Page 7 of The Overtime Kiss

She raises her glass, clinks it against mine, then knocks some of the tequila back as I do the same. A moment later, her face scrunches. “Oh my god, who let me order a double? This tastes like gasoline and regret.” She coughs, fanning her mouth dramatically as she sets the mostly full glass down.

“Have you ever had a tequila shot before?”

“No! I’m a bubbly kind of girl. A white wine fanatic. Why the hell did I order tequila?”

“Probably because of the mismatched slides?”

“They were the only thing Rhonda had—she was my Lyft driver—and they seemed a fair trade for my white satin pumps. Don’t ask why her slides don’t match.”

Ah hell. I can’t resist. “Why don’t they match?”

“I don’t know.” She’s laughing now, soft and genuine. It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to think about. “I told you not to ask.”

“For the record, I tried to save you from the double shot,” I remind her.

She narrows her crystal blue eyes. “No. You said,are you sure?”

Damn. Good memory. Still. “I feel like that falls under the tried-to-stop-you umbrella.”

Those eyes turn to slits. “This is not a good moment to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“You started the I-told-you-so-ing.”

“Don’t cross me today, buddy.” But she’s smiling, and so am I.

“Fine.” I drop the teasing, even though she’s so damn cute when she’s smiling. “Let’s get you something else. But whether you’re a bubbly aficionado or not, no champagne, all right?”

“Fair enough,” she says, still hoarse from the scorched earth the tequila left behind. “Let’s go with something that won’t leave me gasping for air or weighed down with even more regret.”

I give her a sympathetic smile. I understand regret—and that the best move is to get the fuck past it. “What’s the least wedding-appropriate drink you can think of?” I ask, eyeing her dress and tiara. “I’m guessing keg beer or a Jell-O shot. Want one of those?”

She wrinkles what is probably the cutest nose I’ve ever seen and shakes her head. “You’re really leaning into the trashy theme here.”

“Just trying to cause some good trouble,” I say innocently.

That seems to spark her interest, and she raises a curious eyebrow. “Are you a troublemaker, Tyler?”

“Maybe I was. Back in the day,” I say.

Her lips shift in amusement. “Think you’ve still got it in you?”

“Those are fighting words.” I drum my fingers on the counter. “How about trouble in the form of a spicy margarita? Can you handle the heat?”

Her smile falters for just a second, as if I’d asked about more than a drink. “I don’t even know.”

Her blue eyes flicker with something deeper—with uncertainty, maybe, or a vulnerability she’s trying to hide. Or possibly…interest. Since for a moment her gaze lingers on me, roams over me, like she’s trying to figure something out.

Like what she wants me to do to her tonight?

What the fuck?

That is not a thought I should be entertaining. Too bad my lust-struck mind is already running away with the image, imagining what could have been if she wasn’t wearing that damn ring.Not today, brain. Stand down.

“Let’s find out,” I say, as I resume the role of runaway-bride wingman. I change her order, and when the bartender returns with the margarita, we toast again, her with her cocktail, me with my lager, which—as Ike promised—is incredibly good.

“To the opposite of today.”

“The opposite,” she echoes, her gaze…curious. But I don’t want to read into it even though I want to read everything into it. I have ever since I first laid eyes on her last fall when she stepped onto the ice at the Sea Dogs arena during intermission in one of our games. She performed a routine that captivated the crowd and, well, me. I watched it from the tunnel, even though I was supposed to be in the locker room. But Sabrina was impossible to look away from. She’s impossible to look away from, too, when she coaches my kid.

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