I groan, slumping forward onto the table. “It’s a defense mechanism, okay? I can’t help getting defensive with men.”
Annabelle tilts her head, arms crossing. “Defensive? Or terrified?”
“I’m not terrified.” I lift my head to glare at her. “He takes up way too much space. Physically, emotionally—whatever other-lyyou can think of. He’s like ...” I wave a hand in the air, searching for the right word. “A golden retriever that hit the gym too hard.”
Annabelle snorts. “A damn good-looking golden retriever.”
“Not the point,” I grumble, glaring at my coffee mug.
My best friend regards me, swirling her drink thoughtfully. “So what’s the real issue here, Lucy?”
I blink at her. “The real issue?”
“Yeah.” She gives me a look like she can see straight through my nonsense. “You’re flustered because he’s hot? Or because he got under your skin?”
“Neither,” I snap, a little too quickly.
Annabelle’s smirk widens. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“It’s true!” I insist, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck. “He’sobnoxious. Completely full of himself. And—and he thinks he can get whatever he wants with a grin and a wink.”
“Can’t he?”
I freeze, my brain short-circuiting at the memory of Harris standing too close, grinning thatstupidgrin, and the way my heart did something absolutely traitorous in response.
Annabelle knowsexactlywhere my mind goes. “Oh my God. He can.”
“He cannot!” I snap at her.
She bursts into laughter, way too pleased with herself. “Lucy, I love you—but you’re such a liar. In fact, I’m going to do you a favor here and send him your number.”
“Don’t. You.Dare.”
“Why not? You’re too stubborn about this. We both know you didn’t show up at the marina to see me—you barely saw me standing there.”
Facts. I hadn’t said hello. I was too busy staring at Harris and flirting with him.
“Please don’t give him my number. Don’t you dar—”
But Annabelle is already typing, thumbs flying across her screen like some kind of texting ninja.
“Annabelle!” I lunge halfway across the table to yank the phone out of her grasp, but she’s too quick for me, wrenching it out of reach, cackling like the traitor she is.
“This is for your own good!” she singsongs, waving the phone tauntingly in the air. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“So many things,” I snap, straightening in my seat like I’m about to present a PowerPoint on all the ways this could go horribly wrong. “For starters, what if he’s messing with me? What if he’s some kind of pathological flirt who says that to every girl he meets?”
“Okay, drama queen.” Annabelle rolls her eyes. “You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re gorgeous. Why wouldn’t he be into you?”
I open my mouth to argue—because arguing is what Ido—but the words die on my tongue. I blink at her. “You say that like dating is easy.”
“Itiseasy.” She sips her drink, annoyingly casual. “Confidence, Lucy. Fake it till you make it.”
“Confidenceisn’tmy problem.” I slouch in the booth. “Men like Harris are my problem. He’s too much.”
“Too muchwhat?”
“Too much charm. Too mucheverything.” I wave a hand vaguely in the air. “He’s the kind of guy who could talk his way out of a speeding ticketandget the cop’s numb—”
