Page 15 of Stick Fight

“Right, he tried to break the fight and one of them punched him right in the family jewels. He hit the ground fast, and the other girl jumped onto a chair and elbow-dropped him. He mimics the move and then coups his crotch in mock agony. “Dude was finished.”

“That’s so not funny.” I wheeze with laughter, completely contradicting myself. “But yeah, finished having kids, I think. Good thing he had three already.” That’s when karma strikes. I get the hiccups too.

Roman freezes for a split second, the ungodly sound stunning him and then starts laughing all over again.

He wipes his tear-streaked face, his hiccups now dueling mine. “God, I miss those days.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice laced with a nostalgic sigh. A lot has changed since those days. Honestly, a lot has changed tonight. After what I witnessed, I never thought I’d be sitting here drinking wine and laughing so hard my stomach is staging a full-scale revolt—with Roman Marinelli of all people. Who knew a posh Vegas wedding would turn my life into a circus?

“You know, those girls were fighting over you.”

He blinks. “What? No they weren’t.”

I take a drink from the bottle and hand it over. For some reason, the way he drinks right after me feels weirdly intimate. And distracting.

“Yeah, they were. All the girls wanted to be with you.”

“Did you?” he fires back smoothly, and my brain promptly short-circuits.

I stall for a second. “No,” I finally respond, even though my teenage self would beg to differ. “You weren’t my type.” Right! He was every woman’s type and I wasn’t above wondering what it would have been like to kiss Roman Marinelli under the bleachers.

He tilts his head. “What was your type, Gabs? Actually, I don’t remember you dating in high school.” He holds up a finger. “Wait. Never mind. I do know your type. You liked pretty boys. Not guys with missing teeth and battle scars.”

He grins and points to the tiny scar near his ear. One, that frankly, only adds to his whole ruggedly handsome charm. Then as if realizing what he just said, and how it might remind me of my too-pretty-for-his-own-good ex-fiancé, Roman smoothly changes course. “You spent most of your time in the studio, hanging out with mannequins.” His lips twitch as he leans toward me. “I always wondered if they were anatomically correct.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No, they’re not. I believe you might be confusing mannequins with your blow-up dolls.”

He dramatically clutches his chest. “Ooh, someone call the burn unit.” We both dissolve into laughter again. Then suddenly, he quiets. His expression shifts, softens. Under his breath, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it, he murmurs, “I remember that pink dress you made and wore to prom.”

I freeze.

He remembers my dress?

I glance at the empty glass on the table. Okay. Either I’ve stumbled into an alternate universe, or I’ve had way too much wine, because now I’m hearing things.

“Speaking of pink,” Roman begins, apparently unfazed, as he hands the bottle back to me. Just as I take a big mouthful, completely deadpan he continues, “Remember how Mr. Pink, our old social studies teacher used to lift his junk and rest it on the corners of our desks.”

I go still for a split second, my eyes burning as my cheeks puff out, desperate to fight the urge to laugh, but it’s too late. My body betrays me and with the force of a garden hose on full blast water bursts from my mouth, straight into Roman’s face. He stares for a beat and then we both start laughing.

When we stop, he wipes his face with his hand. “That was refreshing.”

“You did say you wanted a cold shower,” I remind him, tilting my chin up smugly. I glance around, and search for a napkin or something.

His grin is downright adorable as he shakes his head. “I did say that, didn’t I?” He sputters a bit. Oh God, I got it in his mouth. “But I’m not sure this is what I meant.”

He’s not angry, in fact there’s a playfulness about him when I bite my lip, pouting in mock guilt. “I’m sorry. I’ll grab you a towel.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Before I can move, he reaches out, and with the lightest, ever so soft touch, his thumb brushes a stray droplet off my cheek.

Our eyes meet.

Lock.

And then…then…

Hiccups.

He grimaces and puts his fist to the center of his chest. “Shit, that one hurt, and don’t be sorry.” I hand him the water bottle, and just like that, the thick charged air between us dissipated. Thank God. I think. Probably. Maybe.

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