Page 4 of Just This Once

He only smiles bigger at my disinterest then slants his focus back to Clara. I angle away so my legs aren’t in his manspreading vicinity. Though I don’t know how his thighs can even move that much with the fit of those pants.

“Dante and I graduated high school together,” Clara explains, and it all makes sense now.

He’s a baby. A generation that loves tight pants and showing a lot of ankle.

I let my gaze wander down, and, yep, his pants are cuffed, and he’s got a bare ankle above his Adidas. I don’t understand why the fashion industry insisted on prying my skinny jeans away, just to let men have them.

“We were basically best friends back then,” Clara goes on,stealing my focus away from Dante and his legs, only for it to stick on his mouth when he clucks his tongue.

“Clara Shaw, I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Actually, it’s Clara Wilkenson-Shaw now.” She wraps her arm around Marianne’s waist. “But, yeah. I can’t believe you’re here. You said you were having dinner with your family?”

He glances my way, lazily rubbing his hands up and down his thighs, and I don’t let my eyes or mind linger on his thick fingers or the well-defined forearms, shown off by shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Yeah, my brother got engaged.”

“Which one?”

“Johnny. Robbie’s married with kids now.”

Clara coos. “Amazing. Good for them. What about you? You have anyone?” When he shakes his head, she pushes his shoulder, “Now,thatis unbelievable.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, and I don’t like how the sound reaches my ears even over the din of the restaurant. He’s tall and clearly muscular beneath his clothes. With shoulders that seem sturdy enough to, like, haul a tree trunk across them. I clear my throat with a long drag of my drink, forcing myself to stop admiring him. If he graduated with Clara, that means he’s thirty years old. Much too young for me. And from all his laughing and smiling, much too peppy.

I don’t trust peppy people.

No one can be that naturally optimistic all the time.

But unfortunately for me, he angles his head my way again, and my traitorous eyes find his strong jaw with scruff, a long, wide nose that speaks to some Mediterranean heritage, and up to find his brown eyes studying me.

I flash hot. Not unusual in my perimenopausal state, but I don’t normally get the sweats from men. That’s saved for the two a.m. wake-up, drenched and tangled in my bedsheets. And suddenly, my brain assaults me with images of being drenchedand tangled in bedsheets for whole other reasons that begin and end with Dante’s lips.

I zip my gaze away, fiddling with the napkin on the bar top as he leans toward me, speaking to no one in particular. “Seemed like I interrupted a celebration.”

“We’re celebrating Taryn’s birthday,” Clara says, and if I could reach her, I’d punch her in the tit because Dante goes positively neon.

“Really?” He brushes my thigh with his—seriously, how big are his legs?—as he shifts for the bartender’s attention. “We need to order another round on me.”

“No. No, thank you.”

He glances at me over his shoulder, brows drawn down. “It’s a big day. You only turn…”

“Forty-two,” Clara supplies, and I shoot her a death glare. She shrugs in innocence, and Marianne laughs into her shoulder.

My birthday was actually last week, and I had a small cake with my kids, but I couldn’t get away until now to celebrate with my friends. Not that it matters. I don’t have friends anymore.

“You only turn forty-two once.” Dante helps himself to a sip of my drink before I can stop him, and my jaw hangs open as he orders me another spritz. Once he faces me again, he shakes his head, like he doesn’t understand why I’m glowering at him. As if what he did wasn’t totally inappropriate.

“You can’t have a sip of a random stranger’s drink.”

He tips his head to the side. He might think he’s adorable, but I do not. “You’re not a random stranger. You’re Clara’s best friend, which kind of makes you mine, by association.”

“That’s not how friendship works.”

He ignores me, simply nodding at the bartender when shedelivers my drink and smiles at me. “Plus, I crashed your party, so I have to gift you something.”

I have a feeling I won’t win this argument—or any with how he exudes confidence and charm, ugh—but I try anyway. “I don’t want anything.”

He lifts his shoulder. “Maybe not, but you deserve it. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you something else. Did you eat? Want a special dessert? They have a dark chocolate mousse I think you’d like.”

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