Page 6 of The Boyfriend Material Novellas

Which means I’m pretty much screwed.

2

VAUGHN

At least Josh is here as a buffer.

Maybe with my business partner at the table, I’ll think about what’s at stake rather than his sister’s pretty pink lips, the constellation of freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, or the mesmerizing curtain of her silky red hair.

Since I’m already liking her personality, I could use the willpower boost. With all I need to do before I leave town in less than two months, I don’t need the distraction of a romance before I jet. Especially a no-go romance.

Josh’s phone pings, and he checks out the screen. “I need to deal with this. Hope you two don’t mind, but I’ll be right back.”

And so much for that strategy.

Josh leaves as Quinn sits. I slide into the booth across from her, careful not to smack my head on the low-hanging lamp over the table.

“I take it that’s not your first encounter with a lighting fixture that’s out to get you?” she asks with a quirk of her lips.

“More like my ten-thousandth. And after countless run-ins over the years with vicious chandeliers, I learned to hone my ducking reflexes.”

“Hazards of being as tall as a redwood tree, I suppose. But do the benefits outweigh the dangers?” She gives a sassy little lift of her eyebrow, and my pulse speeds up.

“Definitely. I’m in the supermarket helping little old ladies reach tall shelves all the time.” There. Elderly shoppers who can’t reach the prune juice. That image will settle things down.

“It’s practically your superpower.”

“All I need is a spandex shirt with aTfor Tall logo, and I’m good to go.”

She taps her chin, humming. “Maybe that’s what I’ll get you for Christmas.”

“I’m on the present list already? That is excellent news. And if you ever need someone to reach the pickles on the highest shelf in the store, just dialTon your phone.” I pat myself on the back. Look at me being friendly. This is hardly flirting at all.

“Actually, can I borrow you when I decorate my tree? Maybe you could do all the highest branches and I can finally have a tree that reaches the ceiling. That’s a fantasy come true.”

And she likes Christmas. Man down. Man officially down.

It’s not like I can step away now, so I say, “Count me in. I love tree trimming. I love Christmas.”

“You do?” she asks, musing.

“Yes. Everything from the mistletoe to the carols.”

“I love carols,” she agrees. “‘The Christmas Song’ is my favorite.”

One more thing we have in common. I like that.

I like her. That’s the trouble. Our dinner is speeding into feels-like-a-date territory.

“So, tell me more about your party-planning business,” I say, valiantly steering the ship away from flirtier shores. “I’m coming into this blind and don’t know much about it.”

She drops her jaw, exaggerating outrage. “No! You’re a pantser!”

Laughing, I ask, “What does that mean?”

“As in, fly-by-the-seat-of-your.” Inching closer, she says, “I’m the opposite. A total researcher. A look-everything-up-er.”

“That’s a way to put it, I guess.” Amused, I consider the word. It’s a fair assessment. “You might be right. I do my homework, it’s just that improvising doesn’t scare me. Throw me into the fray, and I’ll see what comes of it.”

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