Page 61 of More Than Pen Pals

He doesn’t need to add that his clothes won’t come anywhere close to fitting me. He’s not a small man, but I’ve got three inches and two shoe sizes on him.

“I’ve got some jeans, a clean shirt, and loafers in the car.”

“You do?”

“Yep. I like to be prepared.”

“Shocking,” he deadpans.

“Isn’t it, though? Hold up. Where are we going that I can’t wear a suit or shiny shoes?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Fine. Now get out of here. I have a few calls to make before I can head out.”

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton, sir.”

“Shut up and get out.”

“There’s the Grouchy Smurf we all know and love so well.” He pushes up from the chair and heads out the door, leaving it standing open as usual.

“And close the door!” I call after him.

Shockingly, he returns, but he flips me the bird before he swings the door shut. I roll my eyes as I pick up the phone.

* * *

“Aren’t you glad you’re not wearing a suit?” Randall asks.

We’ve miraculously snagged an empty booth at the Irish pub around the corner from his apartment.

“I guess.” I honestly don’t care what I’m wearing, compared to anyone else. I rarely do. And I spot more than a few men—and women—in suits among the crowd at McConnell’s.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not.”

I didn’t get to Randall’s until after six o’clock, and he drank a beer or two while he waited for me, so he’s already on his way to inebriation.

“What are your other friends up to tonight?” I ask him.

He spins a cardboard beer coaster around in his hand and avoids my eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You didn’t invite anyone other than your non-fun little brother?”

He tosses the coaster down. “I don’t want to talk to any of them, becauseshe’snow with one of them.”

I feel sick. “What? Colleen cheated on you with one of your friends? And now she’s dating him?”

He nods. “And everyone else knew, and they didn’t tell me.”

I want to punch every last one of those guys. No wonder he’s on a mission to get drunk. “I think you need some new friends.”

Before he can respond, a waitress appears at our table. Her name tag identifies her as Tammy. She’s wearing a denim miniskirt and a white button-up shirt that’s missing a few buttons in a crucial area. I force my eyes up to her face as I order my usual Coke.

“No whiskey in that, hon?” she asks.

“No thanks.” I give her my typical excuse. “I’m driving.”

“That’s handy.” She licks her lips as she inspects me from head to toe. “I might need a ride home after my shift.”

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