…and then she looks him dead in the eyes and says, ‘I thought you were taller.’”
Duke nearly chokes on his whiskey. “She did not.”
“Hand to God.” I steal a piece of bruschetta from his plate, grinning at the memory. “Poor guy just sat there, mouth hanging open, while she paid for her drink and walked out. Megan said she never heard from him again.”
“Remind me never to get on your coworker’s bad side.”
“Smart man.”
The restaurant is perfect—exposed brick, Edison bulbs casting everything in warm amber, craft cocktails with ridiculous names. Our corner booth feels like its own little world. The leather is soft against my bare shoulders, and the dress I’m wearing makes me feel pretty for the first time in weeks. A vase of red roses sits on every table, and I try not to think about what it would mean if this were actually a date.
Duke’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his forearms tan and corded with muscle. A confusing desire tugs at me, and I have to look away. This is Duke…not a date. Or maybe I’m still in that stage of a breakup where I look at every man as a potential new partner. I’m very specifically ignoring the fact it’s Valentine’s Day. Though I tell myself at least I’m with Duke, not home alone with more ice cream. But I remind myself that this is Duke. He’s my best friend, and there’s no way I’d ever want to jeopardize that.
Even if the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders makes me want to caress his muscles. Or how the low rumble of his laugh makes me happy in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. Or how he’s been watching me like a hawk all evening.
Stop it, I tell myself.He’s your best friend. He’s always been your best friend.
I take another sip of my Desert Sin—something with mezcal and grapefruit that burns going down my throat—and scan the restaurant. That’s when I see her.
A leggy blonde is sitting at the bar, staring at Duke.
More specifically, she’s running her gaze over him like she’s already imagining what he looks like without that shirt. Her lips part slightly. She glances at me and obviously doesn’t care that Duke is here with me. On freaking Valentine’s Day.Bitch.
Jealousy twists in my stomach. I don’t have the right to feel possessive about Duke. He’s not mine. So why am I so bothered?
“That knockout over there is eye-fucking you,” I say, nodding my head toward the bar. “Seriously. She looks like she wants to eat you alive. She doesn’t even care that you’re sitting with me.”
Duke doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even glance to see who I’m talking about. “Not interested.”
I laugh, incredulous. “Duke. She’s gorgeous. Like, Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition gorgeous. Go talk to her.”
He glances over—a brief, dismissive flick of his eyes that takes maybe half a second—then turns back to me and steals the last piece of bruschetta right off my plate.
“Hey! That was mine.”
“You snooze, you lose.” He pops it in his mouth, completely unbothered. “And I’m good.”
“You’re on leave,” I press. “We’re in Vegas. I’m not going to be offended if you want to have some fun. Doesn’t matter if it’s Valentine’s Day, because it’s just us.”
His jaw tightens, and frustration flashes in his eyes. “This weekend is about you having fun. Not me picking up strangers.”
The finality in his voice is surprising, but I let it go. It means something that he’s choosing me, after Jeremy made me feel like I wasn’t worth choosing.
Duke flags down the server and orders another round without asking what I want—because he already knows. He always knows. Whiskey neat for him, another Desert Sin for me.
I watch him across the booth. The way he leans back, relaxed but alert, taking in everything around us. The way he asks about my job, my friends, and whether I’ve finished that book I was reading last month. He remembers the book. He remembers everything.
Jeremy used to scroll through his phone during dinner. He’d look at other women so obviously that I’d catch him doing it, and when I called him out, he’d make me feel crazy.I was just looking around. You’re so paranoid. Why are you so insecure?
After a while, I’d stopped calling him out. Started wondering if maybe I reallywastoo sensitive, too needy, too much.
Duke hasn’t looked at his phone once tonight. Hasn’t looked at anyone but me.
Jeremy never looked at you like that, whispers a traitorous voice in my head.
Why can’t I find a man who looks at me like Duke does?
The Vegas Strip is chaos.
