I laugh and weave through the tables. She’s at a high-top by the window, two cocktails already sweating on coasters. One is bright pink and fizzy—definitely mine.
“You’re a saint,” I say, sliding onto the stool and shrugging off my coat.
“I’m a genius,” she corrects, sliding the pink drink toward me. “Drink. Then tell me everything. How’s the freelance life treating you? Met any hot mountain men yet?”
I roll my eyes, take a sip. It’s sweet, tart, perfect. “Freelance is… freelance. Deadlines, revisions, and clients who think ‘make it pop’ is a design direction. And no, no mountain men. Unless you count the guy at the hardware store who sold me caulk and called me ‘ma’am.’”
Jess snorts. “Tragic. We need to fix that.”
“We?”
She grins, all teeth and mischief. “Yes, we. Because tonight is special.”
I narrow my eyes. “Jess. What did you do?”
“Nothing bad!” She holds up both hands. “Just lied a little bit about our girls’ night.”
My stomach does a slow flip. “Lied how?”
Before she can answer, the door opens again, letting in a gust of cold air. I glance over and freeze.
He’s tall. Like, stupid tall. Six-four, maybe more. Broad shoulders that fill out a dark green flannel as if it were custom-made for him. Dark hair still damp from a shower, pushed back carelessly. Beard trimmed but not fussy. Eyes shadowed underheavy brows, scanning the room like he’s looking for an escape route.
My mouth goes dry.
He’s exactly my type.
The brooding, built-like-a-woodsman, could-split-logs-with-his-bare-hands type I’ve secretly drooled over in romance novels since I was sixteen. Except this one is real, and he’s walking straight toward us.
Jess makes a tiny squeak of excitement.
I whip my head back to her. “Jess. Tell me you didn’t.”
She bites her lip, guilty as sin. “I may have signed you up for Mountain Matches. And maybe swiped right on a few profiles. And maybe one of them swiped back. And maybe I told him to meet us here.”
“Jess!”
“It’s not a setup!” she says too fast. “It’s an opportunity. One drink. If he’s awful, we laugh about it later. If he’s not…” She waggles her eyebrows.
I’m torn between strangling her and thanking her.
Because he’s close now. Close enough that I can see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the way his jaw flexes like he’s already regretting this. Close enough that my pulse is doing cartwheels.
He stops at the table, hands shoved in his coat pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Hi,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots. “Katherine?”
I swallow. Smile. Channel every ounce of sunshine I’ve got left after six months of hiding.
“Katy,” I correct, letting my voice go light and warm. “Friends call me Katy.”
He nods once.
Jess leaps up as if her stool were on fire. “Oh, look at the time! I just remembered I have… a thing. You two have fun!”
She’s halfway to the door before I can protest.
Traitor.
