Page 57 of Tight End

I’d be saving her from a bad date with some douchebag who will likely spend the whole night talking about himself and then end their evening with a lousy kiss and a poor excuse for a boob squeeze. And then she wouldn’t have to face him Monday morning and pretend she had a good time.

It doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m a helpful guy and June needs help.

“Do you need to poop now? Or are you ready to watch the mobie?” Oliver stares at me from the couch, his head cocked, remote in hand.

“I’m good. I’m ready for the movie.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, my phone pings with a text. Poppy’s number.

Now comes the real question.

Do I find out where June went to dinner for her happy little date with the office fuckboy, or do I let her move on so I can do the same?

TWENTY-FIVE

June

“I’m soglad we did this.” Michael leans over the table toward me. His voice is raised, but I can only just hear him over the clink of the silverware and all the conversations going on around us.

The restaurant is busy, the atmosphere great, but it does nothing to settle the uneasy feeling swirling through me. Especially not when Michael reaches out, covering my hand with his.

“Me too.” This was a mistake. I should’ve canceled, faked an emergency, pretended to be sick, anything to get out of this date.

Michael is nice, genuinely nice, but there’s nothing he can say or do that would make this work. There is no spark, no butterflies, no electricity. Nothing. The chemistry between us is nonexistent.

It’s a slight struggle to keep my hand under his and pretend to feel something, anything.

Maybe in another life, on a totally different planet, one where I have not met Ryan Devlin, this could be a thing.

But I have.

I know how he smells, how he tastes, how it feels when he’s moving inside me, how he makes me fall apart over and over and over again. Now that I know he doesn’t have a girlfriend, the floodgates are open. I remember every touch, every whisper, every single glide of his body against mine.

Being with Ryan is a bad idea, a terrible idea, but I can’t seem to remember why.

The waiter stops by, dropping off our food. “Does everything look okay?”

“It looks great.” Michael is all smiles. Of course he is. He thinks this is going well. He has no idea that the ugly truth is working its way through every pore, every cell in my body. I’m not over Ryan Devlin, and I’m not sure I ever will be.

Although, in all fairness, the food does look good. I’ll give Michael that—he has great taste in restaurants. This place is New Orleans inspired, and the seafood gumbo in front of me smells amazing.

Now if only the knot in my stomach would loosen so I could eat.

“Thank you so much.” I try to force a smile, but I’m not sure it’s more than a grimace. Lucky for me, neither the waiter nor Michael seem to notice.

Not so lucky, the waiter tells us to enjoy and leaves us alone once again.

I try the smile once more, sliding my hand slowly out from underneath his. “This looks great. I can’t wait to dig in.”

A glass breaks somewhere behind the bar, quickly followed by loud shouts and a round of applause. Michael is impassive, not even looking that way, and I can’t help but wonder how Ryan would react. What would date Ryanbe like?

Would he be polite? Would he pull out my chair? Would he touch my lower back, guide me into the restaurant? Would he try to do anything else?

Dang it, June. You’re on a date.

Another smile and I bring a spoonful of gumbo up to my lips, taking a small bite.

“How old is Oliver now?” He hasn’t even touched his food. Why can’t he just eat?

“He’s three.”

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