Bridesmaid Undercover: An incredibly steamy, hilarious, friends to lovers, love triangle romantic comedy

EVERLY

I stare at my phone, wondering why there hasn’t been a response from Hardy. Not yesterday and not today. The party is tomorrow, and now I’m starting to worry that I truly did something wrong, something to upset him. If this is what it feels like with no contact for two days, then how am I going to deal with him being so immersed in Maple that he doesn’t speak to me again? I thought we might be able to maintain some semblance of friendship, no matter how much it hurt me. Foolish, Everly. Foolish. I don’t like these weird vibes.

Such weird vibes that I find myself standing outside Hardy’s office building, wondering if I’ve lost my mind.

And maybe I have.

But I’ve also felt sick.

So freaking sick over all of this that I need to just…as he put it, check in.

Before I can lose my nerve, I push through the front doors of the office building, only to run straight into the man I came to see.

“Everly,” he says, startled. “What are you doing here?”

It takes me a second, but when my eyes focus on him, I immediately notice his dark blue suit, which is perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and tapered waist. And despite how good he looks, I know just how uncomfortable he is.

But the suit is not what’s pulling my attention—it’s the confusion in his expression and the hard set in his shoulders. He seems angry.

Angry at me?

I have no idea. But that’s all it takes for me to lose all the confidence I gained to come here.

So, I do the only thing I know to do. I lie.

“Uh, something is wrong,” I stammer.

“What?” he asks as he pulls me to the side.

You, you’re what’s wrong.

You’re acting weird.

You’re not talking to me like you normally do.

And I don’t know how to deal with it. It’s either confront you or cry.

“Uh, the dips,” I say. “Something is wrong with the dips.”

“What do you mean?” His brows pull together.

“The, uh…the caterers can’t accommodate all of them,” I say, even though that’s not true.

“They can’t?”

“They can’t,” I say with a shake of my head. “And I thought that coming down here to tell you would be the best way to break the news that I was going to, uh…spend the evening making some dips for the party. So, have no fear,” I say with a fist pump. “Everly is here.”

Oh God, why did I say that?

That is humiliating.

But to my good fortune, a small and I mean—miniscule—smile tugs on his lips. “You came here to tell me the caterer’s not able to make all the dips and that you’re going to make them yourself?”

“Yup.” I nod. “I was, uh, I was going to email you, but you see, I didn’t get a response from my earlier emails or texts and, well, out of fear of you not receiving the information, I thought I should just tell you in person. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He studies me for a second, his gaze nearly making me melt. “Well, do you need help?”

“Help with what?” I ask.

“Making the dips.”

“Oh, the dips.” I wave him off. “No, I’m good. Was going to head off to the grocery store, buy the ingredients and start putting everything together, so no worries. Just wanted to inform you of what’s happening, so anyway, yeah, that’s what’s going on.” I smile awkwardly. “Anywho.” I thumb toward the door. “Going to hit up the grocery store now, so have a good night and see you tomorrow. Okay, see ya. Bye.”

I rush out the last few words and then turn on my heel and head for the door.

Humiliating.

This was absolutely humiliating.

What the hell was I thinking?

Coming here and trying to see if he was okay. Of course he’s okay; he’s a grown man, so if he wants to call me by my real name in an email, he has the right to do so. If he wants to ignore my emails and texts, also, he has the right to do that too.

No need to check in on him. That’s what stalkers do.

Stalkers do this.

They check on people after not hearing from them for one day.

That’s what I am, a stalker.

A stupid, freaking stalker.

God, I’m disgusted with myself.

I make it outside of the building and head toward the parking garage, where I left my car for a cool twenty bucks because I’m a frivolous stalker apparently.

Tucking my purse against me, I brave the windy day, duck my head, and continue toward the garage. Then I feel a tug on my arm.

I nearly scream bloody murder—until Hardy’s face comes into view.

“Christ,” he says as the wind whips around us. “I was calling your name.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t hear you.”

Yup, couldn’t hear you over my own self-hatred.

“I said I can help,” he replies.

I wave him off again. “Not necessary. You go home, pop open a beer, enjoy a show or a game, and then go to sleep knowing the dips are taken care of and everything is on the up and up for the party. Okay?” I pat his shoulder. “Have a good night.” I start to turn away, but he grabs my arm again, stopping me.

“Everly, I can help.”

“Yup, heard you loud and clear, and I appreciate your insistence, but as I said, totally under control, shouldn’t have even bothered you with this dip emergency. But I need you to know it’s all handled and the dips shall prevail.” I raise my fist to the sky, hating myself.

He studies me.

Truly studies me.

Those blue eyes are searching, trying to find something—I’m not sure what, possibly the lie that’s making my feet sweat—but I will go to my deathbed holding this lie close to my chest.

No set of crystal blues is going to unleash the truth from me.

“Okay,” he finally says.

“Okay?” I ask, surprised that he’s giving up.

He nods. “Yup. Okay.”

“Well, then…okay.” I smile. “So, uh, have a good night.”

“You too,” he replies, so I nervously turn away from him and head toward the parking garage again, but as I take a few steps forward, I realize I’m not alone.

I glance over my shoulder to see him following right behind me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Going to my car.”

“Oh, right, because you drive. You’re a grown-up and you drive, so why wouldn’t you go to your car? Silly me.” I bonk my forehead with my palm.

Yeah, keep it up, Everly, you’re not humiliating yourself in the slightest.

I walk into the parking garage, Hardy still following behind, and I head up to the second floor. When I hear him climb the stairs with me, I say, “Oh, second floor as well?”

“Yup,” he replies.

“Cool, yeah. This is…this is like one of those moments where you say goodbye, not realizing you’re going in the same direction, so you have to awkwardly walk next to each other.”

He doesn’t respond so I just zip my lips and move forward. When I see my car over in the distance, I point at it. “Thar she blows.” His brow raises, and I nervously laugh. “Not sure why I put it like that, in an old-timey sailor voice, maybe I have the Fog Horns on my mind. Are you a, uh, a fan of football? Do you like the old rough and tackle?”

I wince because…rough and tackle? Where the hell did that come from? Someone who should be committed, that’s where.

“I like the Fog Horns,” he says.

“Oh cool, yeah, well…Oooooooooo, uhhhhhhhhh,” I say in the classic Fog Horn chant. Of course, that makes him pause in his path to his car.

“Did you just make a foghorn noise?”

I did, and now I want to stick my head under the hood of my car and slam it down a few times.

“Yes.” I swallow. “Was that, uh, was that not the impression you were looking for?” I’m sweating. I’m actually sweating so terribly that my shoes are about to fall off. It’s like a slip and slide inside the soles. “If not, I have other impressions, uh…like a crow.” I clear my throat. “Ca-caw. Ca-caw.” What the fuck are you doing, Everly? “Real lifelike, right?”

I swear if I put a quarter between his brows right now, he’d be able to hold it there. “Yeah, really lifelike.”

“Thanks.” I curtsy because, why not? I have no control over my body anymore, might as well treat him like the goddamn King of England. “Well, I shall be on my way,” I say in a British accent. “Pip pip, cheerio, and off I go.” I salute him, duck my head, and walk straight up to my car.

I’m so humiliated. So embarrassed. So beyond infuriated with myself that I unlock the door and shuffle inside where I press my head to the steering wheel and mutter, “You are a fucking moron. Pip pip? Who the fuck says pip pip?”

“I liked it.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” I scream at the top of my lungs as I see movement in my passenger seat.

Locked into pure survival mode, I raise my hand, flatten it, and jab the invader’s throat with a quick whip to the jugular.

A gust of air flies from his mouth as a low groan fills the small space.

Got him!

Satisfied, I allow myself to confront my attacker, and that’s when I realize it’s Hardy.

“Oh my God,” I yell. “Oh God, I didn’t know. When did you…oh, God, can you breathe?”

He coughs, he sputters, and he takes a few deep breaths.

Dear God, I broke his esophagus. Karate-chopped right through his ligaments and muscles.

I rest my hand on his shoulder as he gasps for air.

Do I perform CPR?

Do I call 911?

Do I check for a dent?

After what feels like minutes, he finally turns to me, hand on this throat, and says in a very squeaky voice, “What the hell…did you…do?”

I lift up my hand and flatten it like a plate. “I, uh, I knife-handed your throat. Did you…did you not like that?”

“What the fuck do you think?”

My lip curls into my teeth out of nerves as I say, “I don’t think you liked it.”

“Correct,” he says, still gasping for air.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, but you startled me, and it was pure self-defense. I could have grabbed my stun gun. Do you want me to test that on you? See which would have been worse?”

“Does it look like I want you to do that?”

“Not so much,” I answer and then grab my water bottle from my purse. “Would you like something to drink?” Maybe we can test for holes.

He shakes his head and then leans back in his seat. He takes a few deep breaths, and when he seems collected, he says, “Just drive.”

“Drive?” I ask, very confused.

“Yes, drive.”

“Drive where?” And then it hits me. “Oh God, the hospital?”

“No,” he says before I can panic. “To the store.”

“The store? For ice? Medicine?”

He pinches his nose. “For the dip ingredients, Everly.”

“Oh, yes, for the dip—” I pause. “Hold on, are you coming with me?”

“Yes,” he says, exasperated.

“But…why?”

“Because I’m not going to make you do it alone.”

“You’re not making me do anything,” I say. “I told you I could handle it. So, no need to help. Now can I drop you off at your car? Possibly take you to Urgent Care?”

He exhales loudly and then turns as much as he can in his seat to look me in the eyes. “I’m not going to battle over this with you, Everly. I said I’m helping, so take me to the goddamn grocery store before I lose my shit.”

Yikes!

Okay.

So…clearly not in the best of moods. Not sure why. I mean, the knife-hand probably didn’t help, but he started off in a bad mood. I just pushed him deeper into the darkness. Does this mean he and Maple didn’t get together? Is he angry at me because my advice was wrong? After all, I did suggest he had the green light to go ahead with her. Shit.

He’s giving off the vibe that he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I’m not going to push. Which means…we’re going to the grocery store.

I wasn’t intending to actually make any dips tonight, so I need to come up with a plan and quick.

“Sorry about that,”I say as I walk back up to Hardy, who’s standing in the middle of the cracker aisle with our cart. He has placed come Club crackers in the cart along with some Triscuits. Not sure what he has planned for those, but we’re not going to need them. “That was the caterer,” I say.

“Oh?” he asks.

“Yup, the manager actually. He called to apologize about the miscommunication—they’re actually going to make all of the dips, so…looks like we don’t need to worry about any of that.” I slap my hands together as if dusting them off. “Easy peasy.”

Gripping the cart handle, he stares at me. “So…we don’t have to make dips?”

“Doesn’t look like it. What a relief, huh? I don’t think I even have enough room in my fridge for all those dips. I would have had to bring all the groceries to the office and make them there and, I’ll be honest, I think there might be a ghost in that building because I don’t like being there at night by myself. So, yeah, close call. No ghost encounters tonight.” I smile up at him, but he doesn’t return the gesture.

Instead, he pulls on the back of his neck and turns away.

Okay, I thought he’d be relieved, but if anything, he just looks more miffed. God, he must wish I never came to his office this afternoon. And now he’s stuck with me until I drop him back at his car.

“But, you know, if you want to make some dips, we can totally do that too. Just warning you, if things are a little off at the office, I told you about the possible ghost.”

Instead of answering, he picks up the boxes of crackers and puts them back on the shelf, then he directs the cart down the aisle and makes a left.

Uhh…

I chase after him, following him through the grocery store until we reach the frozen foods section.

He moves right in front of the pints of ice cream and opens the door.

“Oh, in the mood for some ice cream? Don’t blame you—I love a good pint for dinner every once in a while.”

He grabs a coffee-flavored ice cream and sets it in the cart. Then he gestures to me. “Pick what you want.”

“Oh, that’s okay⁠—”

“Grab a pint, Everly,” he says in a tone I really haven’t heard him use before.

What the hell has happened to the fun, easygoing Hardy?

I feel like I barely know this man.

Same body, same face, but the attitude, all grumpy and growly? Someone’s replaced him with another person, and I need to find out who did this.

Not wanting to test the waters, I reach into the freezer and grab a pint of cookies and cream, always an easy go-to flavor that satisfies any mood.

He takes the pint from me and puts it in the cart as well, then he moves down to the end of the aisle where the syrups and toppings are. He picks up a chocolate syrup, a vat of sprinkles, and some cherries. Then he walks us over to the dairy section and snags a can of whipped cream. The paper goods section is next, where he grabs a small pack of wooden spoons.

“Need anything else?” he asks, looking at me.

“Uh…a drink?” I ask, very confused as to what he’s doing.

“Right,” he says.

He moves the cart toward the front where the coolers are next to the registers. “Take your pick,” he says as he moves in to grab a Coke Zero. I lean in next to him and grab the same thing. We both place them in the cart and then he walks over to self-checkout.

Quietly, he checks us out. I don’t even bother to try paying because I know he’ll probably growl at me to put my wallet away.

Instead, I grab a paper bag and pack up our groceries while he finishes paying. Once we’re back in the car and I’m behind the wheel, I look over at him and ask, “Where to?”

“Nowhere,” he says as he opens the bag and hands me my ice cream.

“Oh, are we eating here?”

“Yup,” he says.

Then in silence, he opens everything, lays it out along the center console, and then hands me a spoon.

“Eat some ice cream. You need to make room for the toppings.”

Unsure what the hell is going on, I do as he says and take a few mouthfuls of ice cream off the top of the pint. And once there’s a big enough divot, I drizzle some chocolate into the pint, along with some sprinkles, whipped cream, and cherries.

Then in silence…we eat.

Both staring out the front window, looking out toward the nearly empty parking lot. What I wouldn’t give to understand what’s going on in his head. What his reasoning is behind the ice cream. Why he’s acting so strange.

After a few minutes of silence, I can’t take it anymore, so I ask, “How’s your throat?”

“Fine,” he answers curtly.

“The ice cream helping it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, I’m glad,” I say as I tip my head against my head rest.

That’s that. A simple yeah. Nothing more.

We continue to eat our ice cream, occasionally adding on sprinkles, cherries, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup.

It’s a comfortable silence despite the questions rolling around in my head. The largest being what happened with Maple? But I am too chicken to ask that.

After another few minutes, I realize I can go about this one of two ways: I can either ask him what’s going on and why he’s acting weird, or I can try to get him out of the apparent mood he’s in like I did when we were making pom-poms.

Knowing the latter will be better for his sanity I say, “I could eat a whole jar of maraschino cherries if no one was looking.”

He exhales. “Same.”

“I think I would be incredibly sick from all the sugary syrup goodness, but I wouldn’t regret it. I would think about doing it the next day.”

“I wouldn’t wait until the next day,” he says. “I’d just grab another one.”

“Makes sense,” I say, both of us staring out the windshield, not bothering to look at each other. “You did claim to eat two bags of candied nuts in one sitting, why not two jars of cherries?”

“You shaming me?” he asks.

“Nope. Merely impressed over here. If I had the stomach for it, I’d be doing the same thing. Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t have the stomach for it though. I would find myself in a pile of cronuts.”

He leans his head to the side to look at me. “You like cronuts?”

“Obsessed,” I say. “If you say you don’t like them, I’m going to need you to vacate my car. Thank you.”

“I love them,” he says softly.

“Are you a fan of all flavors or is there one in particular you love?” I ask as I scoop up more ice cream.

“I’m afraid to say.”

Thank God he’s talking. It might be a mundane conversation, but it’s better than him growling at me.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because what if it’s the same as you?”

“Oh, the horror,” I deadpan. “That would be the worst thing that could ever happen.”

He lightly chuckles. “We have too much in common.”

“I know, terrible thing, isn’t it?”

I feel his mood start to lighten up, his shoulders relaxing, and for the first time since I ran into him in his office building, he actually looks me in the eyes. “Would be terrible,” he says. “Means I’d have to get another matching shirt with you.”

Gah, those eyes. They slay me.

If only there was a smirk, I would melt right here in my car.

“Another matching shirt? Yuck. You’re going to make me throw up just thinking about it,” I say. “Gross. Disgusting. You know what, don’t tell me your favorite cronut flavor because if we have to get another set of matching shirts, I might just dunk my head into the bay to scream out my disgust.”

He chuckles. “Can’t have you screaming into the bay—you might scare the sea animals.”

“One hundred percent I would scare them. You’ve never heard me scream. And under water, the whales would think an octopus got its tentacle stuck under a rock.”

“Ooo,” he winces. “Terrible sound.”

“Tell me about it. So glad we’re saving all the whales from having to listen to that.”

“Real saviors over here,” he says.

The joking tone, the easygoing nature…it fills me with relief, because whatever was bothering him felt like a heavy weight on my shoulders. Being this close, it almost felt like it was difficult to breathe, to focus, to concentrate on any sort of conversation.

But now, it’s like the air is flowing again, the ease is rolling, our friendship feels reinstated.

“But off the record, in case you needed to know, my favorite is the matcha Oreo,” I say.

I glance over at him and catch him shaking his head.

“What?” I ask.

“The fucking whales are going to hear it.”

A smile plays on my lips. “No. Nope…no. Don’t even say it. I’m going to be mad if you do. Because at this point, it’s like, get your own opinion, Hardy. Stop copying me.”

“Who’s to say I’m copying you?” he asks.

“Uh, I said it first, therefore, if you say the same thing, that would be you copying me.”

“I have my own opinions.”

“Uh-huh, okay, so then, Mr. I Have My Own Opinions, what is your favorite cronut flavor?”

“Matcha Oreo,” he says.

“Oh my God.” I dramatically roll my eyes. “There you go, copying me.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Do you know how I know I’m not the one copying you?”

“Oh, this should be good—please, enlighten me.”

He smirks. “Because I’m older than you, by so many years that you couldn’t even pay for a cronut by yourself a few years ago—therefore, I win.”

Expression flat, I turn to him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

“First of all, I appreciate you acknowledging the many years between us, it’s about damn time. Second of all, I could buy a cronut by myself for several years ago, because I’ve been working since I was thirteen and I’ve been saving since then as well. So, yeah, I would have been able to buy one. And thirdly, my generation is more open to things like cronuts, whereas yours tends to be stuck in the mud when it comes to trying new things.”

“Uh…not fucking true. I grew up in the age of technology. The reason you have a phone with apps on it is because of me.”

“Oh, so you invented the first iPhone?” I slowly clap. “My God, I didn’t know I had a technological marvel in my car.”This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

“You do,” he says, chin held high. “If it wasn’t for my generation accepting technology and allowing social media into our lives, you wouldn’t even know what a cronut was because you never would have seen it go viral. So I believe a thank-you is in order.” He leans his ear in toward me. “I’m waiting.”

“That’s the most absurd argument I have ever heard.”

“Absurd or correct?”

“Absurd,” I say on a laugh.

“Well, we can agree to disagree.”

“I guess so.” Feeling full, I cap my ice cream and set it to the side. I turn in my seat and face him. His head leans to the side to look at me as well. His usually blue eyes seem almost gray under the light of the parking lot. Wanting to still keep the mood light, I ask, “Have you recruited a beer pong partner for tomorrow?”

“Not yet,” he says. “Figured I’d pick from the group. I need to assess who’s available first, maybe make them try out for me before I make a final decision.”

“Tryouts, huh? You must be good if you’re going to hold tryouts for a partner.”

“I’m very good,” he says and then flashes me his wrist. “This has won me many a tournament.”

“What has? Your cockiness?” I smirk.

“That,” he says. “And the strength of my wrist and the flick of my fingers. All you have to do is tell me which cup, and it’s in.”

I shake my head. “God, it’s going to be so great seeing you eat those words tomorrow night.”

“No fucking way. I’m the king of beer pong.”

“I love the confidence, Hardy. I think it will serve you well.”

“Do you think someone else is going to beat me?” he asks.

“I’ve heard Polly and Ken have been practicing.”

He shifts in his seat. “Have they? They said that to you?”

“They did. They seemed pretty serious about it.”

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath and then looks out the window. “They can’t win.”

“It’s their party. Might not be a bad thing if they win.”

Hardy shakes his head. “No, they can’t.” And then to my surprise, he opens the car door and is out in a matter of seconds.

Confused, I scramble to follow him, taking my almost empty pint of ice cream with me.

“Where are you going?” I call out.

“You’ll see,” he says, heading right back into the store.

“You know,when I was thinking about what I was going to do tonight, this wasn’t it,” I say as I stand four feet away from my open car trunk that’s lined with aluminum party cups half filled with water.

“Never should have brought it up,” he says as he holds a ping-pong ball in hand. He lifts his arm, and, with a slight flick of his wrist, he tosses the ball toward the trunk, and lands it in a cup—the eighth one in a row. He’s one away from completing the pyramid.

“When you make this next one, are you going to be satisfied that the old man still has it?” I ask.

He glances in my direction, completely unamused. “No, when I’m done, you’re up next.”

“What do you mean I’m up next?” I ask. “I’m not playing tomorrow.”

“The hell you’re not. You’re an honorary bridesmaid, which means you need to play. Also, I’m not running the risk of you ending up as my partner without any training.”

He turns away from me and sinks the last ball.

“Training? Do you really think you can train me in a grocery store parking lot?”

“I can. Now come here.” He tugs on my hand and places me in front of him. Then he grabs some of the floating balls and brings them over to me. He’s shed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves—and completely lost his mind.

He hands me a ball. “Let me see you shoot without any proper training first.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yes, really. I’m being serious, Everly, so if you can match my seriousness, I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, and I arrange my face into a scowl. “Is this better?”

His nostrils flare, but then he says, “Much.”

“Okay.” I shake out my arms, stare at the cups, and then lift my arm. “Here we go.” I cock back my wrist and shoot the ball. “Alakazoo!”

The ball pings off the top of the trunk door and then right back at us.

Hardy scoops it up like a professional, and then with a deadpan expression, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”

“Uh, I tossed the ball.”

“No, what was the alakazoo?”

“Oh, that was my added flair. Pretty nice, huh?”

“It was horrible.”

Hands on my hips, I turn toward him. “Uh, pardon me, there was nothing horrible about that. Actually, it was quite charming.”

“Says who?” he asks.

“Me. And it’s a lot better than all your heavy breathing.”

“I was not heavy breathing,” he counters.

“Uh, does this sound like heavy breathing to you?” I ask right before I slouch and breathe forcefully out of my mouth.

“Jesus Christ, exaggerate much?”

“No, actually. That was one of the most accurate things I’ve ever portrayed.”

To my surprise, he grips both of my arms and forces me to look him in the eyes. “Everly, this is serious. I need you to focus.”

“Why is this so serious?” I ask.

“Because,” he says. “This dates back to our college days, when competition was high and the last person to win a beer pong tournament was me. It was our send-off game, never to play each other again, but now that we’re back…I can’t lose the title.”

“Oh…” I say. “So, this is like opening up a closed case.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Ken and Polly think they’re coming for the win, but we can’t have that.”

“And what makes you think we’ll end up being partners?” I ask. “Because that’s a lot of pressure I don’t think I’m comfortable with.”

“Trust me,” he says, turning his head around. “I think it’s going to happen.”

“Okay, well. That terrifies me, but if there’s a slim chance that might happen, maybe you can show me a tip or two.”

“I’ll show you everything,” he says and then stands behind me, his chest to my back.

Immediately, I’m filled with warmth at the press of his body against mine.

My mind wants to escape to a moment where this is not Hardy teaching me how to properly throw a ping-pong ball, but where he’s swooping in behind me because he likes me, and he wants to be close. Where maybe he’d turn me around, wrap his arm around my waist, and ask me to dance under the dim lights of the grocery store parking lot.

Unfortunately, that’s not the case.

He drags his hand down my arm, sending a chill all the way up my spine as the pads of his fingers trace over my skin until they reach my hand. Then he gently wraps his fingers around my wrist and raises my hand up.

Softly, he asks, “Are you listening, Everly?”

To every freaking thing…

“Yup,” I say casually, even though nothing about this feels casual.

“Okay, first, I want you to grip the ball with your middle finger, index finger, and thumb. Gives you more control rather than using just two fingers.”

“Okay,” I say as I grip the ball appropriately.

“Next, you have to decide if you’re going to go for a quick shot, like this.” He releases my hand, picks up a ball and then shoots it off, like a fastball straight into a cup, very impressive. “Or with an arch.” He takes another ball and floats it into a cup. Oddly, it’s a bit of a turn-on seeing such accuracy. Ridiculous, I know, but it’s kind of hot. “Let’s see what you’re better at.”

“Probably neither,” I say.

“Remember, it’s all about the wrist.”

“Okay.” I prop my arm up and stare down the cups. “So just…shoot it?”

“Yup,” he answers, still standing behind me.

“Okay.” I let out a deep breath, and then on my mental count of three, I toss the ball like a fastball straight to the front cup—and it bounces back at us, hitting the ground first.

Hardy scoops the ball up. “Not bad, better than I expected actually.”

“Really?” I ask. “I didn’t make it in the cup.”

“Yes, but you hit the cup. I assumed you were going to end up with the ball in your ear after the whole alakazoo incident. See how you shot better without the flair?”

“Flair made it more interesting, but I can see your point. Also, I would like to point out that yelling alakazoo could be distracting to the other team, possibly crippling.”

“Unless magic is spouting from your finger when you say alakazoo, I can’t fathom how it could be crippling.”

“Well, clearly you’ve never been attacked by the giggles.”

He leans over so I can see his eyes. “Do you have giggles that come out of your finger?”

I chuckle. “No. When drunk, if you find something funny, you can easily get lost in the laughs and that’s what alakazoo has the potential to do. If Polly and Ken get attacked by the giggles, they won’t be able to toss the ball properly, which will result in you securing your precious win. So, you know, something to think about.” I shrug.

He stares at me for a few seconds and then moves back around me. “Let’s just focus on getting the ball in the cup for now, and then you can add flair if you need to later.”

“I think that’s a fair compromise.” I shake my arm out again and then lift it up to shoot. “So you want me to do an arch this time?”

“Yes,” he says. “See if that fits you better.”

“Okay, and launching in three, two⁠—”

“We don’t need a countdown,” he says.

“One,” I finish, shooting the ball over the open trunk door. It bounces off the back windshield and onto the ground, pinging around.

Hardy grabs the ball and then looks me in the eyes. “I think the arch is out.”

“Yeah, seems so.” I smirk, which causes him to smile.

“Let’s stick with the straight shot and see if you can get some in that way.”

“You got it, King,” I say as he hands me the ball with a raised brow. “That’s what you prefer I call you, right? You did claim the title earlier so I’m assuming that’s how you’d like me to refer to you.”

“Hardy is fine,” he says.

“What about Henrietta?” I ask. “Or are you over that?”

He looks down at the ground. “Yeah, I meant to talk to you about that.”

Uh-oh, back to the mood shift.

“Oh? What did you, uh…what did you want to talk about?” I ask.

He pulls on his neck and looks me in the eyes. “That’s all over and done with.”

“The nicknames?” I ask.

“No, I mean…yes, but no.”

“Okay, that’s confusing.”

“You can call me whatever you want, but the whole Maple thing…well, I’m relieving you of your duties.”

Oh…

So, I was right…and they’re going to date. Why is he here with me? Is this like a soft letdown? Did he see…or even worse, did Maple tell him that she suspected I like him? And I thought I’d embarrassed myself earlier. This is far worse. This time here is like a…pity party for Everly. Oh. God.

My stomach twists in knots as I attempt a smile. “Oh wow, why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I say as I swallow down my emotions. “That’s awesome. Are you guys officially dating now?”

“Dating?” he asks. “Uh, no.”

“Oh, but you said I was relieved of my duties,” I say.

“Yeah, because she’s not interested,” he mutters.

She’s not interested?

In Hardy?

How?

He’s so…God, he’s everything.

“Oh,” I finally say. “I’m…I’m sorry, Hardy.”

He shrugs. “No biggie. Thanks for the help though. I appreciate it.”

Is that why he pulled away on the email? Because it wasn’t fun and games anymore now that he got the answer to his pursuit?

Probably.

Does that mean…does that mean all the fun is over?

The emails are done?

No more hanging out?

If so, then that puts a whole damper on this evening—this could be the last time we do anything just the two of us. Now that we don’t have Maple in common, what’s going to bring us together?

“Oh sure.” I twist my lips to the side. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else that I can do to help?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. It’s a done deal.”

“Okay.” My eyes meet his. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling. “Not sure rekindling something from the past was a great idea, especially since we’ve both changed so much, so I get it. We’re good.”

I stand there awkwardly, not sure what to say.

I mean…my heart knows what to say.

Well, if you’re not going to go out with her, care to give me a try? I might not take care of flamingos and I might not have this cute, sunny disposition, but I do like matcha Oreo cronuts so I have that going for me.

“Anyway, do you want to give the tossing another try?” he asks, clearly antsy to change the subject.

“Yeah, of course,” I say.

But this time, instead of standing behind me like before, he stands to the side and feeds me balls, one right after the other while I shoot them at the cups, missing every time because my head’s not in it.

After a few more misses, I turn to him, defeated. “I don’t think you should have me as a partner—this is terrible.”

“It’s not great,” he says while staring at the ball-less cups.

“It’s not.”

“Maybe you’re tired,” he suggests.

“Or maybe I just suck,” I say.

“Could be the case, but it’s also dark and chilly out here, so you’re probably not in your element.”

“Possibly,” I say. “Maybe we call it quits because the more I miss, the more my confidence is disintegrating.”

“Understandable,” he says. We pour out the water from the cups into the planter bushes a few spots down, and then place the stacked cups in my trunk along with the ping-pong balls.

Once I’ve turned the car on, I ask, “Shall I take you back to pick up your car?”

“Yeah, that would be good,” he says.

I pull out of the parking lot and head down the road toward the parking garage. This has been a weird night, full of ups and downs, leaving me feeling like I don’t quite know where I stand with him. And as I draw closer to the parking garage I feel this sick sense of panic.

Panic over not seeing him as often. Not communicating like we were. Not bonding as much. I hate to admit it, but even though I was attempting to help him hook up with someone else, I still enjoyed the moments I had with him. I still savored the moments I spent staring into his eyes—and knowing that he doesn’t need me anymore makes me extremely sad.

Tomorrow very well might be one of the last times we hang out, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

Actually, I do. I feel sick.

When I arrive at the garage, he tells me not to pull in so I don’t have to pay again. I park on the side of the road instead.

“Thanks for the ride,” he says.

“Of course. Sorry about the confusion with the dips. At least we can rest easy tonight.”

“We can.” After a few seconds of silence, he grips the handle to the door. “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”

That panic skyrockets inside of me and before I can stop myself, I say, “I don’t want to stop talking.”

He glances at me.

“Huh?”

Oh God, Everly, you’re such an idiot.

I twist my hands together, trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry if this is out of line, but, I just…I’ve enjoyed our chats and whatnot, and I don’t know, I guess I’ll feel sad when they end.” I shrug, trying to look casual. “I like our emails.”

He slowly smiles. “I enjoy them too, Everly.”

“Cool, so maybe we can be pen pals or something. Like once a week.”

That makes him laugh.

“You want to be my pen pal?”

“I mean…I’ve never met someone else who likes the matcha Oreo cronuts like me, while also taking credit for the invention of social media. Seems like someone I should keep talking to, you know?”

“How could you not keep in touch with someone like that?”

“Exactly, you see the dilemma.”

“I do.” He smiles softly. “Don’t worry…Plum, I’ll keep in touch.” And then with that, he’s out the door and closing it behind him.

Why does it feel like he’s not going to keep to his word?