I rolled my eyes and was thankful the subject had changed now that I’d done what I’d set out to do—clear my conscience.
Damn it.Why did I set this up at a bar where all the workers knew my name? I’d set my own trap, my own demise. If she heard anyone call me Anthony, the entire thing was done. Over. Everything would change, and that couldn’t happen. No favors, no weddings, no women wanting me for their own agenda. My anxiety was getting ridiculous—no one ever called me Anthony, and I had to stop freaking out for the sake of freaking out. It wasn’t productive.
I wiped the back of my neck. The humid summer air was heavier than normal, like it might rain. I scanned the patio covered with lights. It smelled like spilled beer and nachos—one of the worst- yet best-smelling things ever. It reminded me of college, of the glory days, and I grinned at Dave.
He held up his beer from his spot in the booth. “Hey, man.”
“Dude, your sleeve looks sick.” I jutted my chin toward his arm covered in bright colors and wicked lines. “You design this yourself?”
“Sure did. Took forever, but it’s done.” He twisted his forearm, and the images from his favorite album covers took over his skin, coming to life with the color. He’d wanted to finish that for three years. I clapped his back.
“You look cool as shit.”
“Cooler than you now, even with your beard. You going for a lumberjack look? Chicks find your clean-shaven face too pretty?”
“Fuck off.” I laughed, welcoming the shit-talking. I lived for this. The escape after the office. Even my meeting with Angelica caused the same unsettling feeling in my gut. She had purpose, a mission, something she worked every day toward. I didn’t.
I ordered a Moscow mule and was about to ask Dave about his sister when Nora walked in. I had to do a double take. My pulse drummed in my ears. She wore bright-red lipstick, a skintight, half see-through, half lacy black shirt that showed every single curve, and tight, dark-green jeans. She spun around, frowning as she scanned the room, giving me an eyeful of her back.
It was like she forgot half the shirt.
Fuck. I swallowed hard at all the thoughts swirling in my mind. Her smooth back, the fact she couldn’t be wearing a bra, the way her jeans hugged her ass. My throat got tight, and my gut tightened at the aggressive wave of lust.Jesus.
Dave whistled. “Damn, please, for the love of God, tell me that’s your friend?”
His jaw hung open as he stared right at Nora, and I had the strange urge to reach over and slam his jaw shut.
This is what I wanted.
“Nora,” I said, my voice way too scratchy. I took another drink, already counting down seconds until this was over. But what didovermean? Listening through the wall as Dave gave her an orgasm? Or her staying at his place and me worrying if she knew how to get back.
She turned at my voice, and a toothy, real smile formed on her pretty pixie face. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman looked at me with that much joy. Genuine joy. “Fritz! Oh my gosh, hi!”
She jogged, not walked,joggedover to our booth, and her gaze never left my face. “Guess what?”
“What?” I asked, like I wasn’t absolutely desperate to know what she was going to say. She slid into the seat next to me, and I had to make a fist to keep myself from touching her. Her body radiated heat, and every one of my senses went into overdrive.
The feel of her next to me. The way she smelled. How she looked me in the eye when she spoke, utterly ignoring Dave. The curiosity to know what her lips tasted like eating at me. I needed to get it the fuck together.
I took a breath, holding the drink up to my mouth so I wouldn’t smellher.“What is it, Nora?”
“The foundation. They are letting me finally try one of my proposals. I was about to pull my damn hair out, well, even more of it.” She laughed and only then noticed Dave. “Hello, hi.”
She blushed when Dave flashed her hispickupsmile. I’d seen it countless times, and it worked almost every time. She chewed on the side of her lip, staring at my friend, and I regretted this entire setup.
“Nora Atwood,” Dave said, the want in his voice obvious to anyone in earshot.
God, it was hot. I downed the rest of the drink and flagged the waiter to order another.
“What should I try, Fritz?” she asked, looking at me again with the same wide eyes. I liked the trust reflecting back at me, and just as I was about to respond, Dave cut in.
“Oh, you need to try the special.”
“Why?”
“Whiskey sour. It has egg in it.”
“An egg? No.” She set her hands on the table, her bright-green nails covered in dirt. It annoyed me I’d noticed.
