Page 56 of About That Night

I’m proud of myself for not sticking around to defend myself. I have nothing to defend myself for, and certainly not to this insecure man-child. I shouldn’t give Nick the Prick the satisfaction of talking to Hank, but I can’t help myself.

Hank gives me a look of concern when I walk past his table. “Chas? You okay?”

That’s all it takes for me to drop into the chair opposite him and blurt out, “That guy was just…a jerk.”

“Wow, don’t hold back,” Hank says, sounding faintly amused. “What did he do? Do I have to go kick his ass?”

“No. He just said I’m too pretty for him because guys look at me.”

“He’s right. Guys do look at you. And you are too pretty for him.”

I sigh, exasperated, especially when I realize I left my coffee at the table. “Shit. I left my coffee over there. That was a seven dollar latte. In Porte French! That seems like a bold price.”

“Here.” He pushes his drink over to me. “Take mine. They went too heavy on the vanilla for my taste. Also, the production costs are still the same, no matter where you live.”

“Thanks for an economics lesson. You should go chat with Nick about it—that’s his major.” I lift his coffee and take a sip. “He said men and women can’t be friends.”

“He’s wrong. Look at us.”

“Exactly!”

Hank chuckles. “Though if the standard to meet is a sexual-tension-free friendship, then I think Nick’s theory may not be that far off the mark.”

Considering I was expecting him to agree with me, not Nick, I reach out and smack his arm. “Hank!”

“What? It’s true,” he protests. “We can’t just say we’ve only ever been friends. I have tasted your?—”

I cut him off. “Oh, my God, be quiet!” I hiss.

Of course, Nick approaches the exit right then. He eyes us both with a knowing glance and sets my coffee down on the table beside me without a word. The door jangles as he exits.

“Did he hear you?” I ask.

“I have no idea. Who cares? You didn’t like him anyway.”

I reach for the coffee Nick left.

Hank puts his hand on mine. “Don’t drink that. He probably put his finger in it or something.”

“What?! Why would he do that?” But I shove the cup away from me and start digging in my purse for hand sanitizer.

“Because he’s jealous. You’re too hot for him, and he knows it. Hell, he said it.”

“I’m not cut out for this,” I say, flustered. I squirt the sanitizer in my palm and rub both hands together vigorously.

Hank is grinning.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse. “The horror show of my dating attempts.”

He wipes the grin off his face. “No, I’m not. Sorry. I want you to be happy, Chastity. More than anything.”

My stomach flips. His expression is earnest, his hand stretching out to cover mine. His touch makes me tingle all over, his hand strong, fingers calloused. His gaze feels intense, sincere, caring. More than friends.

I have the sinking feeling that I’m only going to be happy in a relationship if the man staring back at me is Hank.

“I am happy,” I tell him. “Maybe I don’t need to date.”

I mean that. It’s an honest thinking-out-loud emotion.

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