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There was a brief, assessing pause. He had amber eyes—she could tell now that he looked directly at her—careful and unreadable, and she found them, against her better judgment, very interesting.

“Hey,” Tatum said. “I saw him first.”

“You were pointing. I called it.” Somehow, the game had become interesting.

“Dibs?” Brynn said. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to have grown out of fantasy husband league.” Rachel turned to flag down the waitress. Lina appeared at her elbow before she’d even finished raising her hand—the kind of good at her job that didn’t need asking twice. “Hi. Can you send the dark-haired man at that table a ginger ale? In a glass, with ice and lime. And one of the paper umbrellas, if you have them.”

Lina glanced over, glanced back, and smiled the smile of a woman who’d seen everything and found most of it charming. “Sure thing.”

“Rachel,” Brynn said.

“I’m not pining for a fantasy husband; I’m sending a drink. There’s a difference.” She turned back to the group. “Carry on.”

She watched in her peripheral vision. Lina arrived at the table. One of the men at the table hollered and slapped the dark-haired man on the shoulder. Ginger Ale Man looked at the glass—umbrella listing slightly to the left—with an expression that was almost entirely confusion and a small trace that Rachel chose to interpret as wariness. Sensible, honestly. Strange women sending you drinks in a bar was not categorically safe. She respected the caution.

He picked it up. Took a careful sip—the confusion gave way to a genuine, reluctant laugh, pressed down before it fully arrived. He looked over.

She raised her own bottle. He shook his head, slowly, with what might have been a smile at one corner.

Too bad, Rachel thought. She meant it.

The party did not recover after that. It had been listing since Tatum’s vodka soda, and by the time Simone and Kayleigh got into a low-voiced and pointed discussion about who had taken the better hotel room, Rachel could see the shape of the evening, and it wasn’t improving. She settled the tab—she’d been keeping track, it was easier—left a generous tip and the hotel name on the receipt in case anyone needed reminding later, and stood up.

“I’m heading out,” she said. “Text me if anyone needs anything.”

“It’s too early,” Sloane said.

“Not for me.” Rachel picked up her jacket. “Happy bachelorette weekend, Slo.”

She made her way through the bar, which required some navigation—the Friday night crowd had thickened, and the woman on stage was in the middle of a slow and lovely ballad that had drawn people toward her. Rachel paused for just a moment, listening. Good. Really good.

She stopped at the table.

Ginger Ale Man looked up. His eyes were even better up close—genuine amber, lit from inside—and they moved over her face with the same careful quality she’d noticed from across the room. Taking in more than they gave back.

“Thanks for this.” He lifted the glass. Still nearly half-full. He’d been making it last.

“You’re welcome.” She rested one hand on the back of the empty chair. “Sure you don’t want to walk me to my hotel?”

His eyes darkened with consideration, genuine and unhurried. His gaze was the kind that actually looked.

“I’m afraid I am,” he said. A kind smile, small and real.

She studied him for a moment—the controlled stillness of him, the way he sat like a man who’d decided where to put his weight and wasn’t moving. She had perhaps made this too easy. He seemed like the kind of man who found easy suspicious.

“Well.” She put her hand briefly on his shoulder and felt, as she’d wagered, the solid resistance of someone who used their muscles not merely for aesthetics. “I wish you a good night, then.”

She walked out into the October air, which had gone properly cool while they’d been inside, and turned toward the hotel. The street was quiet, lit orange from the windows of shops still open, leaves skittering across the sidewalk in the light wind.

She thought about amber eyes. She thought about a man who looked at a room like he was cataloguing it and drank ginger ale on a Friday night and didn’t take her up on a very straightforward offer, which was frankly both annoying and interesting in roughly equal measure.

She thought, as she pushed through the hotel door, that she had probably brought her vibrator.

She was almost certain she had.

Chapter 3