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head. “I can’t believe I gave him to you. He’s so damn
hot.” She nudged me encouragingly and waggled one of her finely arched eyebrows.
“You better climb all over that or I’m going to punch you. No backing down.”
    I stood several yards back from the bar, tucked
half behind Emerson as I scoped out the bartender undetected. Her words didn’t
faze me. “You know the small matter of his interest in me, or lack of interest,
might come into play.”
    She looked back at me. “You’re kidding, right? You
look good tonight. Better than most of these overdone peahens prancing around in
here shaking their tail feathers his way. You’ve got something they don’t.”
    “Yeah?”
    She nodded. “Yes. You’ve got . . .” She
paused, searching for the word. “ . . . a freshness to you.”
    I winced, feeling rather as if she’d just called me
a “nice girl.” I couldn’t seem to escape that moniker.
    The bartender (I really needed to learn his name)
wore another Mulvaney’s T-shirt, this one a soft-looking gray cotton with blue
script across the chest. I had a flash of myself wearing that shirt and nothing
else, wrapped up in his scent. Wrapped up in him. Sucking in a breath, I shook
off the wicked image. Probably every girl who walked up to him entertained that
fantasy—along with a few choice others that I probably didn’t need to visualize.
That thought made me feel decidedly un-special. I had to somehow stand out from
the rest of them, and I wasn’t convinced my freshness would do the trick.
    He looked as good as ever if my memory served.
Better. A body made for sin and a face that was too masculine to be beautiful,
but the sight of it did something to me. Made me feel boneless and trembly all
over.
    “No backing down,” I echoed, my resolve still
there, burning hot inside me, keeping me from turning and running out of the
building.
    It was just the two of us tonight. Georgia was off
with Harris.
    “Okay,” Em announced. “I think we’ve reconned long
enough. Let’s move in.”
    Her words sent a wave of panic washing through me.
“It’s crowded . . .”
    “It’s crowded every night. Unless you want to come
stalk him on a Monday. Assuming he’s even working then.”
    I shook my head. No. No more delays.
    “Let’s go then. You should feel good. You look
great.”
    I glanced down. The jeans I wore belonged to
Georgia. They were too tight, but Emerson said that was the whole point . You’ve got the perfect curves. Show them off . The
blouse was Georgia’s, too. Various shades of orange and yellow. Very bohemian in
style and flouncy. Emerson vowed that it went great with my hair. It was
wide-necked, and every time I pulled it up over one shoulder, it slipped down
the other one. Again, the whole point, according to Emerson.
    As we inched toward the bar, Emerson shoved me in
front of her. There were only three people working the counter, and we made
certain to approach the side he was working.
    I watched as he poured beer into a pitcher,
admiring the flex of his bicep. His gaze lifted and scanned the bar, the way I’d
noticed him do last night. Surveying, assessing the crowd. Maybe for trouble?
Those pale blue eyes passed over me for a split second before jerking back.
    He smiled crookedly. “Hey, it’s Nice Girl. How’s it
going?”
    “Nice girl?” Emerson hissed in my ear. “Okay,
clearly you did not tell me everything about last night if he’s already given
you a nickname!”
    I elbowed her, unsure how to respond to his
greeting. I smiled. “Hi.”
    He handed off the pitcher, collected the money, and
turned to me. “What can I get you?”
    I ordered two longnecks. He glanced at Emerson.
“ID?”
    I watched her as she dug in her purse and pulled
out her fake ID. When I looked back up it was to catch him looking at me. He
looked away, giving her ID a cursory scan before moving to fetch our drinks.
    “So hot,” Emerson muttered near my ear as he bent
to grab them from the back