“I’m not his—” I break off with a strangled scream. “I hate you guys.”
“If you’re not his woman, then why is he staring over here?” Omar asks.
I whip my head around, and my so-called friends snicker.
“Kidding,” he says. “But you proved Em’s point. There’s weird energy between you two.”
I slump lower. “You’re all wrong, but whatever.”
What’s making all of this worse is that we’re back at the same bar where Wyatt and I blew up our almost-was relationship. It looks exactly as it did almost six years ago, including the tired garland and strands of twinkle lights that are even less twinkly from the passage of time.
“The thing is,” I say after a sip of my drink for courage, “I’ve kind of been wanting to talk to him. For work reasons, not personal ones.”
Okay, it’s a personal-ish work reason, but I’m not about to tell the table that.
“Can’t you just call his office or text him like a normal person?” Rachel asks.
I blink at her. “We don’t do that. Call me old-fashioned, but when my only interaction with a man is at Christmas events that end in a screaming match and one of us injured, frozen, crying, or all three, I prefer to honor that tradition even in the summer months.”
Rachel dips her head in acknowledgment. “Okay, then. I’m not here to criticize how you choose to celebrate your holiday.”
‘Thank you.”
“Even if it is utterly insane.”
“All right, I’m going in. Wish me luck.” I drain the rest of my drink and stand, my knees only wobbling slightly. “This shouldn’t take long.”
Their chorus of “good luck!” carries me to Wyatt’s table while I mutter to myself, “You can do this. In and out. No reason to fight.”
Wyatt’s head snaps up as I approach, eyes narrowing, and I’m glad I wore a cute green sundress and even cuter red sandals with a thick wedge heel. I feel way more put together than I did in the sweaty running clothes from last time.
“Wyatt,” I say.
“Succubus,” he replies. “We’re stuck with each other in July now too, I see.”
“Appears so.” I don’t even glance at the other guys around the table, not wanting to find out if there’s confusion or, god forbid, recognition on their faces. What if he told them about me? Worse, what if he didn’t? “Do you have five minutes? I’ve got a question for you.”
His brows lift. “Is it going to cause a fight?”
“Given our history?” I sigh. “Probably. Come on.”
I turn and walk toward the restrooms at the back of the bar, not waiting to hear how he explains this to his friends or even to make sure he’s following me. He will or he won’t, and I’m not going to beg. But miracle of miracles, I hear his heavy footsteps behind me as I lead us as far from the noise of the bar as possible. The hallway with the restrooms is small and dark, but Wyatt keeps walking until he reaches a door marked ALLEY ACCESS and pushes it open.
“After you.” When I hesitate, he adds, “Please. I’ve got something to tell you, too.”
Call me the cat because my curiosity drives me out the door at double speed, even if it’ll probably kill me in the end. We step outside and lean against the buildings that flank the narrow alley.
“How much privacy do we need for this, Jones?”
“Depends.” He folds his arms over his chest, looking relaxed and slightly amused. “How aggravating is whatever you’re going to ask me?”
“Minimal, I hope.” After a beat, I extend a tiny olive branch. “Be honest, did you also come tonight thinking we both might be here?”
His look says obviously. His mouth says, “It’s not like I could call you.” Neither of us says what we both know: He could’ve called me, just like I could’ve called him. But that’s never been part of our rules of engagement.
As much as I want to know what’s on his mind, I want answers to my questions first, so I jump into the silence. “I have a benefits administration question I wanted to ask you about.”
He straightens, his eyes growing wary. “Okay.”
