Me:Where are you?
Me:Emma?
Leave it toher to remind me of that night we watchedMagic Mike, and I made the mistake of saying the dancing didn’t look hard.
I groaned, running my hand over my face as I veered into the parking lot of B’s Bar. My brothers and I were here once a week,and I knew Emma and her friends did the same. The food was as upscale as a bar could get, the tables were always stocked with roasted peanuts, and the beer list filled with local IPAs from the East Coast.
Perhaps I was wrong, and they’d braved one of the haunts downtown. She’d yet to return my text messages, so if she wasn’t here, I’d cut my losses, have a beer, and text her tomorrow. That’s what friends were for, right? At least according to the old Dionne Warwick song, and we’d been that since high school.
Friends worked best for us—I’d be dating someone, or she would. We’d have lunch here and there, spend a few Saturdays at the beach together, and fall into bed on the off chance we were both single. It was the uncomplicated nature of our friends-with-benefits relationship that had me leaving my uneventful Friday night. I nodded to the door guy, then pushed past the sweaty bodies that were so eager to get inside.
She texted me as a friend—someone to show up at the bar, laugh with her, do a shot or two, and make sure she got home safely. There were no wayward emotions about commitment or awkward thoughts about bringing her home to meet my mom. Hell, some weeks she saw Mom more than I did. I’d like to say my evening consisted of something more than leftover Italian food and my forty-seventh rewatch ofDie Hard—but it didn’t.
Her text was the highlight of my day.
Wait—the highlight of my day was waking up with her in my bed, but seeing her twice was a close runner-up.
Bodies were tight against each other on the small dance floor, and when I didn’t see a head of golden curls in the crowd, I moved to the bar. It stretched along the wall toward the far left, with brightly colored stools bolted down and a mirror reflecting everyone who sat and laughed.
On the second pass over, I saw a glint of turquoise.Not blue.Emma had corrected me the first time I flicked the hugehoop earrings she insisted matched every outfit she owned. The memory made me smile, and I remembered joking about them being slightly smaller than her head and getting slapped in the shoulder for my trouble.
While I rubbed the sensitive spot that would, maybe, but probably not turn into a bruise, she told me about getting them on a road trip she and her grandmother took to Cherokee, North Carolina. She talked with bright eyes and sweeping arms about visiting a national park where they saw frozen waterfalls and bison.
Emma was one of those people who infected you with happiness and positive energy—that was why her enthusiastic aggression had the potential to leave marks on my otherwise unblemished arms. The more excited she got about a topic, the bigger gestures her hands would make.
Over the years, I’d learned that if she really got going, I’d need to slink farther down in my chair to keep from being black and blue by the end of the conversation. She’d never actuallylefta mark, but those delicate little hands had the potential to do some damage.
I snapped out of the wistful thoughts as I studied her. She wasnotenjoying her current conversation—her hands were clasped on her thighs, and her lips were pursed tightly. A random guy with an entire bottle of hair gel on his head and a salmon polo—complete with apopped collarlike an eighties prep school idiot—had his hand resting on her upper arm.
I would never begrudge her hanging out with another guy. One of us—her, probably—would eventually start dating someone seriously, and our late-night yum-yum time would fade into the background, but it was not this guy.
And today was not that day.
Emma’s body was hunched in on itself as she tried to lean away from him, but the farther she moved, the closer he got.It made my blood boil to see her so uncomfortable. She was probably here with her friends, other flower name and city name—Lavender or Charlotte, maybe—but they were not anywhere near her.
That pissed me off. They should be together. She was too vulnerable out here alone—drinking—with her inhibitions lowered and primed to be taken advantage of by whatever creeper sauntered to the bar. My heart slammed against my ribcage at the sexist realization, and I huffed out a breath—Mom would be proud.
She was more than capable of taking care of herself.Still, after one drunken night of her confessing the real reason that she waslet gofrom her last job, a ball of protective fury named Emma Freaking James lay dormant in my chest—ready to be awakened if the need arose. It flared to life as I watched himtouchher, and I cracked my knuckles, darting between two guys vying for the bartender’s attention.
“Hey, ba—” I cleared my throat, raising my voice with my hand in the air before swiftly being cut off by a firebolt of energy topped with dark hair.
“There you are,” her friend with the short locks said, pushing between Emma and the jagoff. I shook my head and laughed, watching as she shouldered him out of the way just as a bartender leaned over. Emma did the same, and the chick behind the bar nodded before turning to the various bottles behind her.
Good.
Not that I wouldn’t have loved to put the salmon shirt guy in his place with a well-placed throat punch, but the protectiveness I felt settled back quietly where it belonged, knowing she wasn’t alone. I leaned an elbow against the bar, crossing one leg over the other and watching the bartender put two small glasses of red liquid in front of them. Emma turned her body farther awayfrom the idiot—who still stood glaring at her friend’s back—as they clinked the small glasses together and downed the shots.
“Emma?” I called, cupping my hand around my mouth as I pushed off the bar and approached her. She followed the sound of her name with pinched eyebrows before smiling—and not just any smile. This was an Emma James personalized facial expression that started in her toes and radiated outward, blinding everyone in its path. It was sunlight and lightning, all bottled up with glitter and exploding outward from every pore in her body.
It was one of those smiles that took away every negative thought in your head and made your body flood with serotonin—and this one was for me. My cock immediately took notice—like it did every time I was in her presence, and I covertly adjusted my stance, willing it to behave. She drew her lip between her teeth and let her eyes trail over my body.
Fuck, it was hot, being the focal point of her affection. I had to repress the urge to grab her, drag her into a dark hallway, and wrap her legs around my waist.
She popped out of the barstool like a sexy little jack-in-the-box and bounced over before throwing her arms around me. I smiled and breathed her in, thankful to see the idiot who touched her finally stand and disappear into the crowd. Now that he’d left, and I wasn’t worried some half-assed little boy pretending to be a man would goad me into a fight, I closed my eyes and bent my head to bury my face in her neck.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Light Beer,” her friend with the dark hair said, peering around Emma’s body. I felt her shoulder shake with silent laughter as I trailed my fingers down her spine, knowing how ticklish she was, before pinching her hip. She squeaked and batted my hand away before threading her fingers in my hair and pulling—hard.
“Lavender?” I asked, lifting a hand in greeting.
