Page 5 of Stick Fight

He gives a quick nod, his tone soft but resolute. “I’m on it, buddy. And if you need anything else…”

“I appreciate it.” I ask him to leave her stuff at the front desk, and once he’s gone, I turn to Gabby, handing her the dress. Her expression is a mix of relief and fear.

“Do you think he saw me?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I gently touch her arm, my gaze steady. “No. But even if he did, you can trust him.”

She laughs softly, but there’s a bitter edge to it. “Trust Ripley? Do you remember his nickname in high school, Romeo?”

I can’t help the grin that tugs at my lips. “Stripley.”

She chuckles, the sound easing the tension in the air. “No one ever needed to be thatnaked… all the time.”

“You’re probably right.” I gesture toward the changing room. “But Rip’s got it covered. Why don’t you get out of that dress so we can get out of here?”

“Okay.”

I’m about to ask if she needs help with the zipper, but I freeze when I see that it’s already undone halfway. As she hurries off, I pull out my phone, scanning for anything about the Hart Hotel—any kind of scandal or gossip—but I don’t find a thing.

When she comes back, the wedding dress in hand and looking far more at ease, I can’t help but smile. “Ready?”

She nods, and I take the dress from her, holding it with care. But then she hesitates, her eyes flicking up to meet mine.

“Do you think… I could wear your ball cap?” she asks, almost shy about it.

Without thinking, I take it off and slip it onto her head. As soon as I do, a strange feeling tugs in my chest. Seeing her in my hat does something to me, something I can’t quite explain. It’s a stupid thing, but damn, it feels... personal.

I open the door, glancing around. “All clear.”

She moves closer to me, tucking in against my side. I pull her to me instinctively, feeling the weight of her presence next to me. I always protected my younger brother growing up, and now for some reason, it feels right protecting her too.

Head low, I hurry her through the throngs of people bustling about, shielding her as we step onto the elevator. Once inside, I turn toward her, my back to the other guests. The last thing I want is to be recognized, and for it to draw unwanted attention to Gabby.

Gabby.

Suddenly, her nickname rings through my head, like a ghost of someone she once was. She’s lost weight, sure, but does she no longer go by that name because she’s changed so much since high school? Perhaps she doesn’t want to be known as the sweet, artsy girl who always cheered on our team.

I can’t ask. I promised—no questions.

The elevator dings and we step onto my floor. I don’t slow my pace, hurrying her to my room, where I quickly swipe the keycard and push open my door. The moment we’re inside, she lets loose a long and shaky breath.

“You’ve been holding it long?” I tease, trying to lighten the tension weighing down her shoulders. I know people think I’m a clown, a joker, but I’ve never wanted to make anyone smile more than I do now.

“The whole way here,” she admits, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

I toss her dress onto the chair, pretending not to notice the way her arms fold around her body, like it’s the only way she can hold herself together. Crossing the room, I open the small mini fridge and scan the tiny bottles. “Here’s what we have,” I tell her as I line them up on the counter. “I could order something else if you prefer.”

Her lips curve again, and again the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I guess I look like I need a drink, huh?”

I want to tell her she looks like she needs a lot of things—sleep, a friend, someone to remind her she’s not alone—but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I know I could.”

“I’ll have what you’re having.” She smooths her hand over her long, dark curls as she moves slowly through the suite. Her gaze takes in everything, from the oversized bed in the adjoining room, to the plush sofa in the living space. I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s already making peace with crashing on the sofa. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting that happen.

I pour us each a drink and add a splash of soda. “Cheers.” I hold my glass up as I hold hers out.

She turns to me, taking her glass, her fingers brushing mine, and lingering for a second—like she needs the contact.

“What are we drinking to?” she asks, tilting her head.

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