Page 79 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Who said he’s hot?” I argue. “You don’t even know what he looks like.”

“You wouldn’t have accidentally made out with him on his couch if he wasn’t hot,” she reasons. “Also, I googled him. Is he tall? He looks tall.”

From across the bar, I see Quentin grinning as he snags a couple of fresh drinks from the bartender. I have to admit, even across the crowded room, in this dingy, forgotten place, he’s still hot. And reasonably tall.

“I dunno. I guess?” I say.

“C’mon, work with me here. Is he tall like you could perfectly rest your head on his shoulder? Or tall like he could probably kiss the crown of your head?”

Tall enough he can lean forward and kiss my forehead, I think. I’m not going to mention this. I’m especially not going to include that I know it from past experience.

“Honestly, I love you,” I tell her now. “But I’ve gotta go.”

“Go!” she says. “Have fun! And please please please consider making out with him again. Or maybe even –”

I can’t stand to hear the rest of this, so I laugh.

“Bye,” I insist.

I’m tapping the end button as Quentin appears beside me. His hand finds my lower back as a staggering group of middle-aged vacationers in floral shirts traipse past. He seems to realize, belatedly, that he’s done it, and his touch slips away. I realize that I’m oddly sad when it does. Still, he stays close, ducking his mouth to my ear to be heard.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just my friends, checking in,” I offer. “I don’t exactly go out of town all that often. They were probably worried I’d been kidnapped or something.”

“I appreciate that I’ve graduated from serial killer to kidnapper. This seems like a step in the right direction.”

I smile in spite of myself. He catches me gazing out at the dark, quiet ocean.

“You okay?”

“This was a mistake,” I say.

“No,” he scoffs. “We’ll find him. And we’ll find somewhere to stay. Or we’ll get so drunk that sleeping on the beach sounds like a great option.”

“I mean, this whole case,” I offer. “I wanted that partnership so bad.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“I do,” I say. “It just feels… impossible. I mean, I’m in Florida. At Barnacle Billy’s. With…”

He raises an expectant eyebrow at me, begging me to finish this sentence. Like any good attorney, I redirect.

“It’s Friday night, and I have court on Monday, and I have no idea where my client is. I knew better. Everyone told me not to get in the middle of this, and here I am. I mean, what the hell am I doing? I’m over thirty, and I’m probably going to lose my dream job, and I’m absolutely undateable.”

He scoffs. “You’re not undateable.”

I give him an unamused look. “Come on. I’m ‘the best part of breaking up’, remember? Guys don’t want to date me.”

“Sure they do.”

“Name one.”

The way he looks at me tugs at something deep and low in my belly.

“Just because we agreed to set some professional boundaries doesn’t mean I ever stopped being attracted to you.” He says it like it’s obvious, but it’s somehow news to me. I feel the blush rise in my cheeks, but I blame it on the tequila.

“Whatever,” I murmur.

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