“This. . .” Clarke gestured at Dani’s ensemble. “. . . can’t just be for us.”
Our petite friend had next-to-no boobs and barely scraped 5’3”—and that was in heeled boots—but the corseted top of her dress hugged every curve like it was made for her body and her body alone. But I agreed with Clarke. This wasn’t a casual afternoon barbeque kind of look. Who was Dani trying to impress?
Dani shrugged. “Laundry day.”
A dry laugh bubbled out of me.
Laundry day my ass.
“Where do you want this?” she asked, lifting her tray and skirting the subject entirely.
Dani had been a part of our friend circle for almost as long as Clarke, but even then, it was safe to say that none of us knew her as well. She kept her cards close to her chest, guarded by an impenetrable force of sarcasm and sheer genius. Seriously, the woman was off the charts brilliant. Ten years and two therapists ago, I might have tried to date her. Alas, I had missed my shot.
Two emotionally unavailable, thirtysomething bisexuals were a recipe for disaster.
I gasped audibly when my eyes landed on the dish in her hands.
“Are those . . . ?”
“Potatoes,” June finished for me, in a mesmerized tone that rivaled Homer Simpson.
“Oh, it’s potatoes on potatoes on potatoes,” Dani said.
She wasn’t kidding. There were at least three different types of fries, plus separate ramekins stuffed full of potato salad, thickly cut potato chips, and sweet potato hash. Not to mention a wide assortment of dips, salts, and butters—a complex carbohydrate wet dream.
“Girl, you outdid yourself,” I told her. “This puts my caramel apple board to shame.”
Dani’s lips tilted up in a grin. “You overestimate my abilities. This wasn’t me.”
My brows pinched together, first with confusion and then with shock.
“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head.
There was no use denying what I already knew to be true but was still reluctant to believe.
“Oh, yes.” Her smile widened like something out of a scary movie. “These taters are courtesy of Chef Jared Pink.”
Fuck. My. Life.
The man could cook. The man could cook?!
Damn him for putting together a superior spread of air-fried goodness.
“Mm,” Clarke said around a bite of waffle fry. “Please give my compliments to the chef because sweet heavens, that’s delicious.”
“Seriously, Ness.” June tore into her second sour cream-soaked latke. “You have to try these.”
“No, thank you.” I crossed my arms under my breasts. “I’m good.”
Now I was the one being gawked at, and it wasn’t because of my outfit, even though I looked cute as fuck. I’d finally found the perfect maxi skirt to go with my favorite bookish tee. I knew I was being stubborn. I knew—just from the smell alone—that his potato platter was fucking fantastic.
“Afternoon, ladies.”
Speak of the devil.
I had never been a religious woman, butifthere was a devil, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he looked like Jared Pink. Effortlessly charming, 6’2”—or 6’4” on his dating app—with a smile that melted hearts and panties alike.
“What do you think of the fries?” he asked eagerly. “Oh! Did you try the latkes?”
