I shoot her a grin. “I appreciate that.”
“So do I,” another one calls.
“Thank you guys, seriously,” I tell her.
“Is this your girlfriend?” one asks.
My eyes widen as I turn back to Abby, who suddenly looks very interested in the cheese fries, her attention anywhere but us.
“Oh, uh, no,” I say, feeling awkward. “This is my friend.”
The brunette smiles sultrily then, leaning across the table. “Any chance of getting your number?”
“Wow, someone’s bold,” Abby mutters.
I have to suppress a laugh at the utter bitterness in her tone, quietly enjoying the fact thatapparentlyAbby is a little jealous over this encounter. I know that shouldn’t thrill me, but secretly, it really does.
“Sorry,” I say, wanting to let her down gently. “I am kind of seeing someone right now.”
Her lip pouts. “Bummer. Can’t hurt to ask, right?”
“Absolutely,” I agree, trying to be polite.
The bride thanks me again for the selfie and the autograph, their group finally meandering off as they all loudly gush about the encounter. I wait until they’re out of earshot before I finally turn back to Abby.
“Sorry about that,” I tell her.
She shrugs like she’s bored. “No big deal. Gotta keep the image up, right?”
“Yeah, but I was just being polite.”
“Tell that to Miss Boobs,” she snarks.
“Is someone a little jealous, Abigail?”
She bristles at the mere mention of it, reminding me of a cat that’s just been thrown into a vat of water.
“Of course I’m not,” she huffs, shoving another fry into her mouth.
“Good.” I lean in a little closer. “Because you’re the prettiest girl in the room.”
I can visibly see the way her face heats with the compliment, and she ducks her head as if this will hide it, so I reach my hand under the table, squeezing her knee.
“Trust me, bed buddy,” I murmur. “Youneverhave anything to be jealous about.”
I don’t miss the little smile on her face when she reaches for another fry (starting to think it’s a coping mechanism now), and my chest does that funny thing again, like it doesn’t know if it wants to be too small or too big. I wonder again about the idea ofactuallygoing on a date with Abby, if she might be as opposed to it as I first thought.
Realizing that I want it a lot more thanIthought.
“Let’s play some pool,” I tell her, not wanting this night to end with just beer and cheese fries.
She grimaces. “I told you, I’m awful at it.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’m great at it, and therefore with me as your teacher, you’ll be decidedly average.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I have to fight the urge to kiss her cheek, something that is alotharder to keep from doing than it should be. I slide out of the booth to let her get by me and head to a pool table, my mind still pinging with daydreams about taking her on a proper date. Wondering if there’s ever a chance she might agree to it.
