Just then, Frannie appeared. “Here you are.” She set two plates down in front of us—eggs, bacon, and potatoes for Noah, cinnamon roll for me. “And I’ll be right back with your toast, Noah.”

“Thanks,” he said, a little distracted. “So would that be . . . like a date?”

“It wouldn’t have to be,” I replied quickly. “More of a favor to me. We could just go and hang out like we usually do.”

Frannie reappeared and set the toast down with a smile. “Can I get you two anything else?”

“No, thanks,” I said, my stomach too knotted up to eat anyway. Had asking him been a horrible idea?

Noah picked up his fork. Took a bite of his eggs.

“Listen, forget I asked. It was just an idea. There’s an empty seat at my table, and my mother thought—”

“Wait. It was your mother’s idea to ask me?”

“No. I mean, yes, but no.” I sighed, closing my eyes. “This is stupid. I don’t know why I’m getting flustered.” I looked at him again, reminding myself it was just Noah. “Yes, my mother mentioned it this morning, but I want you there. I think you’d make the whole night more fun.”

“Well, that’s a given.”

The joke made me relax. I poked his shoulder. “Does that mean you’ll come? It’s okay if you have to work. You could come by later, even if it was just for a little while.”

He set his fork down and reached for his coffee again. “I don’t have to work Saturday. I have to work Sunday though.”

“I’ll be sure you make your curfew.” I grinned. “You can arrest me if I don’t.”

He laughed. “That might be fun.”

My belly flipped over. Holy shit. “Does that mean you’ll come?”

“I guess I could come.”

“Yay! Thank you.” I clapped my hands. “It will be fun, I swear. Good food, good booze, good music.”

Giving me the side eye, he declared, “I’m not dancing, Sawyer.”

“No dancing, I promise.”

“Then you’ve got yourself a date—or whatever you want to call it.”

I couldn’t help smiling as I dug into my cinnamon roll, which was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Fluffy and sticky sweet, with just the right amount of icing dripping off the top. I devoured it, moaning with delight.

“Good?” Noah asked.

“Hell yes,” I said, licking icing off my thumb. “Even better than a Twinkie.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Some things never change.”

But some things do, I thought, as my heart raced. Some things do.

Nine

Noah

Jesus Christ.

Did she have to lick her fingers like that? Was there no food she could eat with utensils? Next time, I’d take her to a Japanese steakhouse or something. Some place I could put a goddamn fork and knife in her hands. Maybe some chopsticks.

And that icing was even worse than the barbecue sauce. It looked more sexual. I tried not to let my mind go there, but fucking hell, now she was sucking it off her thumb!

I shifted in my seat, the crotch of my shorts suddenly tight. This morning, I’d promised myself I’d control my mind and my body and be-fucking-have. I would treat her with the respect that she deserved and expected of me. I would hold myself to the highest standards, like I always did at my job, and quit allowing my thoughts to run away from me. She was my friend, she mattered to me, she trusted me. It was up to me to protect her. From me, if necessary.

It was not going well.

First, I’d had a hell of a time keeping my eyes on the path in front of us while we ran. Her ass looked fucking spectacular in those skin-tight leggings she had on. I kept glancing back at it over my shoulder without even realizing it. And now she had some kind of little top on that showed a sexy strip of her bare belly above her jeans. It made me want to lick it.

Second, when she made that comment about arresting her, I’d said, That might be fun. What the hell? I had a dirty mind and cracked those kind of jokes on the phone with her all the time, but in person, it was different. I needed to lay off that shit. She was going to think I was some kind of pervert—which, let’s face it, I was. Not to mention the fact that now I was trying not to imagine her handcuffed to my bed.

And I’d agreed to take her to the wedding. At least there would be lots of people around—that was the main reason I agreed to go with her. That, and the fact that I knew she was right about having a good time. I was pretty sure she and I could have a good time anywhere, fully clothed or buck naked, vertical or horizontal or any angle in between . . . but if I stuck to public places, we’d be safe. She’d be safe.

I glanced at her one more time and amended my statement: public places where she would not eat with her hands. No ribs, no ice cream cones, and especially no dripping hot icing.

“So what do I have to wear to the wedding?” I asked, trying to distract myself.

“A suit, if you’ve got one.” She wiped her hands on her napkin.

“Yes, I’ve got one. I’ve actually got two. Despite what my mother and sister think, I’m not a total Neanderthal.”

She laughed. “Sorry. I’m sure you’ll look great. If it helps, my dress is a cinnamon color.”

I squinted at my plate. “You mean brown?”

“No, I mean cinnamon,” she said like I was a first grader.

“Cinnamon is brown, Sawyer.”

She rolled her eyes and gave me an exasperated sigh. “Okay, it’s a shade somewhere between brown and red. Does that compute?”

“Better.” I reached for my coffee. “How about a dark gray suit?”

“Perfect,” she said, picking up her phone from the counter. “Sorry, my mom is texting me.”

“Go ahead.” While she replied to her mom, I finished eating, hoping her dress was long enough to cover her legs and showed no cleavage. With any luck, it would have a turtleneck.

“Confirming appointments for the salon on Wednesday.” Meg set her phone down. “What do you think, up or down?”

“Huh?”

“My hair. Up or down?” She yanked out her ponytail and let her hair swing loose around her shoulders. “This is down, although it’s not very pretty right now, so just picture it smooth and curled. Or up.” She lifted it off her neck and piled it on the top of her head, then looked at me expectantly.

I laughed. “I’ve got no opinion on this. You always look good.”

“Come on! Up or down, I need help. And you have to look at me all night.”

I stuck the last bite of potatoes in my mouth. “Is your dress long or short?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Just asking.”

“It’s long.”

“And how about the top? Does it have sleeves? Or is it strapless?”

“It has sleeves,” she answered.

“Good.”

“Good?” She looked confused, her hands still nested in her hair. “Why are sleeves good?” She let her hair fall and examined her elbows. “Is there something wrong with my arms?”