Page 22 of Just Friends

Something warms in my chest. Lucy and I have always gotten along, so I didn’t think she’d be opposed to me trying to date Hazel, but her blessing is a treat, like cream cheese frosting melting on cinnamon rolls.

One question lingers in the back of my mind, and I hesitate to ask it. “Do you think I have a chance?”

“Yeah, Alex, I do,” Lucy says, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “You and Hazel have always been destined to be more than just friends.”

Thisistheworstdate I’ve ever been on. When the four of us arrived at the restaurant, things were going well. Alex seemed to hit it off with Chloe, and Deacon was charming. Then, in the middle of the salad course, he asked if I’d ever considered a boob job.

After that, Deacon becameDickinin my mind, and I’ve almost called him that twice already.

“No, I haven’t invested in real estate,” I say, stabbing a spear of asparagus with my fork.

“You’re kidding.” Deacon looks actually perturbed at my answer. Then he laughs, one corner of his mouth kicking up. “Right, I forgot you said you’re an artist. You probably don’t have a stable enough income.”

I blink so often that his bleach-dyed blond curls start to form into a golden haze in front of me. “What?” I finally manage to choke out.

“Hey, no shame in it,” he says, waving his fork. “Art is a great hobby.”

Red creeps into the corners of my vision. “A great hobby?”

Deacon looks up from his plate, no doubt interpreting the tone of my voice. His blue eyes widen, and his eyebrows inch up his forehead. “Whoa, don’t get emotional. I’m just saying that—”

“Excuse me,” I say, standing so quickly that my chair scrapes against the hardwood. My gaze is laser focused on Alex’s form disappearing down the hallway to the bathrooms. “I have to use the restroom.”

He casts a knowing glance at my empty plate, although I’m not sure what the motion is for. “Ah, that’s how you stay so thin,” he says, miming a gagging gesture.

My mouth falls open as realization dawns. I don’t even have the energy to correct him or try to explain all the reasons his comment is offensive. “Yup, have to go vomit up my dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll use a breath mint.”

He winks, and it physically feels like there are ants burrowing under my skin. Not bothering to respond, I round the table and follow the path Alex took to the bathroom.

Frustration claws its way through me, and before I know what I’m doing, I shove open the door to the men’s restroom and plow inside. It swings closed behind me, the heavy swishing sound finally clearing through the indignation pounding beneath my breastbone enough for me to realize I’min the men’s room. I mean, obviously, this was my intention, but I hadn’t really thought it through. Thank God there are no urinals.

The only sound in the bathroom is the high-pitchedzipof a metal zipper, and I realize that since I only see one set of feet beneath the stall walls, it’s Alex. Heat crawls up my neck, warming my cheeks by degrees, and I call out, “Alex, it’s me.”

The loud flush of the toilet echoes through the bathroom before the stall door swings open. Alex stares at me with wide, dark eyes. “What are you doing in here?”

My aggravation returns with a vengeance, bubbling in my chest. I close the distance between us, my heeled boots clicking loudly on the checkered tile floor.

Alex steps back, his broad shoulders bumping into the stall door. I don’t stop until our toes are pressed together and my finger is digging into his chest. There’s no give. Just firm, solid muscle beneath my touch. And he’s so warm, sending licks of flame against my skin.

“Alexander Malcolm Bates.”

His stubbled throat bobs in a swallow, and I can’t stop my gaze from dipping to follow the movement, cataloging the sharp line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip. Things I’ve somehow never noticed before.

“What are you doing, Hazel?” he asks, his rough voice snapping my attention back to his eyes, the deep brown glinting under the dim lights. His chest lifts in a deep breath, making his starched shirt scrape against my knuckles.

It takes me a moment to remember why I’m here, but when I do, fury courses through me once more. I take a step back, putting the barest amount of distance between us, and make anLshape with my fingers before slapping it on my forehead.

His eyes widen. “Oh, not good?”

“Dickintold me art is anice hobbyand asked if I’ve ever considered a boob job,” I say, each word getting sharper and sharper.

Alex’s gaze dips to my chest, making an odd sensation spark through my stomach before meeting my eyes again. His jaw is a tight line. I don’t think Renaissance sculptures are this chiseled.

“I’m going to talk to him,” he says, moving toward the door.

I block his exit, my palms coming up to land on his chest again. The muscles bunch and tense beneath my fingertips.

“No, don’t go talk to him. Let’s just leave.” My voice drops, tinged with desperation. “Please.”

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