Page 13 of Flirting with 40

“Whatever.” I wave a hand her way.

“You have great curves and salon-worthy hair—”

“I think you’ve drunk too much—”

“And you’re smart and dedicated, and I could go on and on.”

“Thank you, but you’re my best friend—you knew me when I had frizzy hair and wore glasses—so you have to say that.”

“I don’t.” She holds up her hand to stop my argument. “It’s a fight for another day.” She tops off my glass when I hold it out. “Let’s get back to how Little Miss Thang reacted when you tore her card up and told her to go to hell.”

I stare at my best friend of twenty-plus years and twist my lips in response. I may have replayed the scene in my head a couple of (hundred) times, and in each one of them, not once did I scamper away like a mousy female and let the gorgeous brunette get the better of me and my self-confidence.

“Please tell me you told her off.” There is a pleading disbelief in her voice that has me averting my eyes. “Blake.” She waits until I meet her eyes and then huffs. “Why would you not put her in her place?”

I stare at her as I fight the tears welling in my eyes and shrug, embarrassed. “I should have. I felt so good about myself for the first time in forever, and then . . . I didn’t.”

“What did you do?”

I cross my hands over my face as if to hide from her. “Don’t ask.”

“Blakely.” My name is a warning. “Spill it.”

“I slipped her card under his drink and snuck away while he was on his call.” Shame heats my cheeks as I force myself to meet her eyes.

“Why on earth would you do that?” she asks. “Why would you let her win?”

“I’ve asked myself that a million times. It isn’t as if anything would have come from it. He was there for whatever, and I was trying to unwind—”

“But you obviously hit it off.”

“That’s an exaggeration. We barely met.” I say the words, refusing to acknowledge that there was a connection so I don’t feel like more of an idiot than I already do.

“Did he flirt with you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he was just being nice,” I deflect.

“Was there any casual touching? You know, the kind where his knee accidentally hits yours but doesn’t move away?”

I think of his hand on the back of my chair, of the soft graze of his thumb against my shoulder, and don’t answer.

“Was there the tingly feeling?” She waggles her eyebrows, and I laugh.

The funny thing? Kelsie and I are best friends on the level of we tell each other everything. She knows the things Paul did in bed that I hated and the ones that I loved. I know the quirks of the men she dates. And yet, I’m hesitant to admit that I really liked Slade.

Well, I am glad that, for whatever reason it was, you stopped in here tonight.

“Hey, Blake?”

“Hmm?”

“You should never let another woman steal your sparkle. You know that.”

She’s right. I do know that. “This thing with Paul—his moving on—has really done a number on me.” It pains me to admit it, but there it is.

“It would do a number on anyone. Hell, you aren’t made of stone, but at the same time, who the hell was she to say that to you?”

“It was probably for the best. Did I really think anything was going to come of it?”