Page 87 of Most Likely to Deny Love

“Just be direct,” Maya advised, reading my hesitation. “Men don’t do subtext.”

At Lacey’s with the girls. They’ve plied me with wine and forced me to tell Paris stories. You should probably come rescue me before I reveal state secrets.

I hit send before I could overthink it, then placed my phone face down on the table. “There. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Emily grinned, raising her glass in a toast. “To our hot, broody boss, who’s about to get ambushed by his girlfriend’s best friends.”

“Fake fiancée,” I corrected automatically.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, honey.” Poppy patted my hand sympathetically.

My phone buzzed against the table, making me jump. Four pairs of eyes locked onto it like predators spotting prey.

“Read it,” Sammy urged, practically vibrating with excitement.

I flipped the phone over, my pulse quickening embarrassingly as I saw Jack’s name on the screen.

Should I be concerned about national security? On my way. Need anything?

I stared at the message, reading it twice to make sure I hadn’t hallucinated it. “He’s coming,” I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

“Called it,” Emily crowed, signaling the waitress. “We’ll need another chair.”

“And what does Mr. Tall, Dark and Broody drink?” Poppy asked, already scanning the beer list.

“Scotch, neat,” I replied without thinking. “Preferably something old and expensive that Lacey’s definitely doesn’t have.”

“Five bucks says he orders whatever they do have without complaining,” Maya wagered. “Rich people are weird like that. Either super picky or weirdly humble.”

“No bet,” Sammy declined. “Men like him could order tap water and somehow make it look like they’re doing the bar a favor.”

I was saved from responding by the arrival of another round of drinks. As the waitress set down our glasses, my phone buzzed again.

Give me twenty minutes. What kind of wine are you drinking?

“He wants to know what wine we’re having,” I reported, feeling oddly flustered.

“Tell him we’ve moved on to tequila,” Emily suggested with a mischievous grin.

“Absolutely not,” I typed a quick response, describing the mediocre house red that Lacey’s served by the gallon.

The girls continued their Paris interrogation, somehow extracting increasingly embarrassing details as the wine continued to flow. I was in the middle of describing the little boulangerie Jack had taken me to when the door to the bar swung open.

The Friday night crowd at Lacey’s was typical for our small town with a mix of locals unwinding after work, a few younger couples on dates, and the usual suspects who’d been occupying the same barstools since the place opened decades ago. Conversations flowed, country music played from the jukebox, and the smell of beer and fried food lingered in the air.

And then there was Jack.

He paused just inside the entrance, scanning the room with that intense focus that always made me feel hot. Even in dark jeans and a henley pushed up to his elbows, he looked like he’d stepped off a magazine cover. Several heads turned as he spotted our table and began making his way over.

“Holy mother of God,” Maya muttered beside me.

“Exactly,” Emily whispered back.

“Be cool,” I hissed, though my own heart was doing a ridiculous little flutter that had nothing to do with the wine.

Jack reached our table, his eyes finding mine immediately. “Ladies,” he greeted, that hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I understand there’s a security situation that requires my attention.”

“Definitely,” Emily confirmed solemnly. “Mia was just about to reveal your secret Batman identity to the entire bar.”

---