slap a hand over my heart, feigning relief that I don’t feel.

“Praise the Lord. I can call off the search party!” Both of their eyebrows pull together as I continue.

“Turns out you're not dead, just an asshole.” I focus on taking off my hand wraps, completely ignoring them.

Nelson picks up on it and starts laughing uncontrollably.

“This is the guy that stood you up?” He shakes his head as he looks back and forth between Tatum and I.

“What is he talking about?” Tate asks as his brows pull low over his eyes.

I don’t bother answering or even glancing at him as I walk off the mat toward the locker room.

The silent treatment is an art form I’ve mastered over the years.

Mama always told me, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, Abby Camille, you best not open your mouth at all. ” I guess I’m mute now.

Hannah and Greyson deserve a party planned with care and precision, not one thrown together last minute because someone can't do what they said they’d do.

My frustration simmers as I shower and change, each thought of Tatum turns the heat up, causing my blood to reach a low boil.

What kind of person does he take me for?

The kind that rolls over and plays dead? HA!

I gather my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.

Aggressively stretching the hair tie with more force than necessary, I scowl at my reflection as I undo it and try again.

The man lives in a fantasy world, one where only he matters.

It makes him ea sy to hate—unreliable and only cares about things that benefit him.

If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

I’m still fuming as I step out of the locker room, eyes glued to my phone as I try to piece together what Monroe is attempting to explain over texts.

Something involving hats. I don’t know, honestly.

In typical Lucas Monroe fashion, it's probably something ridiculous that sounds fun in theory but will, in all actuality, be a logistical nightmare.

I make it two steps before I run into a solid wall of muscle. “What was that? And why the hell does he call you Butterfly?” His hands circle my biceps, steadying me as I take two deep breaths to try and keep from blowing my freaking lid in the middle of the gym.

“Good afternoon, Tatum.” My voice comes out as frosty as the snowman.

“My nickname has nothing to do with you, therefore, you don’t need to know the story behind it.

” I try to move around him, but he mirrors the movement, blocking me like the human shield he is.

Before I can protest any further, he snatches my phone from me.

“Give it back,” I snap, holding out my hand. “I’m not in the mood for your childish games, Tatum.”

Of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he slips it into his back pocket and crosses his arms over his chest as he stares down at me.

Damn him for looking so good while being so infuriating .

He’s wearing black joggers that hug his thighs perfectly, his black muscle tee cutting in at the shoulders, leaving his deliciously veiny arms on display.

I want to pull a sweatshirt over his head so no one else can admire him, while simultaneously punching him in the throat for being such a giant wanker .

“What. Was. That?” he grits out, enunciating every word with a little extra force than necessary. Oh, nope, not today, sir.

“Excuse me?” I step in closer, jabbing my finger into his chest hard enough to get him to stumble back into the wall.

Good. “I could ask you the same thing, considering you left me sitting at Beautiful Pour for an hour before I gave up on you being a decent human.” I let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

His eyebrows lift in surprise like he’s just now putting the pieces together. I don’t give a damn though. He’s sadly mistaken if he thinks that’s all I have in store for him.

“You wanted to be a part of this. You insisted, actually.” I step further into his space, angling my head up so I can meet his gaze.

“Yet, when it comes time to actually, you know, do something, you simply what? Forget?” My arms cross over my chest. The anger running through my veins makes my fingers twitch against my arms. His face, like always, gives nothing away.

That blank stare grinds every gear in my body.

“But surrrreeeee.” I drag it out with an overly exaggerated eye roll.

“You have time to show up at the gym, no big deal, right?” I scoff as his face pulls tight.

“Must be nice not to have a care in the world and no consideration for someone else’s time.

” His expression shifts, softens even. Still, I don’t care.

He doesn’t get to weasel his way out of this one.

“But don’t worry about it,” I say calmly, waving a dismissive hand between us. “Like I said before, I’d rather do this by myself.” I arch one eyebrow and raise my hand in line with his chest, “Now give me my phone and get out of my way.”

His jaw relaxes to the point that his lips part, and for a fleeting moment, I feel a pang of guilt. But then I remember who I’m dealing with and tada, the feeling vanishes .

“Abby, I’m so—” I cut him off, raising my hand higher, silently asking for my phone again.

“I don’t want an apology, Tatum.” His silence only fuels my rage. My teeth grind together with such force that I half expect them to crack. “Give me my phone. I have places to be.”

To my surprise, he pulls it from his pocket, his challenging gaze locked onto mine as he drops it into my open palm.

I pocket it as the fingers on my other hand brush across his cheek, my touch deceptively soft.

His eyes widen slightly as they flicker with something I don’t care enough to name.

I pat his cheek twice, firm, slow, letting my fingers linger just a second longer than appropriate for our acquaintanceship.

“Stay out of my way.” My voice is a razor-sharp whisper, a threat wrapped in the finest silk. That man is going to learn today. Stepping to the side, I brush past him. With every step toward the door, I feel his gaze trailing after me, heavy, steady, like a spotlight following my every move.