Seriously, I should not be this attracted to a woman I’m trying to set up with someone else.
Shit, Atlas, I’m sorry. I wish you were here so you could see how damn hot she looks tonight. You’d be speechless, man.
Keeping my best friend in the forefront of my mind, I don’t touch Dani again as we walk out of her building. I do open the door for her, then help her make sure the skirt part of her dress doesn’t get caught when she slips into my SUV.
As I walk around to the driver’s side, I start up a quick mantra.
She’s not mine. She’s not mine. She’s not mine.
I desperately try to remind myself that we’re meeting up with other people tonight. People we’re supposed to be interested in. But when I glance at Dani one more time, I can’t help worrying that I’m gonna be losing the battle big-time.
CHAPTER 19
DANI
“So, Rhys Peters.”
“That’s right.” Tyrell nods, clenching his jaw as he drives us to the restaurant.
It’s weird. He’s been clenching his jaw a lot since leaving my apartment, and I kind of want to ask what’s bugging him, but I also don’t want to pry. Maybe he’s nervous about meeting Vicky. I’ve only met her once, but Jolie assures me she’s really cool and fun, and she works at the paper with her. She does the graphic design or something, so she’s creative, which is cool, and she’s really smart as well, which will be a great match for Ty.
Plus, she’s a stunner.
Legs that go on forever, tall and elegant with this friendly smile and bright eyes. I think her father’s Puerto Rican and her mother is Scottish or something. Anyway, she looks like a supermodel.
My insides squirm, wondering what Tyrell will think. Wondering how well they’ll hit it off.
Oh shit, if it goes well, will he sleep with her?
So what if he does?
Now I’m the one clenching my jaw.
He’s been polite to all the girls I’ve invited so far, but I haven’t noticed any real spark. Maybe tonight will be the one. He’s definitely going to find her attractive—that’s a given.
Biting my lips together, I ignore the weird tension in my stomach and focus on the road ahead.
Rhys Peters.
Plays guitar.
An art major.
Two years younger than me, but according to Tyrell, his brother says he’s mature for his age. Like an old man on young shoulders.
“He’s more of a grown-up than I’ll ever be.”That’s what Peters said, apparently.
“What’s Peters’s first name?”
“Oh, uh…” Tyrell has to think about it.
I can’t help laughing. “Come on, you must know.”
“Yeah, I do. I’m just so used to calling him Peters that I—” He clicks his fingers. “Marcus.”
“Marcus,” I repeat. “Marcus and Rhys.”
“That’s right.”
