“Believe me,” I counter, setting my empty glass on the bar. “I’ll prove it. Pick any guy in this place.”
Wendy scans the room, amused. “You’re absolutely nuts.”
“Come on. Pick one.”
“Hmm.” She points to a guy sitting at a table near Jake. “Him.”
He’s not as tall as Jake, but handsome enough. His black hair gleams beneath the bar lights, slicked back, curling at the nape of his neck. Confidence rolls off him as he laughs with his friends, easy and unguarded.
Fueled by liquid courage, I push to my feet, and the room promptly slants at a rude angle. That gin was stronger than I realized. Wendy follows in my wake, equal parts concerned and amused, as I make toward their table.
The guy looks up, startled by my sudden appearance.
“Hi,” I say, flashing my sweetest smile. “You want to date me?”
His eyes widen to comic proportions. “Uh...what?”
“No? Cool. How about a booty call, then? When I’m in need, I’ll call you, and you do the same. No strings attached.”
His expression morphs into sheer panic, eyes darting to his friends like they’re the ones pranking him. Behind me, Wendy dissolves into laughter.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” I ask.
The guy stammers incoherently before his face suddenly brightens like I’ve offered him a winning lottery ticket instead of casual sex, and he manages to say, “I’m game.”
Wobbling on my heels, I spin back toward Wendy, one triumphant finger in the air even as the room pirouettes around me in a dizzying waltz. “See? What’d I tell ya?”
Chapter 12
When Sarah’s tipsy voice rings across the bar, I nearly inhale my old fashioned, the bourbon blazing a trail through my nasal passages that makes my eyes water and my chest heave.
Wait. Did I hear that right? The same Sarah who once refused to sneak into R-rated movies, who organized study groups instead of going to parties, who once lectured me for twenty minutes about respecting curfew is now volunteering herself for a casual hookup?
Four years in New York have clearly worked some kind of alchemy on her. My Sarah—not that she’s been mine for years—somehow both achingly familiar and utterly unrecognizable, that sudden boldness striking a spark of something dark and possessive low in my chest.
The guy she’s propositioning, decent looking but far too much of a dude for Sarah, alternates between stunned and thrilled. Nervous laughter spills out of him as he rakes a hand through hisover-gelled hair, his friends elbowing each other with smug little grins that set my molars grinding.
Swaying like a wind chime in the mountain breeze, Sarah plants her feet wide, crossing her arms over her chest as she turns to Wendy with exaggerated triumph.
“Told ya,” she declares, jabbing one finger against her temple with such force she nearly topples sideways. “Always the same thing”—a hiccup interrupts her speech—“on their minds.”
Caught between Sarah and the table of eager wolves, poor Wendy shifts from foot to foot, her expression flickering between amusement and alarm. Her eyes dart from Sarah’s flushed face to the guys at the table and back again, lips pressed tightly like she’s trying to trap either laughter or concern behind them.
“So, can I get your number?” The dude pushes up from his chair, eagerness leaking from every pore as he scrambles for his phone. I know that look far too well. And he is not getting lucky. Not if I have anything to say about it
Downing the last of my bourbon, I slide off my stool and cross the sticky floor in five determined strides. “Absolutely not,” I say, planting myself between Sarah and her newfound admirer. “She’s with me.”
His posture shifts, enthusiasm curdling into challenge as he juts out his chest. “Dude, what’s your problem?” His shoulders set beneath the button-down, and his tone drips with hostility.
As I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, a wave of something hot and fierce—something I have no right to feel after four years—surges through my chest. Though violence isn’t usually my style, the thought of this stranger taking advantage of her current state pisses me off to no end. I’ll put him down if I have to.
With a glare that must convey my willingness to end his entire existence, I watch his expression shift from confrontational to uncertain.
His friends urge him to sit down.
“Whoa, man, chill.” Blinking rapidly, he raises both hands in surrender, tough-guy act dissolving faster than sugar in hot coffee. “No need to get aggressive.” With impressive swiftness, he drops back into his chair, suddenly fascinated by the label on his beer bottle.
Behind me, Sarah lets out a sound of pure outrage. When I turn, her flushed face is twisted into a scowl, mascara smudged beneath eyes that still blaze with fury. “Who the hell do you think you are to”—a hiccup interrupts—“ruin my fun like that?” Another hiccup follows.
