Chapter 1
"PICK AGAIN. I'Mbeggingyou."
I'm not above begging. Hell, I'll get down on my knees right here in this sticky-floored bar if that's what it takes to change Ivy's mind. Though knowing her, she'd probably just take a picture and use it as blackmail material later.
"I don't think I will." The shit-eating grin spreading across her face tells me she's enjoying my suffering way too much.
"Ivy..." I try for my best puppy dog eyes, but she's known me too long to fall for that trick.
"I wantthatone." She juts her chin toward the table across the bar where her chosen prey sits among what appears to be half the city's population.
"And I want to pet a lion, but sometimes the price is not worth the purchase." I take a long pull from my beer, hoping the alcohol might magically transform me into someone who enjoys walking up to large groups of strangers. Spoiler alert: it doesn't.
"It is when you're paying. Come on. Youpromised." She pokes me in the ribs, right where she knows I'm ticklish. Evil woman.
I did promise to be her wingman tonight. It's part of the "Best Friend Contract" or some shit. Right between "Always tellme if I have food in my teeth" and "Never let me drunk text my ex." But in my defense, when I made that promise, I assumed she'd pick normal targets. You know, guys standing alone at the bar looking lonely and desperate. Not some dude surrounded by what looks like a bachelor party on steroids.
"Fine." I drain the last of my beer for courage. "But you owe me big time."
Who needs enemies when you have friends like that?
Each step toward the table feels like I'm walking to my own execution. My palms are sweating like I'm about to give a presentation in high school all over again. Except this time, instead of boring my classmates with facts about the mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell, I'm about to interrupt what appears to be the world's most intense discussion about... is that fantasy football? Jesus Christ.
One by one, heads turn in my direction like some horror movie scene where the protagonist realizes they've stumbled into a nest of vampires. And because the universe hates me, Mr. Jawline is the last one to notice my presence.
When he finally does look up, my brain short-circuits. Damn, he's even more handsome up close. Like, unfairly so. Which isn't really a surprise—Ivy doesn't go for scraps. His jaw could probably cut glass, and those eyebrows? They deserve their own Instagram account.
Damn it, Chris. Say something, don't just stare.
"Hi. Hey. Hello." Yeah, I think he got that part. "Can I borrow you for a second?" I gesture vaguely toward the bar, praying he doesn't think I'm having a stroke.
There's a moment of silence that stretches longer than my last relationship. He raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow—seriously, does he have them professionally done?—and I'm painfully aware that seven pairs of eyes are studying me like I'm some fascinating new species at the zoo.
"Sure," he says finally, and I nearly collapse from relief when the rest of the table returns to their conversation instead of pointing and laughing at the awkward intruder.
He stands up, and... damn, he's even taller than he appeared sitting down. The kind of tall that makes you wonder if he has to duck through doorways. As he leads the way to the bar, I can't help but notice his shoulders are broader than my future prospects.
I throw a quick glance back at my table and catch Ivy's eye. She's practically vibrating with excitement, so I give her a subtle wink. She grins back, looking all kinds of giddy, like she just won the hot guy lottery.
The dude better be worth all this emotional trauma I'm putting myself through.
We find an empty spot at the bar, and I'm just about to launch into my carefully prepared "So my friend thinks you're hot" speech when Mr. Jawline beats me to the punch.
"What are you drinking?"
Well, that's unexpected. I open my mouth to order my usual vodka cranberry (don't judge, it's delicious), but something stops me. This is reconnaissance, after all. A man's drink choice can tell you a lot about him. Like how my ex-boss exclusively drank PBR and, surprise surprise, turned out to be exactly the kind of douchebag who exclusively drinks PBR.
"Surprise me."
He gives me this look, like he's trying to read my soul through my face, which should be uncomfortable but somehowisn't. Then he turns to the bartender and orders two glasses of whiskey, neat, sliding over his credit card and adding a tip that makes me want to high-five him.
That's three green flags right there.
He takes a sip of his drink and raises one of those magnificent eyebrows at me, waiting.
Right. Focus, Chris. Time for the boyfriend background check, because men are trash. I should know—I am one.
"Are you single by any chance?"
