Page 89 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Whit holds up my phone and shows off the photo. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. Is this her dog?”

“Not yet,” I say carefully.

“Text her to come tonight!” Jen says.

“No, y’all, please don’t—”

Whit flips the phone back around and squints her eyes. “Hold him in place. I’m taking a photo so she can see the suspenders.”

“Seriously! Do not—”

Jen’s hands tighten on my arms. “Got him. Take it before he starts flopping like a fish.”

I roll my eyes. “This is the worst.”

“Got it! And send.”

I cover my face. “Augh!”

“You look adorably resigned,” Whit says and tosses the phone back to me.

I fumble it, but keep it from dropping. “You guys are going to kill me.” I glance at the screen. “Oh god, I look aw—”

“Adorable!” Jen interrupts, patting my arm. “And she’ll think as much, too.”

I don’t want to be adorable. I want to be handsome. Sexy. Irresistible. Not adorable. Whit has followed the photo up with a text.

Come to the Maverick tonight.

No question. No suggestion. A demand.

The three dots appear. Then disappear. Appear again. Then—

“She’s killing me,” Jen groans.

I huff. “Tell me about it.”

Finally, her message pops up.

Is that what you’re wearing? Sign me up.

She follows it up with a string of emojis, including the salute and the hot one with its tongue out.

“That seems like a yes to me,” Jen says with a waggle of her eyebrows.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and hold up my hands, announcing to the bar, “Can we get back to work?”

“Says the guy who has a one-way ticket to la-la land,” Whit mutters.

They both laugh.

Jen claps me on the back. “Can’t hide her from us forever, Wyatt.”

I suddenly feel like I’ve swallowed a bunch of rocks. Any mention of hiding or secrets has me on red alert these days. The guilt hasn’t disappeared. It mounts the closer Eleanor and I become.

Our relationship has been built entirely on a lie. A little white one of my telling.

And this kind of thinking, this isn’t la-la land.

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