Chapter Four
Teague
“I want to lick his accent right off his mouth,” Harper says.
By the group sigh in the coffee shop, so does everyone else. Bennett has some serious potency. So much so, we’re hypnotized by everything he says.
“I mean, seriously,” she continues as she gets back to whisking a latte. “When God gave him that voice, he fucking broke the voice box.”
“Agreed,” I say before my mind wanders to another voice I’ve thought about a time or two over the past couple of days. Mateo’s. If a voice could be a superpower, his would be it. I’m pretty sure he can command a girl to do anything he wants with the sound that comes out of his mouth. My ears tingle every time I remember our conversation. But the tingles don’t stop there. They slip inside my head, reach down to the pit of my stomach.
“I wonder what he sounds like when he comes.”
“Harper,” I warn, my hand slipping off the lid I’m securing to a cappuccino. Not that anyone can hear us over the gabfest in the room. It’s more for my own comfort level. The two of us are behind on orders, and I need to focus on drink making, not sex.
“Do you think he likes to be on top or dig his fingers into a girl’s hips while she rides him?”
“Harper.”
“Or maybe he likes it best when she’s on her knees, bent over in front of him.”
“Would you quit it?”
“No,” she says unapologetically before kissing my cheek and stepping away to deliver the drink.
I work as fast as I can for the next half hour. Ten minutes before I need to leave, I make the office drinks, then hurry to the employee bathroom to change clothes. After a week of looking down her nose at me, if Gabrielle doesn’t like my new white metallic shift dress and open-toe pumps, she can suck it. Not that I care what she thinks of my clothes, but as she’s reminded me on more than one occasion, I’m now a reflection on her and need to dress to impress.
“Hi, Briggs,” I say, stopping in the building’s lobby with the coffee drinks in one hand and a brown bag with Briggs’s favorite muffin in the other. “I brought you something.”
“Again? You’re spoiling me, TW.” He peeks inside the bag with a smile on his face. Last week I brought him a lemon-blueberry muffin that Harper had bagged for me. She wrote “TW” on the outside of the white paper and ever since, Briggs has called me by my initials.
“Happy to. How was your weekend?”
Briggs smiles even bigger. “Filled with grandchildren. Yours?”
“Filled with sleep, a little shopping, and some homework.”
“You’re in school, too?” he asks in a concerned, fatherly voice.
“An online class. Nothing I can’t handle.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the elevator door opening and hurry toward it. “Have a good day!”
“You do the same,” Briggs calls out.
On the ride to the third floor, I give myself a mental pep talk that sounds a lot like Miranda rights. You have what it takes to do this. Anything you say does have value. You have the right to quit. If you cannot take her crap, walk out the door.
The surprising thing is I like the job. Like being around wedding planning. Like my weekly paycheck, and will totally take her crap to keep it.
“You’re late,” Gabrielle says loud enough for me to hear as I step into the office.
Like by one second.
I rush to put my purse down, speed walk down the hallway to give Mindy and Leah their drinks—because what’s thirty more seconds when I’m already late—and then with my shoulders pressed back and my head held high, walk into Gabrielle’s office like I own it. Fake it till you make it and all that.
“Good morning,” I say, placing her macchiato on her desk before taking the seat across from her. “Did you have a nice weekend?” Also, kill them with kindness.
“We have a situation,” she says, picking up the coffee cup. She looks at me over the lid as she takes a sip. She wants to tell me it tastes terrible or it’s cold because I was a second late, but she can’t. I make a mean macchiato and know it’s still warm.
“Okay,” I say.
She puts the cup down and gives me a piece of paper. “My bride needs hand-holding this morning. You’ve got an hour to get to the Arboretum and Botanic Garden and make sure her engagement photos go off without incident.”
I read the names and address on the slip of paper.
“Time’s ticking,” she reprimands.
“Right.” I stand to leave. I have no idea where I’m going and hope it’s not so far that I need to stop for gas. “Will they be at a certain spot?”
“The Aquatic Gardens,” she says, her focus on an incoming text on her phone. This is her usual form of dismissal: eyes anywhere but on me.
I like field trips, so there’s a spring in my step as I leave. Homework over the weekend included starting my own blog where I can share travel posts. This morning’s excursion is an opportunity to write about the gardens and take a few pictures of my own. My online instructor said the best way to launch a career in travel writing is to start with local destinations, places I know. This is my hometown now, and while I’m new to the area, no one has to know that. They won’t know that, if I can bring Los Angeles to life for readers who don’t live here.
With L.A. traffic—oh my gosh, how is it possible that so many cars are all going to the same place at the same time?—I get to the arboretum fifteen minutes late. Luckily, the bride and groom are late, too, and we actually meet in the parking lot. It’s hard to miss the beautiful and expensively dressed couple.
“Leanne?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“I’m Teague, Gabrielle Gallagher’s—”
“Oh! Thank you so much for coming!” She squeezes me in a hug usually reserved for lifelong friends. “I’m so grateful to have you here. When I woke up this morning and my horoscope said I might feel pressured to do something I don’t want to and should reschedule, I panicked. I couldn’t do that. This is important to Grant, and since he’s letting me make all the wedding decisions, the least I could do was let him pick our location for today.” She looks over at her fiancé with love, but also some trepidation.
“Our permit is for one day, and I’m leaving tomorrow for a month-long business trip,” Grant says, like that should make everything crystal clear.
“But that’s not what has me freaking out. We’re talking about my horoscope, and I take warnings seriously,” Leanne says, pulling something out of her designer handbag.
I’m cognizant of the time and the photographer, who is probably wondering where his engaged couple is, so I start to walk toward the entrance. Leanne and Grant follow my lead.
“Here,” Leanne says, thrusting something at me.
I look down at the item in my hands—it’s an EpiPen. “Are you allergic to something in the garden?”
“I’m allergic to bees. I blow up like a balloon, my tongue swells, my throat closes, and I could die if I’m stung and it goes untreated.”
And they’ve chosen a botanical garden for their engagement photos? Are they nuts? I can think of lots of other bee-free zones to do this.
“With you here ready to come to my aid if I need you, I feel a little better.”
I don’t.
I have no idea how to even use an EpiPen. This is insane. Call me crazy, but I think I should, I don’t know, at least have coffee with a person before I agree to stab her. My hands are suddenly sweating. What if she gets stung and the pen slips through my fingers and valuable seconds are lost, or worse, the epinephrine injection goes into the ground. Does she have a backup pen? And where do I shoot her up? The arm? Leg? Stomach?
“Don’t worry,” she says, obviously noting the distress on my face. “I’m wearing bug repellent, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
If that were true, we wouldn’t be here.
Leanne links her arm with Grant’s. “Grant is a landscape architect and this is his favorite place,” she explains. “He grew up close by, and the gardens inspire a lot of his designs. He travels all over the world designing for museums, corporate headquarters, and government agencies, and is in huge demand,” she adds proudly.
“I can see why you’d want to take pictures here, then,” I say. I get it. Love makes you do anything for the other person. Grant kisses Leanne’s temple. It’s easy to see the affection between them, and I’m super determined to makes sure any bees keep their distance. I’ve actually never been stung before, but if I have to, will take one for the team.
Watching them reinforces my faith in monogamy. I want that forever kind of love, too. My parents have it. My siblings have all found it. Not for the first time, I feel a hint of loneliness. I’ve shied away from guys the past six months, but the truth is I want to be in a relationship again. My ex hurt me, but he didn’t ruin me.
We get to the Aquatic Gardens, and Leanne introduces me to their photographer, Vance. “Welcome to the wedding world,” he says to me. “Gabby and I go way back.”
Gabby, huh?
I explain the bee situation to him so he quickly gets down to business, wiping with a towel the shaded bench next to a serene pond. Yesterday’s spring shower has left droplets on all the green leaves and the ground beneath our feet damp and spongy. As Vance poses Leanne and Grant, I step back. Lush foliage and tropical plants surround the area. Water lilies float in the deep blue pond water. In the distance I hear a waterfall.
It’s really beautiful with sunlight glinting off the nearby tree trunks and making circles of light in the background. My brother, Luke, is a professional photographer. He devotes half his time to photographing extreme sports and the other half to special occasions like this one. Growing up, he showed me how to use his camera. He taught me to skateboard, surf, throw a football, and play Ping-Pong. He gave me a love of sports, and I’m hit with a sudden longing for home as I watch Vance work. I miss my family.
I miss watching reality TV with Erin, and going into town to eat cupcakes from Crem’s Bakery with Vanessa. I miss my mom’s cooking and Sunday night family dinners. I miss sitting in the stands of minor league baseball games and sitting on the couch and rooting for the Trail Blazers beside my dad. Most of all, I miss my dad’s hugs.
Not that I want to return home. I left my small town to find my own way without being under the watchful eyes of a community that, with good intentions, likes to be in everyone’s business. It’s really nice to fly under the radar here.
Leanne waves her arm in front of her face as she and Grant walk down to the edge of the water. I immediately hurry over to be closer. She’s got a slightly panicked look on her face that tells me it’s not a fly she’s shooing away. Grant also sweeps his arm around her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She’s not. I can tell she’s not, but she’s going to suck it up for her fiancé.
“I’m good.”
“A few shots here and then we’ll move to the barn. Sound good?” Vance asks. His voice is calm, reassuring. I shoot him a grateful smile.
“The pictures are going to be amazing,” I tell Leanne. The landscape is truly exquisite. The way Vance poses her and Grant is really sweet. They’re facing each other with their hands entwined, and she’s looking up at him.
After a couple more positions and reassuring words to get Leanne to relax, Vance says they’re done. We start to head up the grassy incline, but Leanne shrieks and barrels toward me.
“Annie!” Grant shouts.
The next thirty seconds are like a late-night Comedy Central show. Leanne grabs my shoulders and thrusts me in front of her like I’m a shield. I half expect a swarm of bees to fly into my face, but there’s nothing. I’m about to ask if she’s been stung when between her high heels, my pumps, and her nerves, we lose our balance. My purse slips off my shoulder. I drop the EpiPen. Leanne teeters toward the pond, almost in slow motion, giving me time to spin around so I can try to keep hold of her. She starts to fall backward, reaches out to grab purchase on my arms, but she’s taller than I am and several pounds heavier, so instead of me pulling her to safety, she pulls me down with her.
Into the pond.
We land awkwardly on a soft, slippery embankment, up to our waists in water. Leanne immediately starts flailing. “Help!” she cries, making things worse by splashing water everywhere.
Help? No, no, no. Please don’t tell me she can’t swim. Not that she’s at any great risk. She just needs to stand up.
“It’s okay!” I reach out to grab her elbow and help her up and out, but she’s in major panic mode and bats my hand away as she flounders like she’s about to go under.
“It’s okay,” I repeat. “Stand up and you’ll be okay.”
“I…I can’t”—splash—“stand”—splash—“my heel is”—splash—“stuck in mud or something.”
I try again to steady her, and again she scissors the air and water with enough hysteria to make that impossible.
“Annie! Give me your hand,” Grant firmly commands from over my shoulder.
Leanne stops flailing long enough for Grant to grasp her wrist. “I’ve got you,” he says, right before he doesn’t. He loses his footing on the rain-saturated slope and stumbles forward.
I spin around in an attempt to push him back onto firm ground, but it’s no use. He’s too big. He falls on top of both of us in a muddy, slightly painful, splash. He recovers quickly, helps me out of the way, and lifts Leanne close to his chest. She wraps her arms around his neck and starts to cry.
My heart hurts looking at them.
“Teague,” Vance says. I glance up into the sun, blink a few times, and then take his outstretched hand.
“Thank you.” Back on dry land, I wipe at my soiled wet dress, brushing my hair away from my face.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I lie. I’m sad. Sad this happened to my people.
Grant and Leanne climb out of the water. He strokes her back and whispers, “Shh.” She leans all her body weight into him, her cheek pressed against his wet shirt. Vance aims his camera at them. It’s a sweet We Survived This Misadventure shot. Leanne’s eyes find mine.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll make arrangements for another shoot and we’ll take care of dry-cleaning costs and—”
“That,” Leanne says, breaking away from Grant, “was something we’ll never forget.” She looks at Grant. He looks at her. And out of nowhere they burst out laughing. Vance shoots more pictures, capturing their smiles. Catching real, uncensored emotion between them.
Warmth fills my chest. This is love at its finest.
I’m not sure what caused Leanne’s sudden change of emotion, but I want to hug her for looking at the funny side of things now that her panic has subsided. They continue to laugh until I’m laughing, too.
“You know,” I say, “it could have been worse. You could have gotten stung by a bee, too.”
This makes them crack up even more.
“That being said, we’d better quit while we’re ahead and go. Thanks for trying to keep me from falling, Teague.”
“No problem.” The problem, I suspect—no, I know—will be when I tell Gabrielle what happened.
…
I sit at the edge of the pool in the backyard with my feet in the warm water, watching Harper give a swim lesson. She’s amazing with kids. Patient. Funny. Cool. Stern when she has to be. If she could teach every kid on the planet to swim so not one of them ever drowned again, she’d be happy to fill every single day turning into a prune.
Her small cute-as-a-button swimmer makes it across the width of the pool. She high-fives him, they get out of the water, and he’s scooped up into a towel by his mom. “That was awesome, buddy!” his mom says.
I should recommend Leanne come take lessons with Harp.
“So where were we?” my best friend asks after walking the little boy and his mom around the side of the house so they can leave through the gate. She sits beside me with a towel tied around her chest. Her lesson interrupted our conversation about my day. “You illegally swam without me, ruined your new dress, and Big-Bitch Gallagher fired you, then rehired you when the bride called to say how awesome you were for the win.”
“Pretty much.” I’m kind of mad at myself for staying. Gabrielle didn’t mince words when she made me feel like the worst employee ever, but when she handed me my paycheck just before Leanne called and I saw the amount, the number made a convincing reason to stay. For the first time since moving here, I’m not sweating my bills.
“You know what this calls for, right?”
I look up at the stars starting to visibly dot the sky. “Marshmallow Spears?” It’s our own special brand of fun, going back to the freshman dorm at UO when I put on Britney Spears, Harper cooked marshmallows with a lighter, and the combo cured the injustice of not getting into the same sorority. Since then it’s pretty much been our go-to for any bumps or blessings in our days.
“Marshmallow Spears!” Harper shouts. She jumps to her feet. I jump to mine. We meet a minute later at the fire pit between the pool and our guesthouse. “Toxic” blares through the outdoor speakers. Harp flips the switch on the fire pit, then hands me a skewered marshmallow to roast.
“What would I do without you?” I ask.
“Good thing you’ll never have to find out.”
Once our marshmallows are toasted to burned perfection, we dance around doing our best Britney moves, eat the yummy treats, slide fresh marshmallows onto the end of our sticks, repeat.
“Oh!” Harper says, turning her stick in the fire. “I almost forgot to tell you. A nanny brought one of my earlier lessons, and she and I got to talking and she’s ninety percent sure her friend went on a date with Bennett!”
“The Dating Guy with the British accent that I would so let duck me on the first date?” I deadpan.
“You have fucking got to stop saying ‘duck’ instead of ‘fuck.’ We aren’t in college anymore, TW.”
I say it just to annoy her. That and my mother raised me not to use cuss words. I’m probably the only girl in her twenties who can count on one hand the number of times the f-word has accidentally slipped out of my mouth.
“And there is no one on this planet you would let duck you on the first date,” she says lovingly. Then changes her tune and adds, “We’ll work on that.”
“Harper!” Joking aside, I wouldn’t.
“Every girl should have a one-night fuck.”
I pull my marshmallow out of the fire and blow on it. “Yes. I know. But not all of us are as capable as you,” I tease.
“Right you are.” She taps her marshmallow stick to mine. One day some guy is going to steal her undivided attention, but not for a while. She’s still working on getting over a horrible loss in her past.
“What did this girl’s friend say about Bennett? Is he to die for?”
“He’s to fuck for.”
“She did not say that with a young child present.”
“How do you know?”
“You teach kids, Harp. Not porn stars.”
She laughs as she slides the marshmallow off her stick. The gooey goodness clings to her fingers. “She said he’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And he’s supposedly as sweet as he is cocky.”
I sigh. Harp sighs. “He’s bloody perfect,” I say.
“No, he’s bloody fucking perfect,” Harper corrects.
We eat a few more marshmallows, dance to a few more songs, and when we each fall into our own beds later that night, Harp calls out, “Good night, TW. Love you.”
“Good night, Kinney. Love you back.”