“Oh!” Reb suddenly looks up from her phone, where she's been scrolling away. “You should be British!”
“What?” I ask.
Reb turns her phone out. “It says here sometimes silly accents help. It's how Emily Blunt got into acting. Ergo, your persona should be British.” She snaps her fingers and does an impression pulled straight from Harry Potter. “Wotcher Harry!”
I give her a slow blink. “Do you dye your hair because you're trying to be Tonks?”
She glares at me. “Look, Rowling disappointed us all, but the books are about more than just the author. So you can pry my Tonks fandom from my cold dead hands.”
I hold up my hands, palms out. “Just asking.”
Thea rolls her eyes and says, “Girls, please! Are we done here, or do I need to order another prickly pear margarita?”
Reb shrugs. “All I’m saying is in a world where you can be anyone, why not be Emily Blunt? Plus, she’s married to Hot Jim.”
“Who?”
“Jim from The Office. But super hot! What’s his name?” She snaps her fingers several times in a row, repeating the phrase. “What’s his name? What’s his name?”
“John Krasinski?”
“Yes!”
“I think you might have had too many margaritas,” I say gently, still not sure where she’s going with this.
She leans forwards and plants her hands on the table. “Of course, I’ve had too many margaritas! Tinker Bell and I are totally lightweights. It’s simple biology. But my point is still valid. If Emily Blunt can score hot Jim from The Office, then you, as a British person, could score your hot office guy.”
I glance over at Keegan, because I can practically feel the tension rolling off of him. “I think she means—”
“Yeah. I got it. Your hot boss that you have a crush on.” Keegan gives me a steely-eyed once over. “Just don’t forget you’ve got a date with me first.”
I laugh nervously, not at all sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. Because going with Keegan to this fundraiser isn’t a date. Not a date-date. Right?
That’s what he called it just now, but that’s just because he doesn’t like Reid. Right?
There’s no way he’s actually upset about my crush on Reid. Is there?
More confused than ever, I let out a huff of breath, then raise my glass to take another drink of my margarita, only to find it empty. I’d order another one, but then Reb would too and she doesn’t need another. Who knows how the boob armor discussions would go then?
Except when I look back at her, she’s got a little smirk on her mouth that makes me wonder if she was lying about being a lightweight.
* * *
Back at the office after lunch, I'm still struggling to concentrate. I should be thinking about the project and my upcoming makeover, but all I can think about is Keegan’s comment about Saturday being a date.
Also, why was he at Hung Out to Dry today? Why did we have to run into him at all?
Yes, he’s my best friend, and I’m always delighted to see him. But even with best friends, sometimes you need a little moderation. Especially when that best friend is unfortunately hot, and you once had a crush on them. Despite what they say, you can have too much of a good thing.
And when that good thing involves weird lying-on-the-floor-together tension, a sneak attack fake kiss, an unsolicited fantasy, and unexpected knee contact ... well then that’s too much.
Or maybe I’m just the biggest dork ever, and I haven’t gotten out enough since breaking up with Ollie, and I probably just need to do something to take the edge off tonight when I get home. Yeah. It’s probably that second one.
Except that now, with everything that’s happened this week, I can’t do anything to ‘take the edge off,’ because it won’t feel like I’m just taking the edge off. It will feel like I’m fantasizing about Keegan while I take the edge off. And that’s not cool. That’s definitely crossing a line.
Like a huge, clearly delineated, uncrossable line. That I will not cross.
Shit, I already said that.
