Page 21 of Flirting with 40

“Your actions spoke louder. You left.”

“It’s a long story.” The words stutter out.

“We have time.” I lift my eyebrows and lean against the wall at my back.

“That isn’t what I’m talking—this—right there—back there—that’s what I mean.” She stumbles over the words as her cheeks flush red. At least I know I wasn’t crazy. The interest was mutual. Why can’t she just admit to it?

“What about it?” I ask as casual as can be. I thought she was sexy when she was calm and collected the other night, but hell, she’s even sexier when she’s flustered and pissed.

Blakely looks back toward where we just came from and then to me. “Are you insane? You just walked up and kissed me and acted as if—”

“I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘Thank you for saving my ass, Slade.’”

“Saving my ass?” she sputters.

Definitely sexy.

“Yeah. From Replacement Barbie and your ex.” I glance toward the small crowd that is starting to gather outside of Metta’s and lift my chin toward them. “We should go so we can get a table before they do. They don’t take reservations, not even for tables at the bar.”

“You just told them that we had one.”

“Had to think on my feet.” My smile deepens. “A quick drink? We can cement your relationship status since we’ll be in such close quarters with them.”

“Wh-wh-what are you talking about?” she asks, her voice as scattered as her eyes moving back and forth between Metta’s, me, and the direction we just came from. A woman used to being in control who can’t take that she isn’t.

“I mean, we can play off the fact that you didn’t kiss me back as you being in shock from seeing them together for the first time . . . but I don’t think Paul will buy it a second time. So, we need to get to Metta’s before they do. If we aren’t there, they’re going to know that whole thing back there was a sham.”

She just blinks. “And what exactly was it then?”

“I thought we already went over this. That was me saving your ass and letting your ex know he isn’t the only one who’s moved on to better.”

Her smile is incredulous, but she slowly shakes her head as if she’s still trying to comprehend the last ten minutes. “I don’t understand. Why?”

There is so much confusion laced in that last word that I just stare at her and wonder when was the last time she’d been treated right.

“Because there are nice guys out there, Blakely. Guys who step in and do the right thing. Ones who treat the woman right even when she isn’t theirs. Apparently, you haven’t met them before, but I know for a fact they do exist.”

She opens her mouth and closes it. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes well with tears that she blinks away just as quickly as they appear.

There’s a moment—the briefest of seconds—when that wall of hers slips and her vulnerability surfaces. It’s beautiful and fleeting and makes me want to get that smile back on her lips.

I point to the awning of the restaurant and shrug. “Go with me or leave. It’s your choice. Either way, I’m going to Metta’s because one, the appetizers are killer, and two, I don’t know what the circumstances are between the two of you, but he’s an asshole and deserves nothing less than the jealousy he’ll feel when he sees you laughing despite him.”

CHAPTER SIX

Blakely

Our drinks are served, and I’m still trying to process how in the hell I went from a shitty meeting with Heather to an unexpected run-in with Paul and his new plaything to sitting across from Slade, the man I ghosted the other night at the bar.

The man who took it upon himself to save me from that awkward conversation I probably would have walked away from, no doubt feeling shitty about myself. Instead, Paul is probably wondering what in the hell happened to his wife and who in the hell this Slade guy is.

I’m kind of wondering the same things myself.

I glance over to where Paul and Barbie are sitting across the small dining room, engrossed in their overt public display of affection, before looking back.

“She’ll never stay with him if it’s any consolation.” Slade’s words are as blunt as his stare is inquisitive.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, still trying to comprehend that our connection at the bar wasn’t one-sided or made up by a hard-up older woman (me) desperate for attention.