Page 5 of Tanner

My muse lets out a sigh. “Not by a Joey Tribbiani wannabe.”

Ryan’s brows dramatically curve in, and he starts to recoil. I can see the redhead’s mouth start to open, probably to tell us thanks, but no thanks, so I offer my best wingman skills.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend. He’s actually pretty shy.”

The redhead raises a brow at him. “You don’t seem like it.”

“I am.” He grins. “I’m the worst with opening lines.”

“He is,” I agree.

“I get tongue-tied when I meet a beautiful woman.”

“It’s true.”

“I usually say the wrong thing.”

“He does.”

“I’m a great closer though,” he says, and I hit him on the back of the head. “Ow.” He rubs the spot where I just hit him. “Like that. Apparently, I shouldn’t have said that.”

The redhead laughs loudly. She extends a hand to Ryan. “You could use some help on your opening argument. I’m April.”

Ryan is elated that Jessica Rabbit has given him attention. As he reciprocates the greeting, I step to the side and lean against the steel bar, happy to be a wallflower as he does the absolute worst at flirting.

The blonde is next to me, surveying the bar on the other side of the room, looking anywhere but at me, as I’m obviously staring directly at her.

“You come here often?” I ask, trying to get her attention.

She glances over at me, her eyes landing on the three buttons at the top of my shirt. “Aren’t you a bit underdressed for this place?”

“The way I see it, everyone else is overdressed.”

Her lip rises just a touch before falling down, as if she’s remembered she doesn’t want to be charmed tonight. The way she keeps her attention on the crowd, she appears to want someone in particular who’s not me.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I ask.

“No,” she replies without turning my way.

I let out a laugh under my breath and say to myself, “Okay then,” before I take another sip of my beer.

Her shoulders broaden as a man walks through the crowd. Her eyes inspect him from top to bottom, taking in his Armani suit and Italian loafers. I know the threads because my family wears them on a daily basis.

She slides away from me, obviously casting some distance so that no one mistakes us for being together.

I put my beer down on the bar and cross my arms toward her. “You know, I am a phenomenal wingman.”

She gives me the side-eye.

“I’m serious. Look what I did for my friend. Tell me what guy in here you fancy, and I’ll help you land him.”

With her mouth poised to tell me something—probably to tell me off—she turns toward me with intention. What that intention is, is beyond me because she barely lets out a squeak. Her mouth is open, but she says nothing as her gaze lands on mine, and I swear, she stops breathing. Those blue eyes light up as she looks up at me—really looking at me—her eyes traveling from mine and over the angles of my face, landing on my mouth that widens into a smirk.

Her gaze moves lower to my shirt and then my jeans, and as soon as she sees my boots, she snaps out of her daze and quickly resumes her position to peer around the room.

“I don’t need a wingman,” she says curtly, sounding short of breath.

I might be young, but I’ve been around women enough to know when one is attracted to me. I’m not conceited. I’m observant. Yet she’s still scanning the room, looking for a man. The only difference between me and most of the men in this room is my attire. This girl is in the market for a suit, which means she’s looking for a meal ticket.