Page 47 of A Little Tempting

He’s. An. Escort.

What the hell is wrong with me? Of course, I can’t date him.

“Don’t get me wrong, great idea, Lia,” Finley says, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “But while you guys are waiting, I think I’ll do a little more digging on who Everett may or may not have kissed during the costume party, and I’ll also see if I can give Reeves an itsy, bitsy, teeny, tiny push?—”

“Don’t you dare,” I snap.

She lifts her hands in defense. “Okay, okay. I’ll wait…for a little while.”

“You’re relentless,” I point out.

“I like to call it dedicated, but thank you.”

Rubbing at my temples, the day finally catching up with me, along with the knowledge Finley isn’t going to drop this anytime soon, I stand from the couch. “I think it’s time for me to call it a night. Ophelia, it’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you like crazy. And Finley, you’re a pain in the ass, but I love you anyway. Goodnight.”

“‘Night,” they say in unison.

I head down the hall and close the bathroom door behind me.

Maybe Everett was lying. Maybe he is ballooning Reeves’...job. Maybe Reeves really is interested in me.

And maybe pigs can fly.

One thing’s for sure. If Finley opens her big, fat mouth to either of them, I’ll seriously slip a frog into her bed.

The thought makes me smile.

I push myself away from the door and turn on the shower.

11

DYLAN

Tonight’s my first shift at Rowdy’s without a trainer. It shouldn’t be nerve-wracking, but it kind of is. Finley’s here, though I haven’t seen her much. The place is too busy. Peanut shells crunch beneath my cowgirl boots as I wipe my hands against the black apron wrapped around my waist while a guy is thrown from the mechanical bull in the corner. His name is Bruce. Not the guy, the bull. Apparently, he’s been here since the place opened and is even more of a celebrity than the restaurant owner, Rowdy, who’s almost always somewhere. Greeting the regulars. Introducing himself to the new faces.

Yeah, this place is something else.

I make my way toward my fourth table for the evening and glance at the band on stage playing a Luke Bryan song. It’s an oldie but a goodie.

As I stare at the cover band, I start my nightly spiel. “Hey. My name’s Dylan. I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get started—” My words dry up as I turn to the customers and realize who’s sitting in the booth. It’s Reeves in all his bad-boy glory. Fitted T-shirt. Five o’clock shadow. Messy yet perfectly quaffed hair. And dark, penetrating gaze as soon as it locks with mine. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s as surprised to see me here as I am with him. “Oh. Uh, hi,” I offer.

“Hi,” the woman sitting across from Reeves replies.

My attention snaps from Reeves to her as the pieces fall into place. He’s on a date. Reeves is on a date. A stone drops in my stomach, and I swallow the bile coating my throat as my eyes bounce back and forth between them. Seriously. I think I might puke.

“Hi,” I repeat. It’s breathy and forced and?—

What the hell?

I haven’t seen Reeves since the rink. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ve stared at his face on my camera off and on for days, even spotting him with his shirt off on the side of the road while he was on an evening jog when Griffin drove me home from work last night. But talking to him? Having an actual conversation when we almost kissed the other day? Yeah, no. It hasn’t happened, and now, I definitely don’t want it to. Not when he’s clearly here on a date while I was delusional enough to think he felt a spark for me.

I should probably blame Finley since she’s been unable to drop it, either. Well, anything related to Reeves or Everett has been a hot topic on our side of the house lately, and I seriously regret telling her anything at this point. Then again, now isn’t the time to silently curse my best friend for helping me get my hopes up. Nope. Right now, I need to serve Reeves and his…date.

Shaking off my jealousy, I click the back of the pen and stare down at my notepad. “Can I, uh, can I get you anything to drink?”

“I’ll take a whiskey,” she replies. “Jameson.”

“Yeah, becauseI’mthe girl who’d order a fruity little drink ‘cause she can’t shoot whiskey,” I mutter.

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