Page 2 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Brother’s Best Friend

Rule number one for blind dates and anything under three dates: never go to a second location and absolutely never get in his car.

Ten minutes at the bar is all it takes for the little hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.

He isn’t a bad man, but he’s definitely not dating material. He starts the conversation by telling me about his “crazy” ex before we’ve even ordered drinks. She was needy, changed her mind about everything, and could never figure out what she wanted to do with her life. His words, not mine.

Every complaint he has about her lands a little too close to home for me. But it’s the way he talks about her that bothers me more. Like every problem in their relationship was hers instead of sharing the blame.

He lifts two fingers and waves them at the bartender. “Hey, buddy. We’ve been waiting.”

Which we haven’t, but the bartender gives us a quick nod as he finishes another order.

“You’ve got to try their smoked bourbon thing,” Charles tells me. “It’s amazing.”

“I’m not much of a bourbon drinker,” I say. “I like their Cosmo.”

“You don’t want a Cosmo.” Charles laughs like I’ve made a joke. When the bartender reaches us, Charles points to the Smoky Manhattan on the drink menu. “Two of these.”

“I actually want the Cosmo,” I say to the bartender.

Charles looks at me, still smiling. “Come on. Live a little. If I’m buying, you’re trying.”

The bartender’s eyes meet mine for half a second. I return his gaze with a tight smile.

Charles launches into an explanation of how they smoke the glass or the bourbon or something else I’m not really paying attention to. I slide my flip phone onto my lap beneath the bar ledge and feel for the buttons. I glance down quickly. The last message I sent is still on the screen. I hit reply and count the clicks.

SOS. Creep.

And hit send.

Briar should walk through the front door in the next ten minutes to save me from a fate worse than death. Or at least a first date that might bore me to death.

Charles is still droning on when the bartender returns. He sets two amber drinks in front of my lackluster date, then slides a pink cocktail toward me.

I blink and look up at the bartender, who gives me the slightest smirk. “Thank you,” I say, this time not forcing my smile.

“I’m not paying for that,” Charles says.

The bartender doesn’t flinch. “The lady’s drink is on the house.”

I wrap my fingers around the stem of the glass and take a slow satisfying sip.

Oh, that’s smooth. And not just the drink.

But Charles isn’t having any of it. He stands, pushing his chair away from the bar and leans over.

“Hey.” He snaps his fingers at the bartender who’s already three drinks deep making someone’s order. “Hey. I want to see the manager.”

At the very least, I want to crawl under my stool and hide. Not an option. Hiding in the lady’s room until Briar gets here for a fake emergency. Doable. But I have no doubt Charles would hang out by the door until I emerged. I eye the door. If I made a run for it while he’s distracted, I could make it to my car.

The thought makes my stomach buzz and my pulse to quicken, a mix of anxiety and daring. It isn’t nice to ditch a date, but I choose to dare.

I grab a folded twenty from my wallet and slide it partially under the napkin beneath my cocktail glass. I clutch my purse strap and ease my chair away from the bar, my attention torn between Charles and the door. He’s distracted, getting more agitated by the second. When he huffs and walks away from his seat, heading toward the end of the bar, I make a break for it and make a beeline to the exit.

I glance over my shoulder for a quick second as I lean into the mahogany door, pushing my way through as fast as possible. The collision is immediate, knocking the wind out of me as I land smack center of a man’s solid chest. His muscular arms wrap around me, catching me before I stumble, and I swear his cologne makes me dizzy.

“Why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” he growls.

CHAPTER TWO